wounded, 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 Ysol