There are few that have once slept here, my noble young sir, who have ever again complained of wakefulness." At this moment the hounds in the kennels raised their fierce clamor.

And, without waiting for another word, Michael Texel took himself off down the stairs of the Red Tower.

Nor did he regain his composure till I had opened the wicket and ushered him out upon the street.
Then, as the postern clicked and the familiar noises of the city fell on his ear--the slapping flat-footed lasses crying "Fried Fish," the sellers of "Hot Oyster Soup," the yelling venders of crout and salad--Michael gradually picked up his courage, and we proceeded down the High Street of Thorn to the retired hostel of the White Swan.
"Frederika," he cried, as he entered, "are the lads here yet ?" "Aye, sir, aye--a full muster," answered the old mild-faced hostess, who was busily employed knitting a stocking of pale blue in the porch, looking for all the world like the sainted mother of a family of saints.
Michael Texel walked straight through a passage and down a narrow alley, the beautiful apple-cheeked old woman following us with her eyes as we went.
Our feet rang suddenly on hollow pavement as we stooped to enter a low door in the side wall, almost concealed from observation by an overgrowth of ivy.
"Halt!" cried a voice from the dusk ahead of us, and instantly there was a naked sword at each of our breasts.

We heard also the click of swords meeting behind us.

I turned my head, and lo! there at my very shoulder I saw the gleam of crossed steel.