LITMIR.BIZ

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Trenck, lift this springald's pretty wrist-bauble!" said Werner.

      A laughing man-at-arms went up, his partisan still over his shoulder, and laying his hand upon the chain which depended between the manacled wrists of the boy Maurice, he strove to lift the spiked ball.

      "What!" cried Werner, "canst thou, pap-backed babe, not lift that which the noble Count Maurice of Lynar has perforce to carry about with him all day long? Down with your weapon, man, and to it like an apothecary compounding some blister for stale fly-blown rogues!"

      At the word the man laid down his partisan and lifted the ball high between his two hands.

      "Now dance!" commanded Werner von Orseln, "dance the Danish milkmaid's coranto, or I will bid him drop it on your toes. Dost want them jellied, man?"

      "Drop, and be damned in your low-born souls!" cried the lad fiercely. "Untruss my hands and let me loose with a sword, and ten yards clear on the floor, and, by Saint Magnus of the Isles, I will disembowel any three of you!"

      "You will not dance?" said Werner, nodding at him.

      "I will see you fry in hell fire first!"

      "Down with the ball, Hans Trenck!" cried Werner. "He that will not dance at Castle Kernsberg must learn at least to jump."

      The man-at-arms, still grinning, lifted the ball a little higher, balancing it in one hand to give it more force. He prepared to plump it heavily upon the undefended feet of young Maurice.

      "'Ware toes, Sparhawk!" cried the soldiers in chorus, but at that moment, suddenly kicking out as far as his chains allowed, the boy took the stooping lout on the face, and incontinently widened the superficial area of his mouth. He went over on his back amid the uproarious laughter of his fellows.

      "Ha! Hans Trenck, the Sparhawk hath spurred you, indeed! A brave Sparhawk! Down went poor Hans Trenck like a barndoor fowl!"

      The fellow rose, spluttering angrily.

      "Hold his legs, some one," he said, "I'll mark his pretty feet for him. He shall not kick so free another time."

      A couple of his companions took hold of the boy on either side, so that he could not move his limbs, and Hans again lifted high the ball.

      "Shall we stand this? They call this sport!" said Boris; "shall I pink the brutes?"

      "Sit down and shut your eyes. Our Prince Hugo will harry this nest of thieves anon. For the present we must bear their devilry if we want to escape hanging!"

      "Now then, for marrow and mashed trotters!" cried Hans, spitting the blood from the split corners of his mouth.

      "Halt!"

      CHAPTER III

      JOAN DRAWS FIRST BLOOD

      The word of command came full and strong from the open doorway of the hall.

      Hans Trenck came instantly to the salute with the ball in his hand. He had no difficulty in lifting it now. In fact, he did not seem able to let it down. Every man in the hall except the two captains of Plassenburg had risen to his feet and stood as if carved in marble.

      For there in the doorway, her slim figure erect and exceedingly commanding, and her beautiful eyes shining with indignation, stood the Duchess Joan of Hohenstein.

      "Joan of the Sword Hand!" said Jorian, enraptured. "Gott, what a wench!"

      In stern silence she advanced into the hall, every man standing fixed at attention.

      "Good discipline!" said Boris.

      "Shut your mouth!" responded Jorian.

      "Keep your hand so, Hans Trenck," said their mistress; "give me your sword, Werner! You shall see whether I am called Joan of the Sword Hand for naught. You would torture prisoners, would you, after what I have said? Hold up, I say, Hans Trenck!"

      And so, no man saying her nay, the girl took the shining blade and, with a preliminary swish through the air and a balancing shake to feel the elastic return, she looked at the poor knave fixed before her in the centre of the hall with his wrist strained to hold the prisoner's ball aloft at the stretch of his arm. What wonder if it wavered like a branch in an uncertain wind?

      "Steady there!" said Joan.

      And she drew back her arm for the stroke.

      The young Dane, who, since her entrance, had looked at nothing save the radiant beauty of the figure before him, now cried out, "For Heaven's sake, lady, do not soil the skirts of your dress with his villain blood. He but obeyed his orders. Let me be set free, and I will fight him or any man in the castle. And if I am beaten, let them torture me till I am carrion fit only to be thrown into the castle ditch."

      The Duchess paused and leaned on the sword, holding it point to the floor.

      "By whose orders was this thing done?" she demanded.

      The lad was silent. He disdained to tell tales even on his enemies. Was he not a gentleman and a Dane?

      "By mine, my lady!" said Werner von Orseln, a deep flush upon his manly brow.

      The girl looked severely at him. She seemed to waver. "Good, then!" she said, "the Dane shall fight Werner for his life. Loose him and chafe his wrists. Ho! there – bring a dozen swords from the armoury!"

      The flush was now rising to the boy's cheek.

      "I thank you, Duchess," he said. "I ask no more than this."

      "Faith, the Sparhawk is not tamed yet," said Boris; "we shall see better sport ere all be done!"

      "Hold thy peace," growled Jorian, "and look."

      "Out into the light!" cried the young Duchess Joan, pointing the way with Werner's sword, which she still held in her hand. And going first she went forth from the hall of the soldiery, down the broad stairs, and soon through a low-arched door with a sculptured coat-of-arms over it, out into the quadrangle of the courtyard.

      "And now we will see this prisoner of ours, this cock of the Danish marches, make good his words. That, surely, is better sport than to drop caltrops upon the toes of manacled men."

      Werner followed unwillingly and with deep flush of shame upon his brow.

      "My lady," he said, going up to his mistress, "I do not need to prove my courage after I have served Kernsberg and Hohenstein for thirty-eight years – or well-nigh twice the years you have lived – fought for you and your father and shed my blood in a score of pitched battles, to say nothing of forays. Of course I will fight, but surely this young cockerel might be satisfied to have his comb cut by younger hands."

      "Was yours the order concerning the dropping of the ball?" asked the Duchess Joan.

      The grey-headed soldier nodded grimly.

      "I gave the order," he said briefly.

      "Then by St. Ursula and her boneyard, you must stand to it!" cried this fiery young woman. "Else will I drub you with the flat of your own sword!"

      Werner bowed with a slightly ironic smile on his grizzled face.

      "As your ladyship wills," he said; "I do not give you half obedience. If you say that I am to get down on my knees and play cat's cradle with the Kernsberg bairns, I will do it!"

      Joan of the Sword here looked calmly at him with a certain austerity in her glance.

      "Why, of course you would!" she said simply.

      Meanwhile the lad had been freed from his bonds and stood with a sword in his hand suppling himself for the work before him with quick little guards and feints and attacks. There was a proud look in his eyes, and as his glance left the Duchess and roved round the circle of his foes, it flashed full, bold, and defiant.

      Werner turned to a palish lean Bohemian who stood a little apart.

      "Peter Balta," he said, "will you be my second? Agreed! And who will care for my honourable opponent?"

      "Do not trouble yourself – that will arrange itself!" said Joan to her chief captain.

      With that she flashed lightfoot into one of the low doors which led into the flanking

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