“Belonged to you! " cried the minister.

  “Yes, to be sure, Father. Seven of them were sentenced to be whipped, two to be branded on the left cheek, and three to be hanged, which makes twelve in all. Yes, I shall lose twelve crowns and thirteen escalins if the pardon is granted. What do you think, strangers, of such a chaplain, who disposes so easily of my property? That confounded priest's name is Athanasius Munder. Oh, if I could only get hold of him! " The minister rose, and said in a quiet voice, with a calm manner, "My son, I am Athanasius Munder."

  At these words Orugix's face became inflamed with fury; he started from his seat. Then his angry eye met the friendly gaze of the chaplain, and he sat down again slowly, in mute confusion.

  There was a momentary silence. Ordener, who had risen from the table ready to defend the priest, was first to break it.

  “Nychol Orugix," said he, " here are thirteen crowns to pay for the pardon of those prisoners."

  “Alas! " interrupted the minister, " who knows whether I can obtain their pardon? I must first manage to get a word with the viceroy's son, for it all depends upon his marrying the chancellor's daughter."

  “Sir chaplain," answered the young man in a firm voice, " your wish shall be granted. Even if Ordener Guldeulew never wears the marriage ring, the chains of your protégés shall be loosed."

  “Young stranger, you can do nothing in the matter; but God hears, and will reward you! "

  Meantime, Ordener's thirteen crowns had finished the work which the priest's mild gaze began. Nychol's anger being allayed, he recovered his good-humor.

  “Come, reverend sir, you are a good man, worthy to serve in St. Hilary's chapel; I spoke more harshly than I intended. You do but follow your own path; it is not your fault if it crosses mine. But there is one man to whom I do bear a grudge, and that 's the guardian of the dead at Throndhjem, that old sorcerer, the keeper of the Spladgest. What 's his name now, Spliugry? Spadugry? Tell me, you old philosopher, who seem to be a perfect Babel of learning, you who know everything, can't you help me to remember the name of that magician, your brother? You must have met him sometimes of a Sabbath, riding through the air on a broomstick, eh? "

  Certainly, if poor Benignus could have escaped at that moment upon some such aerial steed, the narrator of this story doubts not that he would most gladly have trusted his frail and terrified body to its tender mercies. Never before was his love of life so strong as now that he clearly perceived the extreme imminence of his danger. Everything that he saw frightened him, the legends of the Cursed Tower, the wild eyes of the red woman, the voice, gloves, and beverage of the mysterious monk, the rash courage of his young companion, and especially the hangman, the hangman, into whose abode he had fallen in his effort to escape from the charge of crime. He trembled so violently that he could scarcely move, particularly when the conversation turned upon himself, and he heard the dreadful Orugix's question. As he had no desire to imitate the heroism of the priest, his faltering tongue found great difficulty in framing a reply.

  “Well! " repeated the hangman, " don't you know the name of the keeper of the Spladgest? Does your wig make you deaf?"

  "Somewhat, sir; but," he finally stammered out, "I don't know his name, I swear I don't."

  “He don't know? " said the hermit's terrible voice. "He does wrong to take oath to it. That man's name is Benignus Spiagudry."

  “My name! my name! Great heavens! " exclaimed the affrighted old man.

  The hangman burst out laughing. " And who said that it was your name? We are talking of that dog of a keeper. In good sooth, this learned fellow is scared at nothing. How would it be if his ridiculous grimaces had a genuine cause? It would be fun to hang the old fool. So then, venerable doctor," added the hangman, whom Spiagudry's fears entertained, " you do not know this Benignus Spiagudry? "

  "No, master," said the keeper, somewhat reassured by his disguise; " I assure you I don't know him. And since he is so unfortunate as to displease you, I should be very sorry, master, indeed I should, if I did know the fellow."

  “And you, hermit," said Orugix, " you seem to know him? "

  “Yes, truly," replied the hermit; " he is a tall, dried-up, bald old fellow "

  Spiagudry, justly alarmed at this minute description, hastily adjusted his wig.

