Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

He had scarcely finished these words, when the sweet and noble girl rose. By a great effort she checked her tears, and dried her eyes with her scarf, saying: “Father, forgive me; it was a momentary weakness.” And she looked at him with an attempt to smile.

She went to the back of the room, found the Edda, seated herself by her taciturn father, and opened the book at random; then, mastering her voice, she began to read. But her useless task was unheeded by her and by the old man, who waved his hand.

“Enough, enough, my daughter!”

She closed her book.

“Ethel,” added Schumacker, “do you ever think of Ordener?”

The young girl started in confusion.

“Yes,” he continued, “of that Ordener who went--”

“Father,” interrupted Ethel, “why should we trouble ourselves about him? I think as you do,--that he left us, never to return.”

“Never to return, my daughter! I cannot have said such a thing. On the contrary, I have a strange presentiment that he will come back.”

“That was not your opinion, father, when you spoke so distrustingly of the young man.”

“Did I speak distrustfully of him?”

“Yes, father, and I agree with you; I think that he deceived us.”

“That he deceived us, daughter! If I judged him thus, I acted like most men who condemn without proof. I have received nothing but professions of devotion from this Ordener.”

“And how do you know, father, that those cordial words did not hide treacherous thoughts?”

“Usually men disregard misfortune and disgrace. If this Ordener were not attached to me, he would not have visited my prison without a purpose.”

“Are you sure,” replied Ethel, feebly, “that he had no purpose in coming here?”

“What could it be?” eagerly asked the old man.

Ethel was silent.

It was too great an effort for her to continue to accuse her beloved Ordener, whom she had formerly defended against her father.

“I am no longer Count Griffenfeld,” he resumed. “I am no longer lord chancellor of Denmark and Norway, the favored dispenser of royal bounty, the all-powerful minister. I am a miserable prisoner of State, a proscribed man, to be shunned like one stricken with the plague. It shows courage even to mention my name without execration to the men whom I overwhelmed with honors and wealth; it shows devotion for a man to cross the threshold of this dungeon unless he be a jailer or an executioner; it shows heroism, my girl, for a man to cross it and call himself my friend. No; I will not be ungrateful, like the rest of humanity. That young man merits my gratitude, were it only for letting me see a kindly face and hear a consoling voice.”

Ethel listened in agony to these words, which would have charmed her a few days earlier, when this Ordener was still cherished as her Ordener. The old man, after a brief pause, resumed in a solemn tone: “Listen to me, my daughter; for what I have to say to you is serious. I feel that I am fading slowly; my life is ebbing. Yes, daughter, my end is at hand.”

Ethel interrupted him with a stifled groan.

“Oh God, father, say not so! For mercy’s sake, spare your poor daughter! Alas! would you forsake me? What would become of me, alone in the world, if I were deprived of your protection?”

“The protection of a proscribed man!” said her father, shaking his head. “However, that is the very thing of which I have been thinking. Yes, your future happiness occupies me even more than my past misfortunes; hear me, therefore, and do not interrupt me again. This Ordener does not deserve that you should judge him so severely, my daughter, and I had not hitherto thought that you felt such dislike to him. His appearance is frank and noble, which proves nothing, truly; but I must say that he does not strike me as without merit, although it is enough that he has a human soul, for it to contain the seeds of every vice and every crime. There is no flame without smoke.”

The old man again paused, and fixing his eyes upon his daughter, added: “Warned from within of approaching death, I have pondered much, Ethel; and if he return, as I hope he may, I shall make him your protector and husband.”

Ethel trembled and turned pale; at the very moment when her dream of happiness had fled forever, her father strove to realize it. The bitter reflection, “I might have been happy!” revived all the violence of her despair. For some moments she was unable to speak, lest the burning tears which filled her eyes should flow afresh.

Her father waited for her answer.

“What!” she said at last in a faint voice, “would you have chosen him for my husband, father, without knowing his birth, his family, his name?”

“I not only chose him, my daughter, I choose him still.”

The old man’s tone was almost imperious. Ethel sighed.

“I choose him for you, I say; and what is his birth to me? I do not care to know his family, since I know him. Think of it; he is the only anchor of salvation left to you. Fortunately, I believe that he does not feel the same aversion for you which you show for him.”

The poor girl raised her eyes to heaven.

“You hear me, Ethel! I repeat, what is his birth to me? He is doubtless of obscure rank, for those born in palaces are not taught to frequent prisons. Do not show such proud regret, my daughter; do not forget that Ethel Schumacker is no longer Princess of Wollin and Countess of Tönsberg. You have fallen lower than the point from which your father rose by his own efforts. Consider yourself happy if this man accept your hand, be his family what it may. If he be of humble birth, so much the better, my daughter; at least your days will be sheltered from the storms which have tormented your father. Far from the envy and hatred of men, under some unknown name, you will lead a modest existence, very different from mine, for its end will be better than its beginning.”

Ethel fell on her knees.

“Oh, father, have mercy!”

He opened his arms to her in amazement.

“What do you mean, my daughter?”

“In Heaven’s name, do not describe a happiness which is not for me!”

“Ethel,” sternly answered the old man, “do not risk your whole life. I refused the hand of a princess of the blood royal, a princess of Holstein Augustenburg,--do you hear that?--and my pride was cruelly punished. You despise an obscure but loyal man; tremble lest yours be as sadly chastised.”

“Would to Heaven,” sighed Ethel, “that he were an obscure and loyal man!”

