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.”
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.”
“You!” exclaimed the president and his private secretary, with a
singular look upon their faces.
“I! and do not interrupt me again, gentlemen. I am in haste to finish;
for by accusing myself I exonerate these poor prisoners. I excited the
miners in Schumacker’s name; I distributed those banners to the rebels;
I sent them money and arms in the name of the prisoner of Munkholm.
Hacket was my agent.”
At the name of Hacket, the private secretary made a gesture of stupefied
amazement.
Ordener continued: “I will not trespass on your time, gentlemen. I was
captured among the miners, whom I persuaded to revolt. I alone did
everything. Now judge me. If I have proved my guilt, I have also proved
the innocence of Schumacker and the poor wretches whom you deem his
accomplices.”
The young man spoke these words, his eyes raised to heaven. Ethel,
almost lifeless, scarcely breathed; but it seemed to her that Ordener,
although he exculpated her father, pronounced his name most bitterly.
The young man’s language terrified and amazed her, although she could
not comprehend it. Of all she heard, she grasped nothing but misery.
A sentiment of similar nature seemed to engross the president. He was
scarcely able to believe his ears. Nevertheless, he asked the viceroy’s
son: “If you are indeed the sole author of this revolt, what was your
object in instigating it?”
“I cannot tell you.”
Ethel shivered when she heard the president reply in a somewhat angry
tone: “Had you not an intrigue with Schumacker’s daughter?”
But Ordener, though in chains, advanced toward the bench, and exclaimed,
in accents of indignation: “Chancellor d’Ahlefeld, content yourself with
my life, which I place in your hands; respect a noble and innocent
girl. Do not a second time attempt to dishonor her.”
Ethel, who felt the blood rise to her face, did not comprehend the
meaning of the words, “a second time,” upon which her defender laid such
emphasis; but by the rage expressed in the president’s features, it
seemed that he understood them.
“Ordener Guldenlew, do not forget the respect due to the king’s justice
and the officers of the law. I reprimand you in the name of the court. I
now summon you anew to declare your purpose in committing the crime of
which you accuse yourself.”
“I repeat that I cannot tell you.”
“Was it not to deliver Schumacker?” inquired the secretary.
Ordener was silent.
“Do not persist in silence, prisoner,” said the president; “it is proved
that you have been in communication with Schumacker, and your confession
of guilt rather implicates than exonerates the prisoner of Munkholm. You
have paid frequent visits to Munkholm, and your motive was surely more
than mere curiosity. Let this diamond buckle bear witness.”
The president took from the table a diamond buckle.
“Do you recognize it as your property?”
“Yes. By what chance?”
“Well! One of the rebels gave it, before he died, to our private
secretary, averring that he received it from you in payment for rowing
you across from Throndhjem to Munkholm fortress. Now I ask you, judges,
if such a price paid to a common sailor does not prove the importance
laid by the prisoner, Ordener Guldenlew, upon his reaching that prison,
which is the one where Schumacker was confined?”
“Ah!” exclaimed the prisoner Kennybol, “what your grace says is true; I
recognize the buckle. It is the same story which our poor brother Guidon
Stayper told me.”
“Silence,” said the president; “let Ordener Guldenlew answer.”
“I will not deny,” replied Ordener, “that I desired to see Schumacker.
But this buckle has no significance. It is forbidden to enter the fort
wearing diamonds. The sailor who rowed me across complained of his
poverty during our passage. I flung him this buckle, which I was not
allowed to wear.”
“Pardon me, your Grace,” interrupted the private secretary, “the rule
does not include the viceroy’s son. You could therefore--”
“I did not wish to give my name.”
“Why not?” asked the president.
“I cannot tell you.”
“Your relations with Schumacker and his daughter prove that the object
of your conspiracy was to set them free.”
Schumacker, who had hitherto shown no sign of attention save an
occasional scornful shrug of the shoulders, rose: “To set me free! The
object of this infernal plot was to compromise and ruin me, as it still
is. Do you think that Ordener Guldenlew would confess his share in this
crime unless he had been captured among the rebels? Oh, I see that he
inherits his father’s hatred of me! And as for the relations which you
suppose exist between him and myself and my daughter, let him know, that
accursed Guldenlew, that my daughter also inherits my loathing for
him,--for the whole race of Guldenlews and d’Ahlefelds!”
Ordener sighed deeply, while Ethel in her heart disclaimed her father’s
assertion; and he fell back upon his bench, quivering with wrath.
“The court will decide for itself,” said the president.
Ordener, who, at Schumacker’s words, had silently cast down his eyes,
seemed to awake: “Oh, hear me, noble judges! You are about to examine
your consciences; do not forget that Ordener Guldenlew is alone guilty;
Schumacker is innocent. These other unfortunate men were deceived by my
agent, Hacket. I did everything else.”
Kennybol interrupted him: “His worship says truly, judges, for it was he
who undertook to bring Hans of Iceland to us; I only hope that name may
not bring me ill luck. I know that it was this young man who ventured to
seek him out in Walderhog cave, to persuade him to be our leader. He
confided the secret of his undertaking to me in Surb village, at the
house of my brother Braal. And for the rest, too, the young gentleman
says truly; we were deceived by that confounded Hacket, whence it
follows that we do not deserve death.”
“Mr. Secretary,” said the president, “the hearing is ended. What are
your conclusions?”
The secretary rose, bowed several times to the court, passed his finger
under the folds of his lace band, without taking his eyes from the
president’s face. At last he pronounced the following words in a dull,
measured voice: “Mr. President, most worthy judges! It is a true bill.
