The president turned to Schumacker: “Schumacker, do you know this Hacket?” “You have forestalled me, Count d’Ahlefeld,” rejoined the old man; “I was about to ask you the same question.” “John Schumacker,” said the president, “your hatred is ill advised. The court will put the proper value upon your system of defence.” The bishop then said, turning to the short man, who seemed to fill the office of recorder and prosecutor: “Mr. Private Secretary, is this Hacket one of your clients?” “No, your reverence,” replied the secretary. “Does any one know what has become of him?” “He was not captured; he has disappeared.” It seemed as if the private secretary tried to steady his voice as he said this. “I rather think that he has vanished altogether,” said Schumacker. The bishop continued: “Mr. Secretary, is any one in pursuit of this Hacket? Has any one a description of him?” Before the private secretary could answer, one of the prisoners rose. He was a young miner, with a stern, proud face. “He is easily described,” said he, in a firm voice. “This contemptible Hacket, Schumacker’s agent, is a man of low stature, with an open countenance, like the mouth of hell. Stay, Mr. Bishop; his voice is very like that of the gentleman writing at the table over there, whom your reverence calls, I believe, ‘private secretary.’ And truly, if the room were not so dark, and the private secretary had less hair to hide his face, I could almost swear that he looked very much like the traitor Hacket.” “Our brother speaks truly,” cried the prisoners on either side of the young miner. “Indeed!” muttered Schumacker, with a look of triumph. The secretary involuntarily started, whether from fear, or from the indignation which he felt at being compared to Hacket. The president, who himself seemed disturbed, hurriedly exclaimed: “Prisoners, remember that you are only to speak in answer to a question from the court; and do not insult the officers of the law by unworthy comparisons.” “But, Mr. President,” said the bishop, “this is a mere matter of description. If the guilty Hacket has points of resemblance to your secretary, it may be useful to--” The president cut him short. “Hans of Iceland, you, who have had such frequent intercourse with Hacket, tell us, to satisfy the worthy bishop, whether the fellow really resembles our honorable private secretary.” “Not at all, sir,” unhesitatingly answered the giant. “You see, my lord bishop,” added the president. The bishop acknowledged his satisfaction by a bow, and the president, addressing another prisoner, pronounced the usual formula: “What is your name?” “Wilfred Kennybol, from the Kiölen Mountains.” “Were you among the insurgents?” “Yes, sir; the truth at all costs. I was captured in the cursed defile of Black Pillar. I was the chief of the mountaineers.” “Who urged you to the crime of rebellion?”