The old man rose, and paced the room in agitation. “My daughter,” said he, “your poor father implores and commands you. Do not let me die uncertain as to your future; promise me that you will accept this stranger as your husband.”

“I will obey you always, father; but do not hope that he will return.”

“I have weighed the probabilities, and I think from the tone in which Ordener uttered your name--”

“That he loves me!” bitterly interrupted Ethel. “Oh, no; do not believe it.”

The father answered coldly: “I do not know whether, to use your girlish expression, he loves you; but I know that he will return.”

“Give up that idea, father; besides, you would not wish him for your son-in-law if you knew who he is.”

“Ethel, he shall be my son-in-law, be his name and rank what they may.”

“Well!” she replied, “how if this young man, whom you regard as your solace, whom you consider as your daughter’s support, be the son of one of your mortal foes,--of the viceroy of Norway, Count Guldenlew?”

Schumacker started back.

“Heavens! what do you say? Ordener! that Ordener! It is impossible!”

The look of unutterable hatred which flashed from the old man’s faded eyes froze Ethel’s trembling heart, and she vainly repented the rash words which she had uttered.

The blow was struck. For a few moments Schumacker stood motionless, with folded arms; his whole body quivered as if laid upon live coals; his flaming eyes started from their sockets; and his gaze, riveted to the pavement, seemed as if it would pierce the stones. At last these words issued from his livid lips in a voice as faint as that of a man who dreams. “Ordener! Yes, it must be so; Ordener Guldenlew! It is well. Come, Schumacker, old fool, open your arms to him; the loyal youth has come to stab you to the heart.”

Suddenly he stamped upon the ground, and went on in tones of thunder: “So they send their whole infamous race to insult me in my disgrace and captivity! I have already seen a d’Ahlefeld; I almost smiled upon a Guldenlew! Monsters! Who would ever have thought that this Ordener possessed such a soul and bore such a name? Wretched me! Wretched he!”

Then he fell exhausted into his chair, and while his breast heaved with sighs, poor Ethel, trembling with fright, wept at his feet.

“Do not weep, my daughter,” said he, in gloomy tones “come, oh, come to my heart!”

And he clasped her in his arms.

Ethel knew not how to explain this caress at a moment of rage, but he resumed: “At least, girl, you were more clear-sighted than your old father. You were not deceived by that serpent with gentle but venomous eyes. Come! let me thank you for the hatred which you have shown me that you feel for that contemptible Ordener.”

She shuddered at these praises, alas! so ill-deserved.

“Father,” said she, “be calm!”

“Promise me,” added Schumacker, “that you will always retain the same feeling for the son of Guldenlew. Swear it!”

“God forbids us to swear, father.”

“Swear, swear, girl!” vehemently repeated Schumacker. “Will you always retain the same feeling for Ordener Guldenlew?”

Ethel had scarcely strength to falter, “Always.”

The old man drew her to his heart.

“It is well, my daughter! Let me at least bequeath to you my hate, if I cannot leave you the wealth and honors of which I was robbed. Listen! they deprived your old father of rank and glory; they dragged him in irons to the gallows, as if to stain him with every infamy and make him endure every torment. Wretches! Oh, may heaven and hell hear me, and may they be cursed in this life and cursed in their posterity!”

He was silent for a moment; then, embracing his poor daughter, terrified by his curses: “But Ethel, my only glory and my only treasure, tell me, how was your instinct so much more skilful than mine? How did you discover that this traitor bears one of the abhorred names inscribed upon my heart in gall? How did you penetrate his secret?”

She was summoning all her strength to answer, when the door opened.

A man dressed in black, carrying in his hand an ebony wand, and wearing about his neck a chain of unpolished steel, appeared upon the threshold, escorted by halberdiers also dressed in black.

“What do you want?” asked the captive, sharply, and in astonishment.

The man, without replying or looking at him, unrolled a long parchment, to which was fastened by silken threads a seal of green wax, and read aloud: “In the name of his Majesty, our most gracious sovereign and lord, Christian the king. Schumacker, prisoner of State in the royal fortress of Munkholm, and his daughter, are commanded to follow the bearer of the said command.”

Schumacker repeated his question: “What do you want?”

The man in black, still immovable, prepared to re-read the document.

“That will do,” said the old man.

Then, rising, he signed to the surprised and startled Ethel to follow with him this dismal escort.

Photo-Etching.--From drawing by Démarest.]

XLI.

A doleful signal was given, an abject minister of justice knocked
at his door and informed him that he was wanted.--JOSEPH DE
MAISTRE.

Night had fallen; a cold wind whistled around the Cursed Tower, and the doors of Vygla ruin rattled on their hinges, as if the same hand had shaken all of them at once.

The wild inhabitants of the tower, the hangman and his family, had gathered about the fire lighted in the middle of the room on the first floor, which cast a fitful glow upon their dark faces and scarlet garments. The children’s features were fierce as their father’s laughter and haggard as their mother’s gaze. Their eyes, as well as those of Becky were fixed on Orugix, who, seated on a wooden stool, seemed to be recovering his breath, his feet covered with dust, showing that he had but just returned from some distant trip.

“Wife, listen; listen, children. I’ve not been gone two whole days merely to bring back bad news. If I am not made executioner to the king before another month is out, I wish I may never tie another slip-noose or handle an axe again. Rejoice, my little wolf-cubs; your father may leave you the Copenhagen scaffold by way of an inheritance, after all.”

“Nychol,” asked Becky, “what has happened?”