Ordener Guldenlew, who has forever tarnished the glory of an illustrious
name, has only succeeded in establishing his own guilt without proving
the innocence of ex-chancellor Schumacker and his accomplices, Hans of
Iceland, Wilfred Kennybol, Jonas, and Norbith. I require the court to
declare the six prisoners guilty of the crime of high treason in the
first degree.”
A vague murmur rose from the crowd. The president was about to dismiss
the court, when the bishop asked for a brief hearing.
“Learned judges, it is proper that the prisoners’ defence should be
heard last. I could wish that they had a better advocate, for I am old
and feeble, and have no other strength than that which proceeds from
God. I am confounded at the secretary’s severe sentence. There is no
proof of my client Schumacker’s crime. There is no evidence that he has
had any direct share in the insurrection; and since my other client,
Ordener Guldenlew, confesses that he made unlawful use of Schumacker’s
name, and moreover that he is the sole author of this damnable sedition,
all evidence against Schumacker disappears; you should therefore acquit
him. I recommend to your Christian indulgence the other prisoners, who
were only led astray like the Good Shepherd’s sheep; and even young
Ordener Guldenlew, who has at least the merit, very great in the sight
of God, of confessing his crime. Reflect, judges, that he is still at
the age when a man may err, and even fall; but God does not refuse to
support or to raise him up. Ordener Guldenlew bears scarce a fourth the
burden of years which weigh down my head. Place in the balance of your
judgment his youth and inexperience, and do not so soon deprive him of
the life which the Lord has but lately given him.”
The old man ceased, and took his place beside Ordener, who smiled; while
at the invitation of the president, the judges rose from the bench, and
silently crossed the threshold of the dread scene of their
deliberations.
While a handful of men were deciding the fate of six fellow-beings
within that terrible sanctuary, the prisoners remained motionless upon
their seat between two files of halberdiers. Schumacker, his head on his
breast, seemed absorbed in meditation. The giant stared to the right and
left with stupid assurance; Jonas and Kennybol, with clasped hands,
prayed in low tones, while their comrade, Norbith, stamped his foot or
shook his chains with a convulsive start. Between him and the venerable
bishop, who was reading the penitential psalms, sat Ordener, with folded
arms and eyes lifted to heaven.
Behind them was the noise of the crowd, which swelled high when the
judges left the room. The famous prisoner of Munkholm, the much-dreaded
demon of Iceland, and above all the viceroy’s son, were the objects of
every thought, every speech, and every glance. The uproar, mingled with
groans, laughter, and confused cries, rose and fell like a flame
flickering in the wind.
Thus passed several hours of anxious expectation, so long that every
one was astonished that they could be contained in a single night. From
time to time a glance was cast toward the door of the anteroom; but
there was nothing to be seen, save the two soldiers pacing to and fro
with their glittering partisans before the fatal entrance, like two
silent ghosts.
At last the lamps and torches began to burn dim, and the first pale rays
of dawn were piercing the narrow windows of the room when the awful door
opened. Profound silence instantly, and as if by magic, took the place
of all the confusion; and the only sounds heard were the hurried
breathing and the vague slight stir of the multitude in suspense.
The judges, proceeding slowly from the anteroom, resumed their places on
the bench, the president at their head.
The private secretary, who had seemed absorbed in thought during their
absence, bowed and said: “Mr. President, what sentence does the court,
from whose decision there is no appeal, pronounce in the king’s name? We
are ready to hear it with religious respect.”
The judge, seated at the president’s right hand, rose, holding a roll of
parchment: “His Grace, our illustrious president, exhausted by the
length of this session, has deigned to commission me, lord mayor of the
province of Throndhjem, and the natural president of this worshipful
court, to read in his stead the sentence pronounced in the name of the
king. I am about to fulfil this honorable but painful duty, requesting
the audience to hear the king’s impeccable justice in silence.”
The lord mayor’s voice then assumed a grave and solemn intonation, and
every heart beat faster.
“In the name of our revered master and lawful sovereign, King Christian,
we, the judges of the Supreme Court of the province of Throndhjem,
summoned to decide in the cases of John Schumacker, prisoner of the
State; Wilfred Kennybol, native of the Kiölen Mountains; Jonas, royal
miner; Norbith, royal miner; Hans of Klipstadur, in Iceland; and Ordener
Guldenlew, Baron Thorwick, Knight of the Dannebrog, all accused of high
treason and leze-majesty in the first degree (Hans of Iceland being
moreover charged with the crimes of murder, arson, and robbery), do
find:--
“I. That John Schumacker is not guilty;
“II. That Wilfred Kennybol, Jonas, and Norbith are guilty, but are
recommended to mercy, because they were led astray;
“III. That Hans of Iceland is guilty of all the crimes laid to his
charge;
“IV. That Ordener Guldenlew is guilty of high treason and leze-majesty
in the first degree.”
The judge paused an instant as if to take breath. Ordener fixed upon him
a look of celestial joy.
“John Schumacker,” resumed the judge, “the court acquits you and remands
you to prison;
“Kennybol, Jonas, and Norbith, the court commutes the penalty which you
have incurred, to imprisonment for life, and a fine of one thousand
crowns each;
“Hans of Klipstadur, murderer and incendiary, you will be taken this
night to Munkholm parade-ground, and hanged by the neck until you are
dead, dead, dead!
“Ordener Guldenlew, traitor, after having been stripped of your titles
in presence of this court, you will be conducted this very night to the
same place, with a lighted torch in your hand, and there your head shall
be hewn off, your body burned, your ashes strewn to the winds, and your
head exposed upon a stake. Let all withdraw. Such is the sentence
rendered by the king’s justice.”
The lord mayor had scarcely ended these fatal words, when a shriek rang
through the room. This shriek horrified the spectators even more than
did the fearful terms of the death sentence; this shriek for a brief
moment turned the calm and radiant face of the condemned Ordener pale.