For with Ysolinde von Sturm watching me with her eyes I could not for very shame’s sake make myself great.

“You told them more than that,” the girl cried, suddenly flashing on me a look keen as the light on a sword when it comes home from the cutler.  “You told them that you too desired a freer commonwealth!”

“I did,” said I, flushing quickly, for I had thought to keep my thumb on that.

Nevertheless I was not going back on my spoken word, even in the presence of Duke Casimir’s inquisitor.  Besides which I judged that my father had influence enough to bring me out scathless.

“That is well and bravely said!” he replied, smiling with thin lips which in all their constant writhings showed no vestige of teeth within; “but the sentiment itself is somewhat strange in the son of the Red Axe and the future Executioner of Justice in the Wolfmark.”

Then for the first time I permitted my eyes to rest on the lithe figure of the girl in the doorway.  Methought she inclined her head a little forward to catch my answer as if it had been a matter of interest to her.

“I am indeed son of the Red Axe,” said I, “but my own head would underlie it rather than that I should ever be Hereditary Justicer of the Mark.”

A smile that was meant for me passed over the girl’s face and momently sweetened her lips.  She straightened her body and set a hand more easily to her waist.  A certain kindness dwelt in her emerald eyes.

“Never be Duke’s Justicer!” cried Master Gerard, looking up with his hand on a skull.  “This is unheard of!  Are not you the only son of Gottfried Gottfried, right hand of Duke Casimir, highest in favor with his Grace?  And within two years, according to the law of the headsman, must you not also don the Red and the Black and stand at the Duke’s left hand, as your father at his right, when he sits in judgment?”

I bowed my head for answer.

“Even so,” said I; “but long before that time I shall be either in a far country waging the wars of another lord, or in a country yet farther—­that to which the men of my race have directed so many untimeously.”

“Have you at all thought of the land or the lord to whom you would transfer your allegiance?” said Gerard von Sturm, carelessly rapping with his fingers on the bare white of the skull before him.

“I have not,” I replied as easily.

He looked down a moment, and drew his black robe thoughtfully over his knee as if turning the matter over in his mind.  “What think you of Plassenburg and the service of Prince Karl?” he said at last.

“The place is too near and the man a usurper,” I replied, brusquely.

“I am not so sure,” Master Gerard mused, slowly, “that it might not be advantageous to bide near home.  Duke Casimir is mortal, after all—­long and prosperously may he live!” (Here he inclined his head piously, while naming his master.) “But who knows how long he may be spared to reign over a loving people.  And after that, why, there may be more usurpers.  For by the name ‘usurper’ the ignorant mostly mean men of the strong heart and sure brain, who can hold that which they have with one hand and reach out for more with the other.”