“And you, my old gypsy,” rejoined Nychol, with his boisterous laugh, “rejoice too! You can buy any number of blue glass necklaces to adorn your long, skinny neck. Our agreement will soon be up; but never fear, in a month, when you see me chief hangman of both kingdoms, you will not refuse to break another jug with me.”[1]

“What is it, what is it, father?” asked the children, the older of whom was playing with a bloody rack, while the little one amused himself by plucking alive a young bird which he had stolen from the nest.

“What is it, children?--Kill that bird, Haspar; it makes as much noise as a rusty saw; and besides, you should never be cruel. Kill it.--What is it, you say? Nothing,--a trifle, truly; nothing, dame Becky, save that within a week from this time ex-chancellor Schumacker, who is a prisoner at Munkholm, after looking me so closely in the face at Copenhagen, and the famous brigand of Iceland, Hans of Klipstadur, may perhaps both pass through my hands at once.”

The red woman’s wandering eye assumed an expression of surprised curiosity.

“Schumacker! Hans of Iceland! How is that, Nychol?”

“I’ll tell you all about it. Yesterday morning, on the road to Skongen, at Ordals bridge, I met the whole regiment of musketeers from Munkholm marching back to Throndhjem with a very victorious air. I questioned one of the soldiers, who condescended to answer, probably because he did not know why my jerkin and my cart were red. I learned that the musketeers were returning from Black Pillar Pass, where they had cut to pieces various bands of brigands,--that is to say, insurgent miners. Now, you must know, gypsy Becky, that these rebels revolted in Schumacker’s name, and were commanded by Hans of Iceland. You must know that his uprising renders Hans of Iceland guilty of the crime of insurrection against royal authority, and Schumacker guilty of high treason, which will naturally lead those two honorable gentlemen to the scaffold or the block. Add to these two superb executions, which cannot fail to bring me in at least fifteen gold ducats each, and to entitle me to the greatest honor in both kingdoms, several other though less important ones--”

“But do tell me,” interrupted Becky, “has Hans of Iceland been captured?”

“Why do you interrupt your lord and master, miserable woman?” said the hangman. “Yes, to be sure, the famous, the impregnable Hans of Iceland is a prisoner, together with several other leaders of the brigands, his lieutenants, who will also bring me in twelve crowns apiece, to say nothing of the sale of their bodies. He was captured, I tell you; and I saw him, if you must know all the particulars, march by between a double file of soldiers.”

The woman and children crowded eagerly about Orugix.

“What! did you really see him, father?” asked the children.

“Be quiet, boys. You shriek like a rogue protesting his innocence. I saw him; he is a giant. His hands were tied behind his back, and his forehead was bandaged. I suppose he was wounded in the head. But never fear, I will soon heal his hurt for him.” Accompanying these brutal words with a brutal gesture, the hangman added: “There were four of his comrades behind him, prisoners too and wounded, like him, who were being taken, like him, to Throndhjem, where they are to be tried with ex-chancellor Schumacker by a court of justice presided over by the lord mayor and the present chancellor.”

“Father, what did the other prisoners look like?”

“The first two were a couple of old men, one of whom wore a miner’s broad felt hat, and the other a mountaineer’s cap; both seemed utterly disheartened. Of the other two, one was a young miner, who marched along with head up, whistling; the other,--do you remember, Becky, those travellers who came to this tower some ten days ago, on the night of that terrible storm?”

“As Satan remembers the day of his fall,” replied the woman.

“Did you notice a young man in company with that crazy old doctor with the big periwig,--a young fellow, I say, who wore a great green cloak, and a cap with a black feather?”

“Yes, indeed; I can see him now, saying: ‘Woman, we have plenty of gold!’”

“Well, old woman, I hope I may never wring the neck of anything worse than a grouse, if the fourth prisoner was not that young man. His face, to be sure, was entirely hidden by his feather, his cap, his hair, and his cloak; besides, he hung his head. But it was the very same dress, the same boots, the same manner. I’ll swallow the stone gallows at Skongen at a single mouthful if it be not the same man! What do you say to that, Becky? Wouldn’t it be a joke if after I had given him something to sustain life he should also receive from me something to cut it short, and should exercise my skill after having tasted my hospitality?”

The hangman’s coarse laughter was loud and long; then he resumed: “Come, make merry, all of you, and let us drink. Yes, Becky, give me a glass of that beer which scrapes a man’s throat as if he were drinking files, and let me drain it to my future advancement. Come, here’s to the health and prosperity of Nychol Orugix, executioner royal that is to be! I will confess, you old sinner, that I found it hard work to go to Nœs village to hang a contemptible clown for stealing cabbage and chicory. Still, when I thought it over, I felt that thirty-two escalins were not to be sneezed at, and that my hands would not be degraded by turning off mere thieves and riff-raff of that kind until after they had actually beheaded the noble count and ex-chancellor, and the famous demon of Iceland. I therefore resigned myself, while waiting for my certificate as hangman to the king, to despatch the poor wretch at Nœs village. And here,” he added, drawing a leather purse from his wallet, “are the thirty-two escalins for you, old girl.”

At this moment three blasts from a horn were heard outside.

“Woman,” cried Orugix, “those are the bowmen of the lord mayor.”

With these words he hurried downstairs.

An instant later he reappeared, carrying a large parchment, of which he had broken the seal.

“There,” said he to his wife, “there’s what the lord mayor has sent me. Do you decipher it; for you can read Satan’s scrawl. Perhaps it is my promotion already; for since the court is to have a chancellor to preside over it and a chancellor as prisoner at the bar, it is only proper that the man who carries out the sentence should be an executioner royal.”

