“It will be the first and last, in good sooth; but, in return, I promise that you shall not suffer. I will hang you like a brother; submit to your fate.” Musdœmon sprang to his feet; his nostrils were distended with rage; his livid lips quivered; his teeth chattered; his mouth foamed with despair. “Satan! I saved that d’Ahlefeld; I have embraced my brother,--and they murder me! And I must die this very night in a dark dungeon, where none can hear my curses; where I may not cry out against them from one end of the kingdom to the other; where I may not tear asunder the veil that hides their crimes! Was it for such a death that I have stained my entire life? Wretch!” he added, turning to his brother, “would you become a fratricide?” “I am the executioner,” answered the phlegmatic Nychol. “No!” exclaimed the prisoner; and he flung himself headlong upon the executioner, his eyes darting flame and streaming with tears, like those of a bull at bay,--“no, I will not die thus meekly; I have not lived like a poisonous serpent to die like a paltry worm trampled under foot! I will leave my life in my last sting; but it shall be mortal.” So saying, he grappled like a bitter foe with him whom he had just embraced as a brother; the fulsome, flattering Musdœmon now showed his true spirit. Despair stirred up the foul dregs of his soul; and after crawling prostrate like a tiger, like a tiger he sprang upon his enemy. It would have been hard to decide which of the two brothers was the most appalling, as they struggled, one with the brute ferocity of a wild beast, the other with the artful fury of a demon. But the four halberdiers, hitherto passive spectators, did not remain motionless. They lent their aid to the executioner; and soon Musdœmon, whose rage was his only strength, was forced to quit his hold. He dashed himself against the wall, uttering inarticulate yells, and blunting his nails upon the stone. “To die! Devils in hell, to die! My shrieks unheard outside this roof, my arms powerless to tear down these walls!” He was seized, but offered no resistance; his useless efforts had exhausted him. He was stripped of his gown, and bound; at this moment a sealed packet fell from his bosom. “What is that?” said the hangman. An infernal light gleamed in the prisoner’s haggard eyes. He muttered: “How could I forget that? Look here, brother Nychol,” he added in an almost friendly tone; “these papers belong to the lord chancellor. Promise to give them to him, and you may do what you will with me.” “Since you are quiet now, I promise to grant your last wish, although you have been a bad brother to me. I will see that the chancellor has the papers, on the honor of an Orugix.” “Ask leave to hand them to him yourself,” replied the prisoner, smiling at the executioner, who, from his nature, had little understanding of smiles. “The pleasure which they will afford his Grace may lead him to confer some favor on you.”