Pale and worn, Count d’Ahlefeld strode up and down his apartment; in his
hand he crushed a bundle of letters which he had just read, while he
stamped his foot on the smooth marble floor and the gold-fringed rugs.
At the other end of the room, in an attitude of deep respect, stood
Nychol Orugix in his infamous scarlet dress, felt hat in hand.
“You have done me good service, Musdœmon,” hissed the chancellor.
The hangman looked up timidly: “Is your Grace pleased?”
“What do you want here?” said the chancellor, turning upon him suddenly.
The hangman, proud that he had won a glance from the chancellor, smiled
hopefully.
“What do I want, your Grace? The post of executioner at Copenhagen, if
your Grace will deign to bestow so great a favor on me in return for the
good news I have brought you.”
[Illustration: “_The poor mother was insane._”