The woman took the parchment, and after studying it for some time, read aloud, while the children stared at her in stupid wonder: “In the name of the Council of the province of Throndhjem, Nychol Orugix, hangman for the province, is hereby ordered to repair at once to Throndhjem, and to carry with him his best axe, block, and black hangings.”

“Is that all?” asked the hangman, in a dissatisfied tone.

“That is all,” replied Becky.

“Hangman for the province!” muttered Orugix.

He cast an angry glance at the official document, but at last exclaimed: “Well, I must obey and be off. After all, they tell me to bring my best axe and the black hangings. Take care, Becky, that you rub off the spots of rust which have dimmed my axe, and see that the hangings are not stained with blood. We must not be discouraged; perhaps they mean to promote me in payment for this fine execution. So much the worse for the prisoners; they will not have the satisfaction of dying by the hand of an executioner royal.”

XLII.

_Elvira_. What has become of poor Sancho? He has not appeared in
town?

_Nuno_. Sancho has doubtless contrived to find shelter.

LOPE DE VEGA: _The Best Alcalde is the King_.

Count d’Ahlefeld, dragging behind him an ample robe of black satin lined with ermine, his head and shoulders concealed by a large judicial wig, his breast covered with stars and decorations, among which were the collars of the Royal Orders of the Elephant and the Dannebrog, clad, in a word, in the complete costume of the lord chancellor of Denmark and Norway, paced with an anxious air up and down the apartment of Countess d’Ahlefeld, who was alone with him at the moment.

“Come, it is nine o’clock; the court is about to open; it must not be kept waiting, for sentence must be pronounced to-night, so that it may be carried out by to-morrow morning at latest. The mayor assures me that the hangman will be here before dawn. Elphega, did you order the boat to take me to Munkholm?”

“My lord, it has been waiting for you at least half an hour,” replied the countess, rising from her seat.

“And is my litter at the door?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good! So you say, Elphega,” added the count, clapping his hand to his head, “that there is a love-affair between Ordener Guldenlew and Schumacker’s daughter?”

“A very serious one, I assure you,” replied the countess, with a smile of anger and contempt.

“Who would ever have imagined it? And yet I tell you that I suspected it.”

“And so did I,” said the countess. “This is a trick played upon us by that confounded Levin.”

“Old scamp of a Mecklenburger!” muttered the chancellor; “never fear, I’ll recommend you to Arensdorf. If I could only succeed in disgracing him! Ah! see here, Elphega, I have an inspiration.”

“What is it?”

“You know that the persons whom we are to try at Munkholm Castle are six in number,--Schumacker, whom I hope I shall have no further cause to fear, to-morrow, at this hour; the colossal mountaineer, our false Hans of Iceland, who has sworn to sustain his character to the end, in the hope that Musdœmon, from whom he has already received large sums of money, will help him to escape,--that Musdœmon really has the most devilish ideas! The other four prisoners are the three rebel chiefs, and a certain unknown character, who stumbled, no one knows how, into the midst of the assembly at Apsyl-Corh, and whom Musdœmon’s precautions have thrown into our hands. Musdœmon thinks that the fellow is a spy of Levin de Knud. And indeed, when brought here a prisoner, his first words were to ask for the general; and when he learned of the Mecklenburger’s absence, he seemed dumfounded. Moreover, he has refused to answer any of Musdœmon’s questions.”

“My dear lord,” interrupted the countess, “why have you not questioned him yourself?”

“Really, Elphega, how could I, in the midst of all the business which has overwhelmed me since my arrival? I trusted the affair to Musdœmon, whom it interests as much as it does me. Besides, my dear, the fellow is not of the slightest consequence in himself; he is merely some poor vagabond. We can only turn him to account by representing him to be an agent of Levin de Knud, and as he was captured in the rebel ranks, it would go to prove a guilty connivance between Schumacker and the Mecklenburger, which will suffice to bring about, if not the arraignment, at least the disgrace, of that confounded Levin.”

The countess meditated for a moment. “You are right; my lord. But how about this fatal passion of Baron Thorwick for Ethel Schumacker?”

The chancellor again rubbed his head. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he said: “See here, Elphega; neither you nor I are young novices, and we ought to understand men. When Schumacker has been condemned for high treason for the second time; when he has undergone an infamous death on the gallows; when his daughter, reduced to the lowest ranks of society, is forever publicly disgraced by her father’s shame,--do you suppose, Elphega, that Ordener Guldenlew will then recall for a single instant this childish flirtation which you call passion, judging it by the extravagant talk of a crazy girl, or that he will hesitate a single day between the dishonored daughter of a wretched criminal and the illustrious daughter of a great chancellor? We must judge others by ourselves; where do you find that the human heart is so constituted?”

“I trust that you may be right. But I think you will not disapprove of my request to the mayor that Schumacker’s daughter might be present at her father’s trial, and might be placed in the same gallery with me. I am curious to study the creature.”

“All that can throw light upon the affair is valuable,” said the chancellor, calmly. “But tell me, does anybody know where Ordener is at present?”

“No one knows; he is the worthy pupil of that old Levin, a knight-errant like him. I believe that he is visiting Wardhus just now.”

“Well, well, our Ulrica will settle him. But come, I forget that the court is waiting for me.”

The countess detained the chancellor. “One word more, my lord. I asked you yesterday, but your mind was full of other things, and I could not get an answer,--where is my Frederic?”

“Frederic!” said the count, with a melancholy expression, and hiding his face with his hand.

