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 no; 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 exchancellor, "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 exchancellor. " 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."

  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 Schumacker, 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 Schumaeker," 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 contemtible 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 slated 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 exchancellor'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 spectacors 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 Hashed 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 Gul- denlew," he resumed, " explain yourself."

  The young man mused an instant, then sighed heavily, and uttered these words in a tone of calm submission: " Yes, I know that an infamous death awaits me; I know that my life might have been bright and fair. But God reads my heart; God alone! I am about to accomplish the most urgent duty of my life. I am about to sacrifice to it my blood, perhaps my honor; but I feel that I shall die without regret or remorse. Do not be surprised at my words, judges; there are mysteries in the soul and in the destiny of man which men cannot penetrate, and which are judged in heaven alone. Hear me, therefore, and act toward me as your conscience may dictate when you have pardoned these unfortunate men, and more especially the much injured Schumacker, who has already, in his long captivity, expiated many more crimes than any one man could ever commit. Yes, I am guilty, noble judges, and I alone. Schumacker is innocent; these other unhappy men were merely led astray. I am the author of the insurrection among the miners."