a flagon of wine. Carefully,
he filled the cup, then set it before the steward, who lifted it to his
lips, drank, and set it down with a satisfied sigh.

"Thank you, boy. Here is one thing we can produce well in these
mountains." He wiped his lips and turned his gaze to Gerda again. He
shook his head slowly.

"The Baron can detect guilt or innocence in a moment. For a short time,
he questioned the persons brought before him. He soon determined the
guilty ones, and wrung confessions from their wretched lips. We then
took them away, and turned them over to the torturers." He raised the
cup again.

"You know," he added, "I'm told that some of them lasted as long as ten
full days." He shook his head. "I could never understand how the
executioners can put up with such noise for so long. But then, I suppose
one gets used to most anything."

He looked toward the door. "Strange," he murmured, "I wonder what's
keeping Maro so long." He clapped his hands sharply once more, and
waited.

The page dashed to a door and disappeared within. At last, he came back,
holding the door for the leader of the castle guard detachment, who came
forward to salute his superior.

"Have you found anything yet?"

"Nothing, sir. We have stripped them, but they have no unusual things
about them. And we have questioned them. None will admit to seeing or
doing anything other than normal duties."

The steward sighed. "Very well. Secure them, then. I'll call for them
later." He stood.

[Illustration]

"Come, Nal Gerda," he ordered, "unless you have something further to
tell me of this, we must have an audience with the Baron."

* * * * *

Florel, Baron Bel Menstal, sat at his ease. Before him was a dish of
good cakes, beside him, a cup and flagon of good wine. He looked
contentedly around the apartment.

For fourteen years now, he had been lord of this castle. And for
fourteen years, he had busied himself building his forces and increasing
his power and influence in the duchy. He had made himself feared and
respected.

During the past several years, his word had been of great weight in the
Duke's councils. He was now one of the great barons of the realm. He
smiled to himself.

As he had risen in importance, Orieano, the soft holder of the rich
fields to the west, had fallen. The man was getting old--even older than
the Duke himself, and he was tired. And his daughter was the sole heir
to that barony.