“Yes, answer me; my Frederic? His regiment has returned to Throndhjem without him. Swear to me that Frederic was not in that horrible affair at Black Pillar Pass. Why do you change color at his name? I am in mortal terror.”

The chancellor’s features resumed their wonted composure. “Make yourself easy, Elphega. I swear that he was not at Black Pillar Pass. Besides, the list of officers killed or wounded in that skirmish has been published.”

“Yes,” said the countess, growing calmer, “you reassure me. Only two officers were killed,--Captain Lory and that young Baron Randmer, who played so many mad pranks with my poor Frederic at the Copenhagen balls. Oh, I have read and re-read the list, I assure you. But tell me, my lord, did my boy remain at Wahlstrom?”

“He did,” replied the count.

“Well, my friend,” said the mother, with a smile which she tried to render affectionate, “I have but one favor to ask of you,--that is, to recall Frederic as soon as may be from that frightful region.”

The chancellor broke from her suppliant arms, saying, “Madam, the court waits. Farewell. What you ask does not depend on my will.” And he quitted the room abruptly.

The countess was left in a sad and pensive mood. “It does not depend upon his will!” said she; “and he has but to utter a word to restore my son to my arms! I always thought that man was genuinely bad.”

XLIII.

Is it thus you treat a man in my position? Is it thus you forget
the respect due to justice?--CALDERON: _Louis Perez of Galicia_.

The trembling Ethel, separated from her father by the guards upon leaving the Lion of Schleswig tower, was conducted through dim passages, hitherto unknown to her, to a small, dark cell, which was closed as soon as she had entered it. In the wall opposite the door was a large grated opening, through which came the light of links and torches. Before this opening was a bench, upon which sat a woman, veiled and dressed in black, who signed to her to be seated beside her. Ethel obeyed in silent dismay. She looked through the grated window and saw a solemn and imposing scene.

At the farther end of a room hung with black and dimly lighted by copper lamps suspended from the vaulted roof, was a black platform in the shape of a horseshoe, occupied by seven judges in black gowns, one of whom, placed in the centre upon a higher seat, wore on his breast glittering diamond chains and gold medals. The judge on his right differed from the others in the wearing of a white girdle and an ermine mantle, showing him to be the lord mayor of the province. To the right of the bench was a platform covered with a daïs, upon which sat an old man, in bishop’s dress; to the left, a table covered with papers, behind which stood a short man with a huge wig, and enveloped in a long black gown.

Opposite the judges was a wooden bench, surrounded by halberdiers holding torches, whose light, reflected back from a forest of pikes, muskets, and partisans, shed a faint glimmer upon the tumultuous heads of a mob of spectators, crowded against the iron railing dividing them from the court-room.

Ethel looked at this spectacle as she might have beheld some waking dream; yet she was far from feeling indifferent to what was about to happen. A secret voice warned her to listen well, because a crisis in her life was at hand. Her heart was a prey to contending emotions; she longed to know instantly what interest she had in the scene before her, or never to know it at all. For some days, the idea that her Ordener was forever lost to her had inspired her with a desperate desire to be done with existence once for all, and to read the book of her fate at a single glance. Therefore, realizing that this was a decisive hour, she watched the sombre picture before her, not so much with aversion as with a sort of impatient, melancholy joy.

She saw the president rise and proclaim in the king’s name that the court was opened.

She heard the short, dark man to the left of the bench read, in a low, rapid voice, a long discourse in which her father’s name, mixed with the words “conspiracy,” “revolt in the mines,” and “high treason,” frequently recurred. Then she remembered what the dread stranger had told her, in the donjon garden, of the charges against her father; and she shuddered as she heard the man in the black robe conclude his speech with the word “death,” pronounced with great emphasis.

She turned in terror to the veiled lady, from whom she shrank with unaccountable fear. “Where are we? What does all this mean?” she timidly asked.

A gesture from her mysterious companion commanded her to be silent and attentive. She again turned her eyes to the court-room. The venerable bishop rose, and Ethel caught these words: “In the name of omnipotent and most merciful God, I, Pamphilus-Luther, bishop of the royal province and town of Throndhjem, do greet the worthy court assembled here in the name of the king, our lord, under God.

“And I say, that having observed that the prisoners brought to this bar are men and Christians, and that they have no counsel, I declare to the worthy judges that it is my purpose to aid them with my poor strength in the cruel position in which it has pleased Heaven to place them.

“Praying that God will deign to strengthen my great weakness, and enlighten my great blindness, I, bishop of this royal diocese, greet this wise and worthy court.”

So saying, the bishop stepped from his episcopal throne, and took his seat upon the prisoners’ bench, amid a murmur of applause from the people.

The president then rose, and said in dry tones, “Halberdiers, command silence! My lord bishop, the court thanks your reverence, in the name of the prisoners. Inhabitants of the province of Throndhjem, pay good heed to the king’s justice; there can be no appeal from the sentence of the court. Bowmen, bring in the prisoners.”

There was an expectant and terrified hush; the heads of the crowd swayed to and fro in the darkness like the waves of a stormy sea, upon which the thunder is about to burst.

Soon Ethel heard a dull sound and a strange stir below her, in the gloomy aisles of the court; the audience moved aside with a thrill of impatient curiosity; there was a noise of many feet; halberds and muskets gleamed, and six men, chained and surrounded by guards, entered the room bareheaded. Ethel had eyes for the first of the six alone, a white-headed old man in a black gown. It was her father.

She leaned, almost fainting, against the stone balustrade in front of her; everything swam before her in a confused cloud, and it seemed as if her heart were in her throat. She said in a feeble voice, “O God! help me!”

