L.

Do you hope to end with another crime?--ALEX. SOUMET.

Let us now take a look at the other cell in the military prison

adjoining the barracks, which holds our old acquaintance, Turiaf

Musdœmon.

It may seem surprising that Musdœmon, crafty and cowardly as he was,

should so readily confess his crime to the court which condemned him,

and so generously conceal the share of his ungrateful master, Chancellor

d’Ahlefeld, in it.

However, Musdœmon had not experienced a change of heart. His noble

frankness was perhaps the greatest proof of cunning which he could

possibly have given. When he saw his infernal intrigue so unexpectedly

exposed, beyond all hope of denial, he was for an instant stunned and

terrified. Conquering his alarm, his extreme shrewdness soon showed him

that as it was impossible to destroy his chosen victims, he must bend

all his energies to saving himself. Two plans at once presented

themselves: the first, to throw all the blame upon Count d’Ahlefeld, who

had so basely deserted him; the second, to assume the whole burden of

the crime himself. A vulgar mind would have grasped at the former;

Musdœmon chose the latter. The chancellor was chancellor, after all;

besides, there was nothing in the papers which directly implicated him,

although they contained overwhelming evidence against his secretary.

Then, his master had given him several meaning looks; this was enough to

confirm him in his purpose to suffer himself to be condemned, confident

that Count d’Ahlefeld would connive at his escape, though less from

gratitude for past service than through his need for future aid.

He therefore paced his prison, which was dimly lighted by a wretched

lamp, never doubting that the door would be thrown open during the

night. He studied the architecture of the old stone cell, built by kings

whose very names have almost vanished from the pages of history, and was

much surprised to find a wooden plank, which echoed back his tread as if

it covered some subterranean vault. He also observed a huge iron ring

cemented into the arched roof, from which hung a fragment of rope. Time

passed; and he listened impatiently to the clock on the tower as it

slowly struck the hours, its mournful toll resounding through the

silence of the night.

At last there was a footfall outside his cell; his heart beat high with

hope. The massive bolt creaked; the padlock dropped; and as the door

opened, his face beamed with delight. It was the same character in

scarlet robes whom we have just encountered in Hans of Iceland’s prison.

He had a coil of hempen cord under his arm, and was accompanied by four

halberdiers in black, armed with swords and partisans.

Musdœmon still wore the wig and gown of a magistrate. His dress seemed

to impress the man in red, who bowed low as if accustomed to respect

that garb, and said with some hesitation: “Sir, is our business with

your worship?”

“Yes, yes,” hastily replied Musdœmon, confirmed in his hope of escape by

this polite address, and failing to observe the bloody hue of the

speaker’s garments.

“Your name,” said the man, his eyes fixed on a parchment which he had

just unrolled, “is Turiaf Musdœmon, I believe.”

“Just so. Do you come from the chancellor, my friend?”

“Yes, your worship.”

“Do not fail, when you have done your errand, to assure his Grace of my

undying gratitude.”

The man in red looked at him in amazement. “Your--gratitude!”

“Yes, to be sure, my friend; for it will probably be out of my power to

thank him in person very soon.”

“Probably,” dryly replied the man.

“And you must feel,” added Musdœmon, “that I owe him a deep debt of

gratitude for such a service.”

“By the cross of the repentant thief,” cried the man, with a coarse

laugh, “to hear you, one would think that the chancellor was doing

something quite unusual for you!”

“Well, to be sure, it is no more than strict justice.”

“Strict justice! that is the word; but you acknowledge that it is

justice. It is the first admission of the kind that I ever heard in the

six-and-twenty years that I have followed my profession. Come, sir, we

waste our time in idle talk; are you ready?”

“I am,” said the delighted Musdœmon, stepping to the door.

“Wait; wait a minute,” exclaimed the man in red, stooping to lay his

coil of rope on the floor.

Musdœmon paused.

“What are you going to do with all that rope?”

“Your worship may well ask. I know that there is much more than I shall

need; but when I began on this affair I thought there would be a great

many more prisoners.”

“Come, make haste!” said Musdœmon.

“Your worship is in a wonderful hurry. Have you no last favor to ask?”

“None but the one I have already mentioned, that you will thank his

Grace for me. For God’s sake, make haste!” added Musdœmon; “I long to

get away from here. Have we a long journey before us?”

