The remnant of the regiment of Munkholm musketeers had returned to their old quarters in the barracks, which stood in the centre of a vast, square courtyard within the fortress. At night-fall the doors of this building were barricaded, all the soldiers withdrawing into it, with the exception of the sentinels upon the various towers, and the handful of men on guard before the military prison adjoining the barracks. This, being the safest and best watched place of confinement in Munkholm, contained the two prisoners sentenced to be hanged on the following morning, Hans of Iceland and Musdœmon. Hans of Iceland was alone in his cell. He was stretched upon the floor, chained, his head upon a stone; a feeble light filtered through a square grated opening, cut in the heavy oak door which divided his cell from the next room, where he heard his jailers laugh and swear, and heard the sound of the bottles which they drained, and the dice which they threw upon a drumhead. The monster silently writhed in the darkness, his limbs twitched convulsively, and he gnashed his teeth. All at once he lifted his voice and called aloud. A turnkey appeared at the grating: “What do you want?” said he. Hans of Iceland rose. “Mate, I am cold; my stone bed is hard and damp. Give me a bundle of straw to sleep on, and a little fire to warm myself.” “It is only fair,” replied the turnkey, “to give a little comfort to a poor devil who is going to be hung, even if he be the Iceland Devil. I will bring you what you want. Have you any money?” “No,” replied the brigand. “What! you, the most famous robber in Norway, and you have not a few scurvy gold ducats in your pouch?” “No,” repeated the brigand. “A few little crowns?” “I tell you, no!” “Not even a few paltry escalins?” “No, no, nothing; not enough to buy a rat’s skin or a man’s soul.” The turnkey shook his head: “That’s a different matter; you have no right to complain. Your cell is not so cold as the one you will have to sleep in to-morrow, and yet I’ll be bound you won’t notice the hardness of that bed.” So saying, the jailer withdrew, followed by the curses of the monster, who continued to rattle his chains, which gave forth a hollow clang as if they were breaking slowly under repeated and violent jerks and pulls. The door opened. A tall man, dressed in red serge, carrying a dark lantern, entered the cell, accompanied by the jailer who had refused the prisoner’s request. The latter at once became perfectly quiet. “Hans of Iceland,” said the man in red, “I am Nychol Orugix, executioner of the province of Throndhjem; to-morrow, at sunrise, I am to have the honor of hanging your Excellency upon a fine new gallows in Throndhjem market-place.” “Are you very sure that you will hang me?” replied the brigand. The executioner laughed. “I wish you were as sure to rise straight into heaven by Jacob’s ladder as you are to mount the scaffold by Nychol Orugix’s ladder.”