The brother replied with a sinister expression: “I know that you had! At present, you had better be thinking of that which you have doubtless contrived to curry with the saints.” All hope faded from the prisoner’s face. “Good God! what does this mean, dear Nychol? I am safe, since I have found you. Think that the same mother bore us; that we played together as children. Remember, Nychol, you are my brother!” “You never remembered it until now,” replied the brutal Nychol. “No, I cannot die by my brother’s hand!” “It is your own fault, Turiaf. It was you who ruined my career; who prevented me from becoming royal executioner at Copenhagen; who caused me to be sent into this miserable region as a petty provincial hangman. If you had not been a bad brother, you would have no cause to complain of that which distresses you so much now. I should not be in Throndhjem, and some one else would have to finish your business. Now, enough, brother, you must die.” Death is hideous to the wicked for the same reason that it is beautiful to the good; both must put off their humanity, but the just man is delivered from his body as from a prison, while the wicked man is torn from it as from a jail. At the last moment hell yawns before the sinful soul which has dreamed of annihilation. It knocks anxiously at the dark portals of death; and it is not annihilation that answers. The prisoner rolled upon the floor and wrung his hands, with moans more heart-rending than the everlasting wail of the damned. “God have mercy! Holy angels in heaven, if you exist, have pity upon me! Nychol, brother Nychol, in our mother’s name, oh, let me live!” The hangman held out his warrant. “I cannot; the order is peremptory.” “That warrant is not for me,” stammered the despairing prisoner; “it is for one Musdœmon. That is not I; I am Turiaf Orugix.” “You jest,” said Nychol, shrugging his shoulders. “I know perfectly well that it is meant for you. Besides,” he added roughly, “yesterday you would not have been Turiaf Orugix to your brother; to-day he can only look upon you as Turiaf Musdœmon.” “Brother, brother!” groaned the wretch, “only wait until to-morrow! It is impossible that the chancellor could have given the order for my death; it is some frightful mistake. Count d’Ahlefeld loves me dearly. Dear Nychol, I implore you, spare my life! I shall soon be restored to favor, and I will do whatever you may ask--” “You can do me but one service, Turiaf,” broke in the hangman. “I have lost two executions already upon which I counted the most, those of ex-chancellor Schumacker and the viceroy’s son. I am always unlucky. You and Hans of Iceland are all that are left. Your execution, being secret and by night, is worth at least twelve gold ducats to me. Let me hang you peaceably, that is the only favor I ask of you.” “Oh, God!” sighed the prisoner.