est
of the hill, his hands on his hips, looking down at the town of Speyer
as it baked in the May afternoon sunlight.

[Illustration]

_"Behold the Tortoise: He maketh no progress unless he sticketh out
his neck." But he maketh very little progress unless he pick the
right time and place to "sticketh out his neck"--which can be quite
a sticky problem for a man in a medieval culture!_

Illustrated by Schoenherr

Jonas did not, in spite of his pose, look like the typical hero of folk
tale or scribe's tome; he was not seven feet tall, for instance, nor did
he have a handsome, lovesome face with flashing blue eyes, or a
broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted marvel of a figure. He was, instead,
somewhat shorter than the average of men in Europe in 1605 and for some
time thereafter. He had small, almost hidden eyes that seemed to see a
great deal, but failed completely to make a fuss about the fact. And
while his figure was just a trifle dumpy, his face completed the rhyme
by being extraordinarily lumpy. The nose, as a matter of strict truth,
was hard to distinguish from the other contusions, swellings and marks
that covered the head.

Nor, of course, did he carry the sword of a great hero, or a noble.
Jonas had no _von_ to stick on his name, and he had never thought it
worth his while to claim one and accept the tiny risk of disclosure.
After all, a noble was only a man like other men.

And, besides, Jonas knew perfectly well that he had no need of a sword.

His adventures, too, were a little out of the common run of tales. Jonas
had, he thought regretfully, few duels to look forward to, and he had
even fewer to look back on. And, as a maid is won by face, figure and
daring, and a wife by riches, position or prospects, there was a notable
paucity of lissome ladies in Jonas' career.

All in all, he thought sadly, he was not a _usual_ hero.

But he refused to let the thought spoil his enjoyment. After all, he was
a hero, though of his own unique kind; there was no denying that. And,
in his own way, he had his reward. He took one hand off his hip to
scratch at the top of his head, wondering briefly if he had managed to
pick up lice in the last town he had visited, and he took another look
at the city.

Speyer seemed a lot better, at first glance, than some of the other
places Jonas had visited. For one thing, it had a full town hall,
built--no less--of honest stone, and probably a relict of the Ro