CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PRIME OF THE MORNING Now so strange a thing is woman that, so soon as we were started down the High Street of the city of Thorn, the Little Playmate dried her eyes, turned towards me in her saddle, and straightway began to take me to task as though I had been to blame.
"I have left," said she, "the only home I ever knew, and the only man that ever truly loved me, to accompany a young man that cares not for me, and a woman whom I have seen but once, to a far land and an unkindly folk." "It is not fair," I said, "to say that I love you not.

For, as God sees me, I have ever loved you--loved you best and loved you only, little Helenchen! And though you are angered with me now, I know not why--still till now you have never doubted it." "I doubt it sorely enough now, I know," she said, bitterly; "yet, indeed, I care not whether you or any love me at all." And this saying I was greatly sorry for.

It seemed a sad wayfaring from our old Red Tower and out of my native city of Thorn.
"Helene, little one," said I, "believe me, I love none in the whole world but my father and you.

Trust me, for I am to keep you safe with my life in the far land to which we go.

Do not let us quarrel, littlest.