“How very beautiful!” exclaimed Professor Antoine, “it scarcely could be done by mortal hands.” “The thing is not possible!” said the brother professor. “It is done by the famous black art!” affirmed a voice in the crowd. “Yes, look at those black pot-hooks and hangers!” exclaimed another. “Father Clement says it is the work of magic and witchcraft!” said a third. “The German Doctor has made a bargain with the Evil One, being taught the black art as an offset for going to perdition.” “Well, Antoine,” remarked the first professor, mirthfully, “if magic and witchcraft can make Bibles in this style, keep them at it early and late, and get out of them all the good you can. Besides, a house divided against itself cannot stand.” But people generally took the matter more to heart than did the genial professor, and, as they chatted about it and thought it over, were more and more satisfied that other than mortal hands had fabricated the Bibles. “Only to think of it, so many copies just alike, and made so rapidly! And the more you take away from the shop, the more there are for sale! Parisians are as quick-fingered as any other nation, but not one of our fleetest scribes can write in this way; neither can any man do it!” So the mob searched Faust’s lodgings, or the shop on Rue St. George, and seized a great number of Bibles. “Behold,” said they when they saw the red ink with which they were embellished, “this is his blood!” The city authorities were at once apprised that he was a magician! And accordingly orders were given to apprehend Dr. Faust for being in league with Satan, and for dealing in the black art. “What have I done?” asked Dr. Faust, as the police officers appeared in his shop to take him. “Only a small thing truly!” ironically replied one of them; “this indictment says that you turn off books by witchcraft.” “Never!” exclaimed Faust; “I have made them in an honest way!” But the officers shrugged their shoulders, and took him along. Faust was in trouble. If he confessed the truth, others would seize his art and profits; and if he did not, his life might be sacrificed. While he was revolving the matter, he was thrust into prison. For once he was at his wit’s end, and almost paralyzed by the turn affairs had taken. What! he, the man of wealth and the patron of printing, in prison, classed with felons! It seemed to him like a horrible nightmare, only the chilliness of the cell and the damp straw brought on his old rheumatism, reminding him too well that it was all reality. “I shall die here!” he groaned, as he sleeplessly tossed on the straw; “I must reveal the secret, and save my life!” Never was a more restless prisoner. Sleep! he would as soon think of it on a plank in the open sea. In the morning the court set, and Faust was brought to the bar. [Illustration: SPECIMEN OF PSALTER, PSALM I.]