The veiled woman bent over her and gave her salts to smell, which roused her from her lethargy.

“Noble lady,” said she, reviving, “for mercy’s sake, speak but one word to convince me that I am not the sport of spirits from hell.”

The stranger, deaf to her entreaty, again turned her head toward the court; and poor Ethel, who had somewhat recovered her strength, resigned herself to do the same in silence.

The president rose, and said in slow, solemn tones, “Prisoners, you are brought before us that we may decide whether or not you are guilty of high treason, conspiracy, and armed rebellion against the authority of the king, our sovereign lord. Examine your consciences well, for the charge of leze-majesty rests upon your heads.”

At this moment a gleam of light fell upon the face of one of the six prisoners, a young man who held his head down, as if to veil his features with his long hair. Ethel started, and a cold sweat oozed from every pore. She thought she recognized--But no; it was a cruel illusion. The room was but dimly lighted, and men moved about it like shadows; the great polished ebony Christ hanging over the president’s chair was scarcely visible.

And yet that young man was wrapped in a mantle which at this distance seemed to be green; his disordered hair was chestnut, and the unexpected gleam which revealed his features--But no; it was not true. It could not be! It was some horrid delusion!

The prisoners were seated on the bench beside the bishop. Schumacker took his place at one end; he was separated from the chestnut-haired young man by his four companions in misfortune, who wore coarse clothes, and among whom was one of gigantic stature. The bishop sat at the other end of the bench.

Ethel saw the president turn to her father, saying in a stern voice: “Old man, tell us your name, and who you are.”

The old man raised his venerable head.

“Once,” he replied, looking steadily at the president, “I was Count Griffenfeld and Tönsberg, Prince of Wollin, Prince of the Holy German Empire, Knight of the Royal Orders of the Elephant and the Dannebrog, Knight of the Golden Fleece in Germany and of the Garter in England, Prime Minister, Lord Rector of all our Universities, Lord High Chancellor of Denmark, and--”

The president interrupted him: “Prisoner, the court does not ask who you were, nor what your name once was, but who you are and what it now is.”

“Well,” answered the old man, quickly, “my name is John Schumacker now; I am sixty-nine years old, and I am nothing but your former benefactor, Chancellor d’Ahlefeld.”

The president seemed confused.

“I recognized you, Count,” added the ex-chancellor, “and as I thought you did not know me, I took the liberty to remind your Grace that we are old acquaintances.”

“Schumacker,” said the president, in a voice trembling with concentrated fury, “do not trifle with the court.”

The aged prisoner again interrupted him: “We have changed places, noble Chancellor; I used to call you ‘d’Ahlefeld,’ and you addressed me as ‘Count.’”

“Prisoner,” replied the president, “you only injure your cause by recalling the infamous decree which already brands your name.”

“If that sentence entailed infamy on any one, Count d’Ahlefeld, it was not on me.”

The old man half rose as he spoke these words with great emphasis.

The president waved his hand.

“Sit down. Do not insult, in the presence of the court, the judges who condemned you, and the king who surrendered you to those judges. Recollect that his Majesty deigned to grant you your life, and confine yourself to defending it.”

Schumacker’s only answer was a shrug of the shoulders.

“Have you,” asked the president, “anything to say in regard to the charges preferred against you?”

Seeing that Schumacker was silent, the president repeated his question.

“Are you speaking to me?” said the ex-chancellor. “I supposed, noble Count d’Ahlefeld, that you were speaking to yourself. Of what crime do you accuse me? Did I ever give a Judas kiss to a friend? Have I imprisoned, condemned, and dishonored a benefactor,--robbed him to whom I owed everything? In truth, my lord chancellor, I know not why I am brought here. Doubtless it is to judge of your skill in lopping off innocent heads. Indeed, I shall not be sorry to see whether you find it as easy to ruin me as to ruin the kingdom, and whether a single comma will be a sufficient pretext for my death, as one letter of the alphabet was enough for you to bring on a war with Sweden.”[2]

He had scarcely uttered this bitter jest, when the man seated at the table to the left of the bench arose.

“My lord president,” said he, bowing low, “my lord judges, I move that John Schumacker be forbidden to speak, if he continue to insult his Grace, the president of this worshipful court.”

The calm voice of the bishop answered: “Mr. Private Secretary, no prisoner can be deprived of the right to speak.”

“True, Reverend Bishop,” hastily exclaimed the president. “We propose to allow the defence the utmost liberty. I would merely advise the prisoner to moderate his expressions if he understands his own interest.”

Schumacker shook his head, and said coldly: “It seems that Count d’Ahlefeld is more sure of his game than he was in 1677.”

“Silence!” said the president; and instantly addressing the prisoner next to the old man, he asked his name.

A mountaineer of colossal stature, whose forehead was swathed in bandages, rose, saying, “I am Hans, from Klipstadur, in Iceland.”

A shudder of horror ran through the crowd, and Schumacher, lifting his head, which had sunk upon his breast, cast a sudden glance at his dreadful neighbor, from whom all his other fellow-prisoners shrank.

“Hans of Iceland,” asked the president, when the confusion ceased, “what have you to say for yourself?”

Ethel was as much startled as any of the spectators by the appearance of the famous brigand, who had so long played a prominent part in all her visions of alarm. She fixed her eyes with timid dread upon the monstrous giant, with whom her Ordener had possibly fought, whose victim he perhaps was. This idea again took possession of her soul in all its painful shapes. Thus, wholly absorbed by countless heart-rending emotions, she hardly heeded the coarse, blundering answer of this Hans of Iceland, whom she regarded almost as her Ordener’s murderer. She only understood that the brigand declared himself to be the leader of the rebel forces.