  “He has," added the hermit, " long hands like those of a thief who has not seen a traveller for a week, a bent back "

  Spiagudry sat up as straight as he could.

  "Moreover, he might easily be taken for one of the corpses in his charge if he had not such sharp eyes."

  Spiagudry clapped his hand to his plaster.

  “Many thanks, Father," said the hangman; " I shall know the old Jew now, wherever I may run across him."

  Spiagudry, who was an excellent Christian, indignant at this intolerable insult, could not help exclaiming, " Jew, master! "

  Then he stopped short, trembling lest he had said too much.

  “Well, Jew or Pagan, what does it matter which, if he have dealings with the Devil, as they say he has? "

  “I should readily believe it," rejoined the hermit, with a sarcastic smile, not quite hidden by his cowl, " if he were not such a coward. But how could he covenant with Satan? He is as cowardly as he is wicked. When fear takes possession of him, he actually forgets his own identity."

  The hermit spoke slowly, as if with intention, the very deliberation of his words lending them peculiar force.

  “He forgets his own identity! " mentally repeated Spiagudry.

  “It 's a pity for a bad man to be a coward," said the hangman; " for he 's not worth hating. We fight a serpent, but we can only crush a lizard."

  Spiagudry ventured a few words in his own defence.

  “But, gentlemen, are you sure that the official of whom you speak is really what you say? Is his reputation so bad? "

  “His reputation! " repeated the hermit; " he has the worst reputation of any man in the district! "

  Benignus, in his disappointment, turned to the hangman.

  “Master, what fault have you to find with him? For I do not doubt that your dislike is just."

  “You are right, old man, not to doubt it. As his trade resembles mine, Spiagudry does all he can to injure me."

  “Oh, master, never believe it! Or, if it be so, it is because he never saw you, as I have, surrounded by your good wife and lovely children, admitting strangers to the delights of your domestic circle. Had he enjoyed your kind hospitality as I have, sir, the unfortunate man could never be your enemy."

  Spiagudry had scarcely ended this wily speech, when the tall woman, who had been silent until then, rose, and said in a sharp, stern voice, " The viper's tongue is never more venomous than when it is smeared with honey." Then she sat down again, and went on polishing her pincers, a task whose hoarse, grating sound, filling up the spaces in the conversation, performed the office of the chorus in a Greek tragedy, at the expense of the ears of the four travellers.

  "That woman is crazy indeed!" thought the keeper, unable otherwise to explain the ill effect of his flattery.

  “Becky is right, my fair-haired sage," exclaimed the hangman. "I shall think you have a viper's tongue, if you defend that Spiagudry much longer."

  “God forbid, master! " exclaimed the latter; " I would not defend him for the world."

  “Very good. You do not know how far he carries his insolence. Would you believe that the impudent scamp is bold enough to dispute my right to the possession of Hans of Iceland?"

  "Hans of Iceland!" exclaimed the hermit.

  “Yes, to be sure. Do you know that famous knave? "

  “Yes," said the hermit.

  “Well, every thief belongs to the hangman, doesn't he? What does that infernal Spiagudry do? He asks to have a price set upon the head of Hans."

  “He asks to have a price set upon the head of Hans? " interrupted the hermit.

  “He had the audacity to do so, and that, simply that the body might fall to his share, and I might be defrauded of my property."

  "What an outrage, Master Orugix, to dare to dispute your right to a thing which so plainly belongs to you!"

  These words were accompanied by a malicious smile, which alarmed Spiagudry.

  “The trick is all the worse, hermit, because I only need one good hanging, such as that of Hans would be, to remove me from my obscurity, and to make the fortune which I failed to make by beheading Schumacker."

  “Indeed, Master Nychol? "

  “Yes, brother monk, on the day that Hans is arrested, come and see me, and we will sacrifice a fat pig to my future greatness."

  “Gladly; but who knows whether I shall be at liberty upon that day? Besides, you just now sent ambition to the Devil."

  “Oh, why not, Father, when I see that to destroy my best founded hopes it only needs a Spiagudry, and a request to set a price upon a man's head? "

  “Ah! " repeated the hermit, in a peculiar tone; " so Spiagudry asked that a price be set!"