“A long journey!” replied the man in red, straightening himself, and

measuring off a few lengths of rope. “The journey will not tire your

worship much; for we can make it without leaving this room.”

Musdœmon shuddered.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean yourself?” asked the man.

“Oh, God!” said Musdœmon, turning pale, “who are you?”

“I am the hangman.”

The poor wretch trembled like a dry leaf blown by the wind.

“Did you not come to help me to escape?” he feebly muttered.

The hangman laughed. “Yes, truly! to help you to escape into the

spirit-land, whence I warrant you will not be brought back.”

Musdœmon grovelled on the floor. “Mercy! Have pity on me! Mercy!”

“I’ faith,” coldly observed the hangman, “‘tis the first time I was ever

asked such a thing. Do you take me for the king?”

The unfortunate man dragged himself on his knees, trailing his gown in

the dust, beating his head against the floor, and clasping the hangman’s

feet with muffled groans and broken sobs.

“Come, be quiet!” said the hangman. “I never before saw a black gown

kneel to a red jerkin.” He kicked the suppliant aside, adding: “Pray to

God and the saints, fellow; they will be more apt to hear you than I.”

Musdœmon still knelt, his face buried in his hands, weeping bitterly.

Meantime, the hangman, standing on tiptoe, passed his rope through the

ring in the ceiling: he let it hang until it reached the floor, then

secured it by a double turn, and made a slip-knot in the end.

“I am ready,” said he, when these ominous preparations were over; “are

you ready to lay down your life?”

“No!” said Musdœmon, springing up; “no; it cannot be! There is some

horrible mistake. Chancellor d’Ahlefeld is not so base; I am too

necessary to him. It is impossible that it was for me he sent you. Let

me escape; do not fear that the chancellor will be angry.”

“Did you not say,” replied the executioner, “that you were Turiaf

Musdœmon?”

The prisoner hesitated for an instant, then said suddenly: “No, no! my

name is not Musdœmon; my name is Turiaf Orugix.”

“Orugix!” cried the executioner, “Orugix!”

He snatched off the periwig which concealed the prisoner’s face, and

uttered an exclamation of surprise: “My brother!”

“Your brother!” replied the prisoner, with a mixture of shame and

pleasure; “can you be--”

“Nychol Orugix, hangman for the province of Throndhjem, at your service,

brother Turiaf.”

The prisoner fell upon the executioner’s neck, calling him his brother,

his beloved brother. This fraternal recognition would not have gratified

any one who witnessed it. Turiaf lavished countless caresses upon Nychol

with a forced and timid smile, while Nychol responded with a gloomy and

embarrassed look. It was like a tiger fondling an elephant, while the

monster’s ponderous foot is already planted upon its panting chest.

“What happiness, brother Nychol! I am glad indeed to see you.”

“And I am sorry for you, brother Turiaf.”

The prisoner pretended not to hear these words, and went on in trembling

tones: “You have a wife and children, I suppose? You must take me to see

my gentle sister, and let me kiss my dear nephews.”

“The Devil fly away with you!” muttered the hangman.

“I will be a second father to them. Hark ye, brother, I am powerful; I

have great influence--”

The brother replied with a sinister expression: “I know that you had! At

present, you had better be thinking of that which you have doubtless

contrived to curry with the saints.”

All hope faded from the prisoner’s face.

“Good God! what does this mean, dear Nychol? I am safe, since I have

found you. Think that the same mother bore us; that we played together

as children. Remember, Nychol, you are my brother!”

“You never remembered it until now,” replied the brutal Nychol.

“No, I cannot die by my brother’s hand!”

“It is your own fault, Turiaf. It was you who ruined my career; who

prevented me from becoming royal executioner at Copenhagen; who caused

me to be sent into this miserable region as a petty provincial hangman.

If you had not been a bad brother, you would have no cause to complain

of that which distresses you so much now. I should not be in Throndhjem,

and some one else would have to finish your business. Now, enough,

brother, you must die.”

Death is hideous to the wicked for the same reason that it is beautiful

to the good; both must put off their humanity, but the just man is

delivered from his body as from a prison, while the wicked man is torn

from it as from a jail. At the last moment hell yawns before the sinful

soul which has dreamed of annihilation. It knocks anxiously at the dark

portals of death; and it is not annihilation that answers.

The prisoner rolled upon the floor and wrung his hands, with moans more

heart-rending than the everlasting wail of the damned.

