I could see Michael turning yellow and green, but whether with anger or fear I could not tell.  Helene, who loved not the tools of my father, had, upon his entrance, promptly gathered up her white cobwebs and lace, and had betaken herself to her own room.

“I must be bidding you a fortunate evening and wishing you an untroubled sleep,” said Michael, with studious politeness, rising to his feet.  Yet he did not immediately move away, but stood awkwardly fingering his hat, as if he wished to ask a question and dared not.

“It is indeed a fine place for a sound sleep,” said my father, nodding his head grimly, “this same upper courtyard of the Wolfsberg.  There are few that have once slept here, my noble young sir, who have ever again complained of wakefulness.”

At this moment the hounds in the kennels raised their fierce clamor.  And, without waiting for another word, Michael Texel took himself off down the stairs of the Red Tower.  Nor did he regain his composure till I had opened the wicket and ushered him out upon the street.

Then, as the postern clicked and the familiar noises of the city fell on his ear—­the slapping flat-footed lasses crying “Fried Fish,” the sellers of “Hot Oyster Soup,” the yelling venders of crout and salad—­Michael gradually picked up his courage, and we proceeded down the High Street of Thorn to the retired hostel of the White Swan.

“Frederika,” he cried, as he entered, “are the lads here yet?”

“Aye, sir, aye—­a full muster,” answered the old mild-faced hostess, who was busily employed knitting a stocking of pale blue in the porch, looking for all the world like the sainted mother of a family of saints.

Michael Texel walked straight through a passage and down a narrow alley, the beautiful apple-cheeked old woman following us with her eyes as we went.

Our feet rang suddenly on hollow pavement as we stooped to enter a low door in the side wall, almost concealed from observation by an overgrowth of ivy.

“Halt!” cried a voice from the dusk ahead of us, and instantly there was a naked sword at each of our breasts.  We heard also the click of swords meeting behind us.  I turned my head, and lo! there at my very shoulder I saw the gleam of crossed steel.  My heart beat a little faster; but, after all, I had been brought up with sights and sounds more terrible than these, and, more than that, I had within the hour seen Michael Texel, the high-priest of these mysteries, turn all manner of rainbow colors at the howling of our blood-hounds and a simple question from my father.  So I judged that these mighty terrifications could portend no great ill to one who was the son of the formidable Red Axe of the Wolfsberg.

Sometimes it is a mighty comfortable thing to have a father like mine.

I did not hear the question which was asked of my guide, but I heard the answer.

“First in charge,” said Michael Texel, “and with him one of the Wolf’s litter.”