Again, Menstal smiled to himself as he thought of the daughter of
Orieano. Next month, at the fair, he would press suit for the hand of
the heiress, and a few months after that he would have control of the
rich farm lands and the trading city.

The girl would probably protest, but that would do her little good. He
knew what fear could do. And he could rouse such fear as to render even
strong men but helpless masses of flesh. The beauteous damsel of Orieano
would be a simple task. None other would dare dispute his claim, and the
Duke would come to support him.

And the Duke himself? Ah, well, perhaps it would be as well to allow him
to finish his life in peaceful possession of his broad fields. But
certainly, the son of Dwerostel would have no word in the control of the
duchy. An accident could be easily arranged, and Flor, one-time woods
beater and scullery boy of Budorn, would become the great Duke he had
long planned to be. No, it wouldn't take too many more years.

He filled himself a cup, and looked complacently into its clear depths.
The tap on the door broke his reverie, and he looked up, annoyed.

He stared impatiently at his castle steward as the man entered and made
obeisance.

"What now, Weron?" He set the cup down. "Must I be bothered with all
your petty problems?"

"This, Excellency, is an unusual problem. A sizable tribute payment has
disappeared without trace. The empty bags were left, and the culprit
has----"

"Enough!" The Baron waved a hand impatiently, then adjusted his golden
coronet to a more comfortable angle. For an instant, his fingers played
with the ornamental bosses.

"Yes, yes, I see," he snapped. "You can spare me your mumbled details.
This man is the officer of the guard?"

"Yes, Excellency." The steward motioned Gerda forward.

Bel Menstal looked sternly at his officer. "Where did you hide your
loot?" he demanded.

Gerda looked incredulously at his master. He had stolen nothing. As far
as he knew, he had done nothing wrong. But he seemed to be condemned in
advance. Something was insistently pressing on his brain, demanding a
confession. He had nothing to confess, but the demanding pressure
remained. He struggled against it, and it grew.

_Admit it. How did you do it? Where is the money?_

The pressure became a tearing force. Gerda swayed weakly.

"I don't know what happened," he insisted. "I told----"

The words stopped as the force became almost unbearably intense. A
sud