“God have mercy! Holy angels in heaven, if you exist, have pity upon me!

Nychol, brother Nychol, in our mother’s name, oh, let me live!”

The hangman held out his warrant.

“I cannot; the order is peremptory.”

“That warrant is not for me,” stammered the despairing prisoner; “it is

for one Musdœmon. That is not I; I am Turiaf Orugix.”

“You jest,” said Nychol, shrugging his shoulders. “I know perfectly well

that it is meant for you. Besides,” he added roughly, “yesterday you

would not have been Turiaf Orugix to your brother; to-day he can only

look upon you as Turiaf Musdœmon.”

“Brother, brother!” groaned the wretch, “only wait until to-morrow! It

is impossible that the chancellor could have given the order for my

death; it is some frightful mistake. Count d’Ahlefeld loves me dearly.

Dear Nychol, I implore you, spare my life! I shall soon be restored to

favor, and I will do whatever you may ask--”

“You can do me but one service, Turiaf,” broke in the hangman. “I have

lost two executions already upon which I counted the most, those of

ex-chancellor Schumacker and the viceroy’s son. I am always unlucky. You

and Hans of Iceland are all that are left. Your execution, being secret

and by night, is worth at least twelve gold ducats to me. Let me hang

you peaceably, that is the only favor I ask of you.”

“Oh, God!” sighed the prisoner.

“It will be the first and last, in good sooth; but, in return, I promise

that you shall not suffer. I will hang you like a brother; submit to

your fate.”

Musdœmon sprang to his feet; his nostrils were distended with rage; his

livid lips quivered; his teeth chattered; his mouth foamed with despair.

“Satan! I saved that d’Ahlefeld; I have embraced my brother,--and they

murder me! And I must die this very night in a dark dungeon, where none

can hear my curses; where I may not cry out against them from one end of

the kingdom to the other; where I may not tear asunder the veil that

hides their crimes! Was it for such a death that I have stained my

entire life? Wretch!” he added, turning to his brother, “would you

become a fratricide?”

“I am the executioner,” answered the phlegmatic Nychol.

“No!” exclaimed the prisoner; and he flung himself headlong upon the

executioner, his eyes darting flame and streaming with tears, like

those of a bull at bay,--“no, I will not die thus meekly; I have not

lived like a poisonous serpent to die like a paltry worm trampled under

foot! I will leave my life in my last sting; but it shall be mortal.”

So saying, he grappled like a bitter foe with him whom he had just

embraced as a brother; the fulsome, flattering Musdœmon now showed his

true spirit. Despair stirred up the foul dregs of his soul; and after

crawling prostrate like a tiger, like a tiger he sprang upon his enemy.

It would have been hard to decide which of the two brothers was the most

appalling, as they struggled, one with the brute ferocity of a wild

beast, the other with the artful fury of a demon.

But the four halberdiers, hitherto passive spectators, did not remain

motionless. They lent their aid to the executioner; and soon Musdœmon,

whose rage was his only strength, was forced to quit his hold. He dashed

himself against the wall, uttering inarticulate yells, and blunting his

nails upon the stone.

“To die! Devils in hell, to die! My shrieks unheard outside this roof,

my arms powerless to tear down these walls!”

He was seized, but offered no resistance; his useless efforts had

exhausted him. He was stripped of his gown, and bound; at this moment a

sealed packet fell from his bosom.

“What is that?” said the hangman.

An infernal light gleamed in the prisoner’s haggard eyes. He muttered:

“How could I forget that? Look here, brother Nychol,” he added in an

almost friendly tone; “these papers belong to the lord chancellor.

Promise to give them to him, and you may do what you will with me.”

“Since you are quiet now, I promise to grant your last wish, although

you have been a bad brother to me. I will see that the chancellor has

the papers, on the honor of an Orugix.”

“Ask leave to hand them to him yourself,” replied the prisoner, smiling

at the executioner, who, from his nature, had little understanding of

smiles. “The pleasure which they will afford his Grace may lead him to

confer some favor on you.”

“Really, brother?” said Orugix. “Thank you! Perhaps he will make me

executioner royal after all, eh? Well, let us part good friends! I

forgive you all the scratches which you gave me; forgive me for the

hempen collar which I must give you.”

“The chancellor promised me a very different sort of collar,” said

Musdœmon.

