The whole episode didn’t take very long. Even so, my paralysis was inexcusable, and what I did next was even worse. Instead of rushing down the stairs to Tony’s rescue, I ran the other way.

I could claim I was going for help; and, in fact, some vaguely sensible instinct led me to the doctor’s door. I banged on the door with both fists and yelled. The door was locked, or I would have rushed in. Finally Blankenhagen answered me. I shouted something—it was incoherent, but forceful. Then I got a grip on myself. I turned and ran back.

I had a flashlight, which I had completely forgotten in all the hullaballoo. By its light I located Tony. He was flat on his back on the floor under the stairs—his eyes closed, his face white, and blood all over his shirt.

Maybe I’m not the type for a heroine, but then I behaved like the worst stereotype of the feeble female. I flopped down on the floor beside Tony, held his hand, and insisted that he wake up. I think I cried. I was sure he was dead, and it was all my fault; I had talked him into this crazy escapade, I had jeered at him and dared him.

Blankenhagen had to push me out of the way to get at Tony. I sat on the floor sniveling while the doctor, fully dressed, poked interestedly at Tony’s shoulder.

“You took long enough,” I said nastily. “A fine doctor you are. Do you have to put on a tie while somebody is bleeding to death?”

“Be still,” said Blankenhagen coldly. “He is not dead.”

As if to prove it, Tony opened his eyes.

“Well,” I said, hastily wiping my face on my sleeve. “Are you with us again? That was a dumb thing to do, Tony.”

I don’t think Tony heard me, which is probably just as well. His eyes focused on something behind me. I turned. There was George, wearing a dressing gown. His shanks were bare, and as hairy as a gorilla’s.

“What happened?” he asked.

Poor Tony considered the question.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” he mumbled.

George turned to Blankenhagen.

“What’s wrong with him, Doc?”

“He hit his head falling,” said Blankenhagen, with a ruthless jab at a spot over Tony’s left ear. “He has also been stabbed,” the doctor went on reluctantly. “It is only a scratch, very shallow. Herr Lawrence, it is time you spoke. What has happened?”

I tried to imagine what Blankenhagen’s face would look like if Tony said, “I was attacked by a suit of armor.”

“I was attacked by a suit of armor,” muttered Tony.

Blankenhagen’s face took on exactly the expression I had visualized. Tony was in no mood to accept skepticism. He sat up and thrust out a dramatically stiffened arm.

“You don’t believe me? Then tell me what’s happened to that set of armor?”

The pedestal was undeniably empty. We were close enough to read the identifying label. It said, “Armor of Graf Burckhardt von Drachenstein, ca. 1525.”