  That voice was to the wretched keeper what the toad's eye is to a bird.

  “Gentlemen," he urged, " why judge rashly? It is not at all sure; it may be a false report."

  "A false report!" cried Orugix; "the thing is but too certain. The petition of the city council, supported by the signature of the keeper of the Spladgest, is in Throndhjem at this very moment. It only waits the decision of his excellency the governor-general."

  The hangman was so well informed, that Spiagudry dared not continue his defence; he contented himself with swearing inwardly, for the hundredth time, at his youthful companion. But what was his horror when he heard the hermit, who for some moments had seemed lost in thought, suddenly exclaim in bantering tones: "Master Nychol, what is the penalty for sacrilege? "

  These words produced the same effect on Spiagudry as if his periwig and plaster had been torn off. He anxiously awaited the reply of Orugix, who stopped to empty his glass.

  “That depends on the nature of the sacrilege," said the hangman.

  “Suppose it was profaning the dead? "

  Upon this the shivering Spiagudry expected every instant to hear his name issue from the lips of the unaccountable monk.

  “Formerly," coolly remarked Orugix, " they buried the offender alive, with the body he had outraged."

  “And now? "

  “Now the punishment is milder."

  “Is milder! " said Spiagudry, scarcely daring to breathe.

  "Yes," rejoined the hangman, with the satisfied and indifferent air of an artist talking of his own art; " they brand him first, with a hot iron, with the letter S, on the calf of the leg."

  "And then?" broke in the old keeper, upon whom it would have been difficult to inflict this part of the sentence.

  “Then," said the executioner, " they merely hang him."

  “Mercy ' " said Spiagudry; " hang him! "

  “Well, what 's the matter with you? You look at me as the victim looks at the gallows."

  “I am glad," said the hermit, " to see that people are growing more humane."

  At this moment, the storm having ceased, the clear, intermittent sound of a horn was distinctly heard outside.

  "Nychol," said his wife, "they are in search of some malefactor; that 's the horn of the bowmen."

  “The horn of the bowmen! " repeated each of the company, in different accents, but Spiagudry in tones of unmistakable terror.

  They had scarcely uttered the words when there was a knock at the door.

  CHAPTER XIII THE LOVING CUP.

  Only a man, a sign, is needed; the elements of revolution are ready. "Who will be the first? So soon as there is a fulcrum, everything will move.

  Bonaparte.

  Loevig- is a large town, situated on the north side of Throndhjem fjord, and sheltered by a low chain of bare hills, singularly diversified by various sorts of crops, like broad bits of mosaic resting upon the horizon. The appearance of the town is gloomy; the fishermen's cabins, made of twigs and reeds, the conical hut, constructed of earth and stones, in which the invalid miner spends the few days which his scanty savings allow him to devote to sunshine and rest, and the frail ruin which the chamois hunter in his turn decks with a straw roof and walls hung with skins, line streets longer than the town itself, because they are narrow and crooked. In a square where now exist only the remains of a great tower, once stood the ancient fortress built by Horda the Fine Archer, lord of Loevig, and brother-in-arms of the pagan king Halfdan, occupied in 1698 by the mayor of the town, who would have been the best-lodged citizen in the city, if it had not been for the silvery stork who every summer perched on the tip of the sharp spire of the church, like the white pearl on the top of a mandarin's pointed cap.

  On the morning of the same day that Ordener reached Throndhjem, another personage, also incognito, landed at Loevig. His gilded litter, although without armorial bearings, his four tall lackeys, armed to the teeth, instantly became the topic of every conversation, and roused the curiosity of all. The landlord of the Golden Gull, a small tavern at which the great man alighted, himself assumed an air of mystery, and answered every question with an " I don't know," which seemed to imply, " I know all, but you shall know nothing." The tall lackeys were as mute as fishes, and more obscure than the mouth of a mine.

