Fat Fritz, the porter, in his arm-chair of a cell, had well-nigh dissolved into lard and running out at his own door.

The Playmate's window was open, and I caught the waft of a fan to and fro.

I judged therefore that my lady knew well that I was working out there in the heat, and was glad of it--being a spiteful pretty minx.
Then I began to wonder who had given her that fan, for it was not like my father to do it, and she knew no other.

"Ah!" I said to myself, as a thought struck me, "could it possibly be Michael Texel?
He is rich, and Helene may have known him before.

The cunning, dark-eyed little vagabond--to take my introduction yester-even as if she had never set eyes on the fellow before, while here it is as clear as daylight that he had all the time been giving her presents--fans and such like." So I raved within me, half because I believed it, and half because she seemed so comfortable up there, with her feet on a stool and a cool jug of curds at her elbow, while I sweated and labored in the sun.
Very decidedly it must be Texel; devil fly up with him and scratch him among the gargoyles of the minster! The fan wagged on.