“One moment, Mr. Hacket,” said an old man, with a thick beard, who stood leaning on a long musket. “You are my guests, and I alone have the right to send this fellow to tell the dead what he has seen.” Mr. Hacket laughed. “Faith, my dear Jonas, let it be as you please! It matters little to me who judges this spy, so long as he is condemned.” The old man turned to Ordener. “Come, tell us who you are, since you are so boldly curious to know who we are.” Ordener was silent. Surrounded by the strange allies of that Schumacker for whom he would so willingly have shed his blood, he felt only an infinite longing to die. “His worship will not answer,” said the old man. “When the fox is caught, he cries no more. Kill him!” “My brave Jonas,” rejoined Hacket, “let this man’s death be Hans of Iceland’s first exploit among you.” “Yes, yes!” cried many voices. Ordener, astounded, but still undaunted, looked about him for Hans of Iceland, with whom he had so valiantly disputed his life that very morning, and saw with increased surprise a man of colossal size, dressed in the garb of the mountaineers. This giant stared at Ordener with brutal stupidity, and called for an axe. “You are not Hans of Iceland!” emphatically exclaimed Ordener. “Kill him! kill him!” cried Hacket, angrily. Ordener saw that he must die. He put his hand in his bosom to draw out his Ethel’s hair and give it one last kiss. As he did so, a paper fell from his belt. “What is that paper?” asked Hacket. “Norbith, seize that paper.” Norbith was a young man, whose stern, dark features bore the stamp of true nobility. He picked up the paper and unfolded it. “Good God!” he exclaimed, “it is the passport of my poor friend, Christopher Nedlam, that unfortunate fellow who was beheaded not a week ago in Skongen market-place, for coining counterfeit money.” “Well,” said Hacket, in a disappointed tone, “you may keep the bit of paper. I thought it was something more important. Come, my dear Hans, despatch your man.” Young Norbith threw himself before Ordener, crying: “This man is under my protection. My head shall fall before you touch a hair of his. I will not suffer the safe-conduct of my friend Christopher Nedlam to be violated.” Ordener, so miraculously preserved, hung his head and felt humiliated; for he remembered how contemptuously he had inwardly received Chaplain Athanasius Munder’s touching prayer,--“May the gift of the dying benefit the traveller!” “Pooh! pooh!” said Hacket, “you talk nonsense, good Norbith. The man is a spy; he must die.” “Give me my axe,” repeated the giant. “He shall not die!” cried Norbith. “What would the spirit of my poor Nedlam say, whom they hung in such cowardly fashion? I tell you he shall not die; for Nedlam will not let him die!” “As far as that goes,” said old Jonas, “Norbith is right. Why should we kill this stranger, Mr. Hacket? He has Christopher Nedlam’s pass.” “But he is a spy, a spy!” repeated Hacket.