We sat mazed and confounded after his departure.

The Lady Ysolinde it was who first recovered herself.  She put out a kindly hand to Helene, who stood wet-eyed and drooping by the window, looking out upon the roofs of Thorn, though well I wot she saw nothing of spire, roof, or pinnacle.

“God do so to me and more also,” she said, in a low, solemn voice, “if I too keep not this charge.”

And I think for the moment she meant it.  The trouble was that the Lady Ysolinde could not mean one thing for very long at a time.  As, indeed, shall afterwards appear.

So it was arranged that within the week Helene and I should say our farewells to the Red Tower which had sheltered us so long, as well as to Gottfried Gottfried, who had ever been my kind father, and to the little Helene more than any father.

But in spite of all we wearied day by day to be gone.  For, indeed, Gottfried Gottfried said right.  The shadow of the Red Tower, the stain of the Red Axe, was over us both so long as we abode on the Wolfsberg.  Yet what it cost us to depart—­at least till we were out of the gates of the city—­I cannot write down, for to both of us the first waygoing seemed bitter as death.

I remember it well.  My father had been busy all the morning with his grim work on the day when we were to ride away.  A gang of malefactors who had wasted a whole country-side with their cruelty had been brought in.  And, as it was suspected that other more important villains were yet to be caught, there had been the repeated pain of the Extreme Question, and now there remained but the falling of the Red Axe to settle all accounts.  So that when he came to bid us farewell he had but brief time to spare.  And of necessity he wore the fearful crimson, which fitted his tall, spare figure like a glove.

“Fare thee well, little one!” he said, first to Helene.  “Not thus, had the choice lain with me, would I have bidden thee farewell.  But when it shall be that I meet you again I will surely wear the white of the festa day.  I commit you to Him whose mistakes are better than our good deeds, whose judgments are kinder than our tenderest mercies.”

So he kissed her, and reached a hand over her shoulder to me.

“Son Hugo,” he said, “go in peace.  You must return to succeed me.  I see it like a picture—­on the day when I lie dead you shall stand with the Red Axe in your hand waiting to do judgment.  It is well.  Keep this maid more sacred than your life—­and, meantime, fare you well!”

So saying he left us abruptly.

Our horses were saddled in the court-yard, and as I rode last through the rarely opened gateway, I saw Duke Casimir looking out from his window upon the lower enclosure, as was his pleasure upon the days of execution.  I heard the dull thud, which was the meeting of the Red Axe and the redder block as that which had been between fell apart.  And for the last time I heard the blood-hounds leap and the pattering of their eager feet upon the barriers as they leaped up scenting the Duke’s carrion.