“Was it of your own free will,” asked the president, “or by the suggestion of others, that you took command of the insurgents?”

The brigand answered: “It was not of my own free will.”

“Who persuaded you to commit such a crime?”

“A man named Hacket.”

“Who was this Hacket?”

“An agent of Schumacker, whom he also called Count Griffenfeld.”

The president turned to Schumacker: “Schumacker, do you know this Hacket?”

“You have forestalled me, Count d’Ahlefeld,” rejoined the old man; “I was about to ask you the same question.”

“John Schumacker,” said the president, “your hatred is ill advised. The court will put the proper value upon your system of defence.”

The bishop then said, turning to the short man, who seemed to fill the office of recorder and prosecutor: “Mr. Private Secretary, is this Hacket one of your clients?”

“No, your reverence,” replied the secretary.

“Does any one know what has become of him?”

“He was not captured; he has disappeared.”

It seemed as if the private secretary tried to steady his voice as he said this.

“I rather think that he has vanished altogether,” said Schumacker.

The bishop continued: “Mr. Secretary, is any one in pursuit of this Hacket? Has any one a description of him?”

Before the private secretary could answer, one of the prisoners rose. He was a young miner, with a stern, proud face.

“He is easily described,” said he, in a firm voice. “This contemptible Hacket, Schumacker’s agent, is a man of low stature, with an open countenance, like the mouth of hell. Stay, Mr. Bishop; his voice is very like that of the gentleman writing at the table over there, whom your reverence calls, I believe, ‘private secretary.’ And truly, if the room were not so dark, and the private secretary had less hair to hide his face, I could almost swear that he looked very much like the traitor Hacket.”

“Our brother speaks truly,” cried the prisoners on either side of the young miner.

“Indeed!” muttered Schumacker, with a look of triumph.

The secretary involuntarily started, whether from fear, or from the indignation which he felt at being compared to Hacket. The president, who himself seemed disturbed, hurriedly exclaimed: “Prisoners, remember that you are only to speak in answer to a question from the court; and do not insult the officers of the law by unworthy comparisons.”

“But, Mr. President,” said the bishop, “this is a mere matter of description. If the guilty Hacket has points of resemblance to your secretary, it may be useful to--”

The president cut him short.

“Hans of Iceland, you, who have had such frequent intercourse with Hacket, tell us, to satisfy the worthy bishop, whether the fellow really resembles our honorable private secretary.”

“Not at all, sir,” unhesitatingly answered the giant.

“You see, my lord bishop,” added the president.

The bishop acknowledged his satisfaction by a bow, and the president, addressing another prisoner, pronounced the usual formula: “What is your name?”

“Wilfred Kennybol, from the Kiölen Mountains.”

“Were you among the insurgents?”

“Yes, sir; the truth at all costs. I was captured in the cursed defile of Black Pillar. I was the chief of the mountaineers.”

“Who urged you to the crime of rebellion?”

“Our brothers the miners complained of the royal protectorate; and that was very natural, was it not, your worship? If you had nothing but a mud hut and a couple of paltry fox-skins, you would not like to have them taken from you. The government would not listen to their petitions. Then, sir, they made up their minds to rebel, and begged us to help them. Such a slight favor could not be refused by brothers who say the same prayers and worship the same saints. That’s the whole story.”

“Did nobody,” said the president, “excite, encourage, and direct your insurrection?”

“There was a Mr. Hacket, who was forever talking to us about rescuing a count who was imprisoned at Munkholm, whose messenger he said he was. We promised to do as he asked, because it was nothing to us to set one more captive free.”

“Was not this count’s name Schumacker or Griffenfeld, fellow?”

“Exactly so, your worship.”

“Did you never see him?”

“No, sir; but if he be that old man who told you that he had so many names just now, I must confess--”

“What?” interrupted the president.

“That he has a very beautiful white beard, sir; almost as handsome a one as my sister Maase’s husband’s father, of the village of Surb; and he lived to be one hundred and twenty years old.”

The darkness of the room prevented any one from seeing whether the president looked disappointed at the mountaineer’s simple answer. He ordered the archers to produce certain scarlet flags.

“Wilfred Kennybol,” he asked, “do you recognize these flags?”

“Yes, your Grace; they were given to us by Hacket in Count Schumacker’s name. The count also distributed arms to the miners; for we did not need them, we mountaineers, who live by our gun and game-bag. And I myself, sir, such as you see me, trussed as I am like a miserable fowl to be roasted, have more than once, in one of our deep valleys, brought down an old eagle flying so high that it looked like a lark or a thrush.”

“You hear, judges,” remarked the private secretary; “the prisoner Schumacker distributed arms and banners to the rebels, through Hacket.”

“Kennybol,” asked the president, “have you anything more to say?”

“Nothing, your Grace, except that I do not deserve death. I only lent a hand in brotherly love to the miners, and I’ll venture to say before all your worships that my bullet, old hunter as I am, never touched one of the king’s deer.”

