The closing chapter of the volume, entitled “The Headsman’s Wedding,” is perhaps the most striking and original of the whole book. Berthold’s installation in his father’s house and office had not long occurred, when he was called upon to exercise the latter, and to put to the rack his old and bitter foe Engolf of Baumgarten, accused of conspiracy against the state. Even under the torture, the profligate found sneers and sharp words to address to his executioner, and boasted of his base triumph over the unhappy Elizabeth, then in prison on the charge of murdering her infant. Whilst in a state of frenzy, she had thrown it into the water. Maddened by his enemy’s taunts, the headsman exercised to the very utmost the tortures at his command, and tugged and strained till every joint of the unhappy wretch was dislocated, and the foam stood upon his lips. At last Engolf confessed his crime and was released from the hands of him who had crushed his body, and whose heart he had broken. Then Berthold received orders to hold himself ready, in three days from that time, to execute Elizabeth, condemned to die by the sword. “It was a hard trial for me, when, upon the eve of this execution, I had to betake myself to her prison, to share, according to old custom, the culprit’s last meal. The priest had just left her when I entered the narrow cell, and she sat buried in thought, her head sunk upon her breast, her long black hair falling like a veil over her face, her hands folded in her lap.” The poor girl could not make up her mind to die, and wildly implored her former lover to save her, ignorant that she was to perish by his hand. But his feelings towards her had undergone a total change; indignation and contempt had replaced affection; and he beheld her despair and heard her entreaties without a spark of compunction. “You must die, Elizabeth,” he said, “and truly by no other hand than mine.” “She gazed at me with expanded eyeballs, her features, distorted by despair, gradually assumed a milder expression, a scarcely perceptible smile crossed her pale lips. ‘Death from your hand is sweet,’ she at last said. ‘Here is my heart, strike! why delay? I am ready.’ These gentle words broke down my anger; I had to lean against a pillar in order not to sink to the ground, and had hardly strength to reply. ‘Will you not understand me, Elizabeth? Have you forgotten whose son I am?’” Then she told him how a traveller had come to the inn, and had said (probably at Engolf’s instigation) that Berthold was dead. And how, after that, the seducer had perseveringly environed her with his wiles, and at last, by aid of a potion old Blutrude supplied, had effected her ruin. And as the headsman heard her sad tale, his anger was converted into pity. He partook her last repast, and at parting they pressed each other’s hands in friendship. But the love Berthold once had cherished for the orphan playmate of his boyish days had fled for ever.