astily getting into an outer
garment, but the well-trained horses, who knew their business quite as
thoroughly as their riders, for they were accustomed to plunge into the
river if any barge disobeyed the order commanding it to halt, turned
from the gate, and dashed down the steep road that descended through the
forest. The men-at-arms poured forth with sword or pike, and in turn
went out of sight. They appeared to be leaderless, dashing forward in no
particular formation, yet, like the horses, they knew their business.
All this turmoil was not without its effect on Roland's following, who
edged forward on hands and knees to discover what was going on, everyone
breathless with excitement; but they saw their leader cool and
motionless, counting on his fingers the number of men who passed out,
for he knew exactly how many fighters the Castle contained.

"Not yet, not yet!" he whispered.

Finally three lordly individuals strode out; officers their more
resplendent clothing indicated them to be, and the trio followed the
others.

"Ha!" cried Roland, "old Baron Hugo drank too deeply last night to be so
early astir."

He was speaking aloud now.

"Take warning from that, my lads, and never allow wine to interfere with
business. Follow me, but cautiously, one after the other in single file,
and look to your footing. 'Tis perilous steep between here and the
gate;" and, indeed, so they found it, but all reached the level
forecourt in safety, and so through the open portal.

"Close and bar those gates," was the next command, instantly obeyed.

Down the stone steps of the Castle, puffing and grunting, came a
gigantic, obese individual, his face bloated with excess, his eyes
bleary with the lees of too much wine. He was struggling into his
doublet, assisted by a terrified old valet, and was swearing most
deplorably. Seeing the crowd at the gate, and half-blindly mistaking
them for his own men, he roared:

"What do you there, you hounds? To the river, every man of you, and
curse your leprous, indolent souls! Why in the fiend's name--" But here
he came to an abrupt stop on the lowest step, the sting of a sword's
point at his throat, and now, out of breath, his purple face became
mottled.

"Good morning to you, Baron Hugo von Hohenfels. These men whom you
address so coarsely obey no orders but mine."

"And who, imp of Satan, are you?" sputtered the old man.

"By profession a hangman. From our fastnesses in the hills, seei