When all was over, the Sparhawk rose, belted his sword a hole or two tighter, set a steel cap without a visor upon his head, glanced at Werner von Orseln, and withdrew, leaving the other captains to their free-running jest and laughter. Captain Boris of Plassenburg was telling a story with a countenance more than ordinarily grave and earnest, while the table round rang with contagious mirth.
The Sparhawk found the high terrace of the Lion Tower guarded by a sentry. Him he removed to the foot of the turret-stair, with orders to permit no one save Werner von Orseln to pass on any pretext.
Presently the chief captain's step was heard on the stone turnpike.
"Ha, Sparhawk," he cried, "this is cold cheer! Why could we not have talked comfortably in hall, with a beaker of mead at one's elbow?"
"The enemy are not in sight," said the Sparhawk gloomily.
"Well, that is bad luck," said Werner; "but do not be afraid, you will have your chance yet—indeed, all you want and a little over—in the way of killing of Muscovites."
"I wanted to speak with you on a matter we cannot mention elsewhere," said Maurice von Lynar.
The chief captain stopped in his stride, drew his cloak about him, rested his thigh on a square battlement, and resigned himself.
"Well," he said, "youth has ever yeasty brains. Go on."
"I would speak of my lady!" said the youth.