“That’s no proof! My son does not know the viceroy’s son. Ordener may have entered the fortress in disguise.” “Yes, sir; but Mr. Frederic asserts that he saw no one.” The count grew calmer. “That’s a different matter. Did my son really say so?” “He assured me of the fact three separate times; and Mr. Frederic’s interests in this case are identical with your own.” This suggestion quite relieved the count. “Ah!” said he, “I understand. The baron, on his arrival, must have wished to take a short sail on the fjord, and his servant fancied that he went to Munkholm. After all, why should he go there? I was foolish to take alarm. My son-in-law’s lack of eagerness to see old Levin proves, on the contrary, that his affection for him is not so strong as I feared. You will hardly believe it, my dear Musdœmon,” added the count, “but I actually imagined that Ordener was in love with Ethel Schumacker, and I constructed a romance and an intrigue out of this journey to Munkholm. But, thank God, Ordener is not such a fool as I am. By the way, my friend, how fares it with that young Danaë in Frederic’s hands?” Musdœmon had shared his master’s fears regarding Ethel Schumacker, and had struggled against them without overcoming them quite so readily. However, charmed to see his master smile, he took care not to disturb his peace of mind, but rather sought to add to it, that he might increase that serene temper so necessary in the great for the well-being of their favorites. “Noble Count, your son has failed with Schumacker’s daughter; but it seems that another has been more fortunate.” The count interrupted him eagerly. “Another! What other?” “Oh, I don’t know,--some peasant, serf, or vassal.” “Do you speak the truth?” cried the count, his stern, dark face beaming. “Mr. Frederic declares that it is so, and he told the countess the same story.” The count rose and paced the room, rubbing his hands. “Musdœmon, dear Musdœmon, but one more effort, and our end is gained. The young shoot is blasted. We have only to uproot the parent tree. Have you any other good news?” “Dispolsen has been murdered.” The count’s features brightened. “Ah, you see that we advance from victory to victory. Have we his papers? Above all, have we that iron casket?” “I regret to inform your Grace that the murder was not committed by our people. He was killed and robbed upon Urchtal Sands, and the deed is attributed to Hans of Iceland.” “Hans of Iceland!” repeated his master, his brow again clouding. “What! that famous brigand whom we meant to put in charge of our rebellion?” “The same, noble Count; and I fear, from what I can gather, that it will be no easy task to find him. At any rate, I have secured a leader who will take his name, and can replace him if necessary,--a wild mountaineer, tall and strong as an oak, fierce and bold as a wolf in a wilderness of snow, this terrible giant must surely look much like the real Hans of Iceland.”