The president, without answering this plea, cross-examined Kennybol’s two companions; they were the leaders of the miners. The older of the two, who stated that his name was Jonas, repeated Kennybol’s testimony in slightly different words. The other,--the same young man who had noticed such a strong resemblance between the private secretary and the treacherous Hacket,--called himself Norbith, and proudly avowed his share in the rebellion, but refused to reveal anything regarding Hacket and Schumacker, saying that he had sworn secrecy, and had forgotten everything but that oath. In vain the president tried threats and entreaties; the obstinate youth was not to be moved. Moreover, he insisted that he had not rebelled on Schumacker’s account, but simply because his old mother was cold and hungry. He did not deny that he might deserve to die; but he declared that it would be unjust to kill him, because in killing him they would also kill his poor mother, who had done nothing to merit punishment.

When Norbith ceased speaking, the private secretary briefly summed up the heavy charges against the prisoners, and more especially against Schumacker. He read some of the seditious mottoes on the flags, and showed how the general agreement of the answers of the ex-chancellor’s accomplices, and even the silence of Norbith bound by a fanatical oath, tended to inculpate him. “There now remains,” he said in close, “but a single prisoner to be examined, and we have strong reasons for thinking him the secret agent of the authority who has ill protected the peace of the province of Throndhjem. This authority has favored, if not by his guilty connivance, at least by his fatal negligence, the outbreak of the revolt which must destroy all these unhappy men, and restore Schumacker to the scaffold from which the king’s clemency so generously preserved him.”

Ethel, whose fears for Ordener were now converted into cruel apprehensions for her father, shuddered at these ominous words, and wept floods of tears when her father rose and said quietly: “Chancellor d’Ahlefeld, I admire your skill. Have you summoned the hangman?”

The unfortunate girl thought her cup of bitterness was full: she was mistaken.

The sixth prisoner now stood up. With a superb gesture he swept back the hair which covered his face, and replied to the president’s questions in a clear, firm voice: “My name is Ordener Guldenlew, Baron Thorwick, Knight of the Dannebrog.”

An exclamation of surprise escaped the secretary: “The viceroy’s son!”

“The viceroy’s son!” repeated every voice, as if the words were taken up by countless echoes.

The president shrank back in his seat; the judges, hitherto motionless upon the bench, bent toward one another in confusion, like trees beaten by opposing winds. The commotion was even greater in the audience. The spectators climbed upon stone cornices and iron rails; the entire assembly spoke through a single mouth; and the guards, forgetting to insist upon silence, added their ejaculations to the general uproar.

Only those accustomed to sudden emotions can imagine Ethel’s feelings. Who could describe that unwonted mixture of agonizing joy and delicious grief; that anxious expectation, which was alike fear and hope, and yet not quite either? He stood before her, but he could not see her. There was her beloved Ordener,--her Ordener,--whom she had believed dead, whom she knew was lost to her; her friend who had deceived her, and whom she adored with renewed adoration. He was there; yes, he was there. She was not the victim of a vain dream. Oh, it was really he,--that Ordener, alas! whom she had seen in dreams more often than in reality. But did he appear within these gloomy precincts as an angel of deliverance, or a spirit of evil? Was she to hope in him, or to tremble for him? A thousand conjectures crowded upon her at once, and oppressed her mind like a flame choked by too much fuel; all the ideas and sensations which we have suggested flashed through her brain as the son of the Norwegian viceroy pronounced his name. She was the first to recognize him, and before any one else had recognized him, she had fainted.

She soon recovered her senses for the second time, thanks to the attentions of her mysterious neighbor. With pale cheeks, she again opened her eyes, in which the tears had been suddenly dried. She cast an eager glance at the young man still standing unmoved amid the general confusion; and after all agitation had ceased in the court and among the people, Ordener Guldenlew’s name still rang in her ears. With painful alarm she observed that he wore his arm in a sling, and that his wrists were chained; she noticed that his mantle was torn in several places, and that his faithful sword no longer hung at his side. Nothing escaped her solicitude, for the eye of a lover is like that of a mother. Her whole soul flew to the rescue of him whom she could not shield with her body; and, be it said to the glory and the shame of love, in that room, which contained her father and her father’s persecutors, Ethel saw but one man.

Silence was gradually restored. The president resumed his examination of the viceroy’s son. “My lord Baron,” said he, in a tremulous voice.

“I am not ‘my lord Baron’ here,” firmly answered Ordener. “I am Ordener Guldenlew, just as he who was once Count Griffenfeld is John Schumacker here.”

The president hesitated for a moment, then went on: “Well, Ordener Guldenlew, it is doubtless by some unlucky accident that you are brought before us. The rebels must have captured you while you were travelling, and forced you to join them, and it is probably in this way that you were found in their ranks.”

The secretary rose: “Noble judges, the mere name of the viceroy’s son is a sufficient plea for him. Baron Ordener Guldenlew cannot by any possibility be a rebel. Our illustrious president has given a clear explanation of his unfortunate arrest among the rebels. The noble prisoner’s only error is in not sooner revealing his name. We request that he may be set free at once, abandoning all charges against him, and only regretting that he should have been seated upon a bench degraded by the criminal Schumacker and his accomplices.”

“What would you do?” cried Ordener.

“The private secretary,” said the president, “withdraws the charges against you.”

“He is wrong,” replied Ordener, in a loud, clear voice; “I alone of all here should be accused, judged, and condemned.” He paused a moment, and added in a less resolute tone, “For I alone am guilty.”

“You alone guilty!” exclaimed the president.

“You alone guilty!” repeated the secretary.

A fresh burst of astonishment was heard in the audience. The wretched Ethel shuddered; she did not reflect that this declaration from her lover would save her father. She thought only of her Ordener’s death.

“Silence in the court!” said the president, possibly taking advantage of this brief tumult to collect his thoughts and recover his self-possession. “Ordener Guldenlew,” he resumed, “explain yourself.”