ad passed the time away until
long after the rest of the castle had been wrapped in sleep. Then,
perhaps a little unsteady upon his feet, Schwartz Carl betook himself
homeward to the Melchior tower.

He stood for a while in the shadow of the doorway, gazing up into the
pale sky above him at the great, bright, round moon, that hung like a
bubble above the sharp peaks of the roofs standing black as ink against
the sky. But all of a sudden he started up from the post against which
he had been leaning, and with head bent to one side, stood listening
breathlessly, for he too had heard that smothered cry from the
watch-tower. So he stood intently, motionlessly, listening, listening;
but all was silent except for the monotonous dripping of water in one of
the nooks of the court-yard, and the distant murmur of the river borne
upon the breath of the night air. "Mayhap I was mistaken," muttered
Schwartz Carl to himself.

But the next moment the silence was broken again by a faint, shrill
whistle; what did it mean?

Back of the heavy oaken door of the tower was Schwartz Carl's cross-bow,
the portable windlass with which the bowstring was drawn back, and a
pouch of bolts. Schwartz Carl reached back into the darkness, fumbling
in the gloom until his fingers met the weapon. Setting his foot in the
iron stirrup at the end of the stock, he wound the stout bow-string
into the notch of the trigger, and carefully fitted the heavy,
murderous-looking bolt into the groove.

Minute after minute passed, and Schwartz Carl, holding his arbelast in
his hand, stood silently waiting and watching in the sharp-cut, black
shadow of the doorway, motionless as a stone statue. Minute after minute
passed. Suddenly there was a movement in the shadow of the arch of the
great gateway across the court-yard, and the next moment a leathern-clad
figure crept noiselessly out upon the moonlit pavement, and stood there
listening, his head bent to one side. Schwartz Carl knew very well
that it was no one belonging to the castle, and, from the nature of his
action, that he was upon no good errand.

He did not stop to challenge the suspicious stranger. The taking of
another's life was thought too small a matter for much thought or care
in those days. Schwartz Carl would have shot a man for a much smaller
reason than the suspicious actions of this fellow. The leather-clad
figure stood a fine target in the moonlight for a cross-bow bolt.
Schwartz Carl slowly raise