The old man, hearing his name pronounced by a stranger, sat up to listen, and motioned to his attendant to be silent. His pride revolted at the idea of being discovered in such an abode; turning towards the door from whence the voice proceeded, he said rather roughly to the horseman, “And who told you to come and seek that noble gentleman here in this wretched hut? Pass on, my friend, and leave honest people to rest in peace.” “That is a pity,” said the cavalier, casting a doubtful look at the sick man, “yes, it is a great pity that such good news should meet with so rude a reception. He to whom my message is addressed will doubtless receive me with more politeness.” “Are you quite sure of that?” “I think so at least,” said he, drawing from under his doublet a roll of parchment. “Here is what I bring from our worthy Lord Archbishop--a letter which could not fail to rejoice the old gentleman if I could only put it into his hands. I have been for weeks on his track, and only yesterday the reverend fathers of Erbach sent me here.” At these words Lawrence and Claude, in whose face a sanguine curiosity was clearly legible, approached the cavalier. “If you could make up your mind,” said Lawrence, pointing silently to his master, “to leave your message with us, I will answer for it, on my head, that it could not fall into better hands, for the retreat of the noble John Gutenberg is perfectly well known to us.” “Well then,” replied the horseman, who was not slow to understand, “I agree to that readily,” and he placed the scroll in the old man’s hands. “For my part I am glad to be at last released from my troublesome commission, and if the boatman will take me across the river to-night, I can at any rate reach Eltvil, where my most gracious master, the Archbishop Adolfe, whom God preserve, has fixed his residence.” The spurs of the horseman were still resounding on the threshold when Claude seized the scroll out of Gutenberg’s hands, and hastily approaching the resinous torch, he took a rapid survey of the missive from which hung, in a case, the great seal of wax of the Archbishop. “Master,” cried he, falling on his knees, with a joyous exclamation, “it is when our distress is at its height that our Lord is nearest to us!” And his tears, which were no longer of sorrow but of joy, and his kisses, covered the old man’s hands. “Peace, peace, young scatter-brain!” said Gutenberg, who could, however, with difficulty control his own emotion. “What can this missive contain capable of thus exciting our little Frenchman?”