“Produce me your husbands, then!” said the Lady Ysolinde.

Whereat the women ran and brought a number of frowsy and bleared men, all unwounded, save one that had a broken head.

Then Ysolinde called to the Burgomeister.  “Come hither, chief of a thievish municipality, tell me if these be indeed these women’s husbands.”

The Burgomeister, a pallid, pouch-mouthed man, tremulous, and brick-dusty, like everything else in the village of Erdberg, came forward and peeringly examined the men.

“Every man to his woman!” he ordered, brusquely, and the women went and stood each by her own property—­the men shamefaced and hand-dog, the women anxious and pale.  Some of the last threw a, protecting arm about their husbands, which they for the most part appeared to resent.  In every case the woman looked the more capable and intelligent, the men being apparently mere boors.

“They are all their true husbands, at least so far as one can know!” answered the Burgomeister, cautiously.

“Then,” said the lady, “bid them catch the innkeeper and send him to Plassenburg, and these others can abide where they are.  But if they find him not, they must all come instead of him.”

The men started at her words, their faces brightening wonderfully, and they were out of the door before one could count ten.  We mounted our horses, and under the very humble guidance of the Burgomeister, who led the Princess’s palfrey, we were soon again upon the high table-land.  Here we enjoyed to the full the breezes which swept with morning freshness across the scrubby undergrowths of oak and broom, and above all the sight of misty wisps of cloud scudding and whisking about the distant peaks-behind which lay the city of Plassenburg.

We had not properly won clear of the ravines when we heard a great shouting and turmoil behind us—­so that I hastened to look to my weapons.  For I saw the archers instinctively draw their quarrels and bolt-pouches off their backs, to be in readiness upon their left hips.

But it was only the rabble of men and women who had been threatened, the dwellers in those twelve houses next the inn, who came dragging our brick-faced knave of a host, with that hard-polished countenance of his slack and clammy—­slate-gray in color too, all the red tan clean gone out of it.

“Mercy—­mercy, great lady!” he cried; “I pray you, do execution on me here and now.  Carry me not to the extreme tortures.  Death clears all.  And I own that for my crimes I well deserve to die.  But save me from the strappado, from the torment of the rack.  I am an old man and could not endure.”

The Lady Ysolinde looked at him, and her emerald eyes held a steely glitter in their depths.

“I am neither judge nor”—­I think she was going to say “executioner,” but she remembered in time and for my sake was silent, which I thought was both gracious and charming of her.  She resumed in a softer tone:  “What sentence, then, would you desire, thus confessing your guilt?”