  The mayor shut himself up in his tower, waiting with great dignity for the stranger to make the first visit; but the inhabitants were soon surprised to see him call twice at the Golden Gull in vain, and at evening lie in wait for a bow from the stranger, as he sat at the half-open window. From this the gossips inferred that the great man had made his high rank known to the lord mayor. They were mistaken. A messenger sent by the stranger presented himself at the mayor's office to get his passport signed, and the mayor noticed upon the green seal two crossed hands supporting an ermine mantle, surmounted by a count's coronet upon a shield, from which depended the collars of the Orders of the Elephant and the Dannebrog. This was enough for the mayor, who was most desirous of obtaining from the chancellor the lord mayoralty of Throndhjem. But his advances were useless, for the great man would see no one.

  The second day of the traveller's stay in Loevig was drawing to its close, when the landlord entered his room, saying with a low bow that the messenger expected by his Grace had arrived.

  “Very well," said his Grace; " let him come up."

  A moment later the messenger entered, carefully closed the door, then bowing to the ground before the stranger, who had half turned toward him, waited in respectful silence until he should be addressed.

  “I expected you this morning," said the stranger; " what detained you? "

  "The interests of your Grace, Count; have I another thought? "

  “How is Elphega? How is Frederic? "

  "They are well."

  “Good! good! " broke in the master; " have you nothing more interesting to tell me? What is the news at Throndhjem? "

  "Nothing, except that Baron Thorwick arrived there yesterday."

  “Yes, I know that he wanted to consult that old Mecklenburger, Levin, about his marriage. Do you know the result of his interview with the governor? "

  “To-day at noon, when I left, he had not yet seen the general."

  “What! and he arrived last night! You surprise me, Musdœmon. And had he seen the countess? "

  "Still less, sir."

  “Then you saw him? "

  “No, noble master; besides, I do not know him."

  “And how, if no one has seen him, do you know that he is in Throndhjem? "

  “Through his servant, who was at the governor's palace yesterday."

  “But he, did he go elsewhere? "

  “His servant declares that as soon as he arrived, he set off for Munkholm, after first visiting the Spladgest."

  The count's eye flashed fire.

  “For Munkholm! For Schumacker's prison! Are you positive? I always suspected that honest Levin of being a traitor. For Munkholm! What can be the attraction there? Did he want to ask Schumacker's advice also? Did he "

  “Noble lord," interrupted Musdœmon, " it is by no means certain that he went there."

  “What! Then why did you say so? Are you trifling with me? "

  “Pardon me, your Grace! I merely repeated what the baron's servant said. But Mr. Frederic, who was on duty yesterday at Munkholm, saw nothing of Baron Ordener."

  “That 's no proof! My son does not know the viceroy's son. Ordener may have entered the fortress in disguise."

  “Yes, sir; but Mr. Frederic asserts that he saw no one."

  The count grew calmer.

  “That 's a different matter. Did my son really say so? "

  “He assured me of the fact three separate times; and Mr. Frederic's interests in this case are identical with your own."

  This suggestion quite relieved the count.

  “Ah! " said he, " I understand. The baron, on his arrival, must have wished to take a short sail on the fjord, and his servant fancied that he went to Munkholm. After all, why should he go there? I was foolish to take alarm. My son-in-law's lack of eagerness to see old Levin proves, on the contrary, that his affection for him is not so strong as I feared. You will hardly believe it, my dear Musdœmon," added the count, " but I actually imagined that Ordener was in love with Ethel Schumacker, and I constructed a romance and an intrigue out of this journey to Munkholm. But, thank God, Ordener is not such a fool as I am. By the way, my friend, how fares it with that young Danaë in Frederic's hands? "

  Musdœmon had shared his master's fears regarding Ethel Schumacker, and had struggled against them without overcoming them quite so readily. However, charmed to see his master smile, he took care not to disturb his peace of mind, but rather sought to add to it, that he might increase that serene temper so necessary in the great for the well-being of their favorites.

  “Noble Count, your son has failed with Schumacker's daughter; but it seems that another has been more fortunate."

  The count interrupted, him eagerly.

  “Another! What other? "

  “Oh, I don't know, some peasant, serf, or vassal."