At last there was a footfall outside his cell; his heart beat high with hope. The massive bolt creaked; the padlock dropped; and as the door opened, his face beamed with delight. It was the same character in scarlet robes whom we have just encountered in Hans of Iceland’s prison. He had a coil of hempen cord under his arm, and was accompanied by four halberdiers in black, armed with swords and partisans. Musdœmon still wore the wig and gown of a magistrate. His dress seemed to impress the man in red, who bowed low as if accustomed to respect that garb, and said with some hesitation: “Sir, is our business with your worship?” “Yes, yes,” hastily replied Musdœmon, confirmed in his hope of escape by this polite address, and failing to observe the bloody hue of the speaker’s garments. “Your name,” said the man, his eyes fixed on a parchment which he had just unrolled, “is Turiaf Musdœmon, I believe.” “Just so. Do you come from the chancellor, my friend?” “Yes, your worship.” “Do not fail, when you have done your errand, to assure his Grace of my undying gratitude.” The man in red looked at him in amazement. “Your--gratitude!” “Yes, to be sure, my friend; for it will probably be out of my power to thank him in person very soon.” “Probably,” dryly replied the man. “And you must feel,” added Musdœmon, “that I owe him a deep debt of gratitude for such a service.” “By the cross of the repentant thief,” cried the man, with a coarse laugh, “to hear you, one would think that the chancellor was doing something quite unusual for you!” “Well, to be sure, it is no more than strict justice.” “Strict justice! that is the word; but you acknowledge that it is justice. It is the first admission of the kind that I ever heard in the six-and-twenty years that I have followed my profession. Come, sir, we waste our time in idle talk; are you ready?” “I am,” said the delighted Musdœmon, stepping to the door. “Wait; wait a minute,” exclaimed the man in red, stooping to lay his coil of rope on the floor. Musdœmon paused. “What are you going to do with all that rope?” “Your worship may well ask. I know that there is much more than I shall need; but when I began on this affair I thought there would be a great many more prisoners.” “Come, make haste!” said Musdœmon. “Your worship is in a wonderful hurry. Have you no last favor to ask?” “None but the one I have already mentioned, that you will thank his Grace for me. For God’s sake, make haste!” added Musdœmon; “I long to get away from here. Have we a long journey before us?” “A long journey!” replied the man in red, straightening himself, and measuring off a few lengths of rope. “The journey will not tire your worship much; for we can make it without leaving this room.” Musdœmon shuddered. “What do you mean?” “What do you mean yourself?” asked the man. “Oh, God!” said Musdœmon, turning pale, “who are you?” “I am the hangman.” The poor wretch trembled like a dry leaf blown by the wind.