Then the halberdiers led him, bound, into the middle of the cell; the

hangman placed the fatal noose round his neck.

“Are you ready, Turiaf?”

“One moment! one moment!” said the prisoner, whose tenor had revived;

“for mercy’s sake, brother, do not pull the rope until I tell you to do

so!”

“I do not need to pull it,” answered the hangman.

A moment later he repeated his question. “Are you ready?”

“One moment more! Alas! must I die?”

“Turiaf, I have no time to waste.”

So saying, Orugix signed to the halberdiers to stand away from the

prisoner.

“One word more, brother; do not forget to give the packet to Count

d’Ahlefeld.”

“Never fear,” replied Nychol. He added for the third time: “Come, are

you ready?”

The unfortunate man opened his lips, perhaps to plead for another brief

delay, when the impatient hangman stooped and turned a brass button

projecting from the floor.

The plank gave way beneath the victim; the poor wretch disappeared

through a square trap-door with a dull twang from the rope, which was

stretched suddenly and vibrated fearfully with the dying man’s final

convulsions.

Nothing was seen but the rope swinging to and fro in the dark opening,

through which came a cool breeze and a sound as of running water.

The halberdiers themselves shrank back, horror-stricken. The hangman

approached the abyss, seized the rope, which still vibrated, and swung

himself into the hole, pressing both feet against his victim’s

shoulders; the fatal rope stretched to its utmost with a creak, and

stood still. A stifled sob rose from the trap.

“All is over,” said the hangman, climbing back into the cell. “Farewell,

brother!”

He drew a cutlass from his belt. “Go feed the fishes in the fjord. Your

body to the waves; your soul to the flames!”

With these words, he cut the taut rope. The fragment still fastened to

the iron ring lashed the ceiling, while the deep, dark waters splashed

high as the body fell, then swept on their underground course.

The hangman closed the trap as he had opened it; as he rose, he saw that

the room was full of smoke.

“What is all this?” he asked the halberdiers. “Where does this smoke

come from?”

They knew no better than he. In surprise, they opened the door; the

corridors were also filled with thick and nauseating smoke. A secret

outlet led them, greatly terrified, to the square courtyard, where a

fearful sight met their gaze.

A vast conflagration, fanned by a violent east wind, was consuming the

military prison and the barracks. The flames, driven in eddying whirls,

climbed stone walls, crowned burning roofs, leaped from gaping

window-frames; and the black towers of Munkholm now shone in a red and

ominous light, now vanished in a dense cloud of smoke.

A turnkey, who was escaping by the courtyard, told them hastily that the

fire had broken out in the monster’s cell during the sleep of Hans of

Iceland’s keepers, he having been imprudently allowed to have a fire and

straw.

“How unlucky I am!” cried Orugix, when he heard this story; “now I

suppose Hans of Iceland has slipped through my hands too. The rascal

must have been burned; and I sha’n’t even get his body, for which I paid

two ducats!”

Meantime, the unfortunate Munkholm musketeers, roused suddenly from

their sleep by imminent death, crowded toward the door only to find it

closely barred. Their shrieks of anguish and despair were heard

outside; they stood at the blazing windows, wringing their hands, or

dashed themselves madly upon the flagging of the court, escaping one

death to meet another. The victorious flames devoured the entire

structure before the rest of the garrison could come to the rescue.

All help was vain. Luckily, the building stood by itself. The door was

broken in with hatchets, but it was too late; for as it opened, the

burning roof and floors gave way, and fell upon the unfortunate men with

a loud crash.

The entire building disappeared in a whirlwind of fiery dust and burning

smoke, which stifled the faint moans of the expiring men.

Next morning nothing was left in the courtyard but four high walls,

black and smoking, around a horrid mass of smouldering ruins still

devouring each other like wild beasts in a circus.

When the pile had cooled, it was searched. Beneath a heap of stones and

iron beams, twisted out of shape by the flames, was found a mass of

whitened bones and disfigured corpses; with some thirty soldiers, most

of whom were crippled, this was all that remained of the crack regiment

of Munkholm.

When the site of the prison was searched, and they reached the fatal

cell where the fire had broken out, and where Hans of Iceland had been

imprisoned, they found the remains of a human body close beside an iron

pan and a heap of broken chains. It was curious that among these ashes

there were two skulls, although there was but one skeleton.