All was again hushed in the adjoining chamber; Aagé had thrown open a window, and the cool night air streamed in upon him; the sky had become clear--Aagé raised his eyes towards the starry vault, he grasped the cross-hilt of his sword, a heavy load oppressed his heart, he bent his knee in silent devotion, and rose, feeling that his prayer was answered by the return of a calm and cheerful frame of mind. "To God be thanks and praise! I know better however," he said, with a feeling of consolation. "He, within there, is a liar and deceiver, as surely as _He_ above is love itself! and He whom He sent unto us was the way, the truth, and the life!" Aagé was now about to betake himself to rest, but the voice of the learned Master Thrand again caught his ear. The young Icelander he heard no more. German was now spoken, but in a low whispering tone, and the talk seemed to be on worldly matters. Aagé tried not to overhear anything; it was repugnant to his feelings, and appeared to him dishonourable and unworthy, to become a concealed witness to the secrets of others. He thought of knocking to give notice of his presence and the thinness of the partition; but, at this moment, he heard the name of "Grand" mentioned, and he started. The whispering continued for a long time afterwards, and he caught words which caused him the greatest uneasiness. The talk was of the king and Junker Christopher, of the outlaws, of death, and downfall; but what it was he could neither hear nor comprehend, with any distinctness. At last all became silent. He conjectured that his foreign neighbour had left the inn, and towards morning Aagé fell asleep. When he was awakened at dawn by his squire, in order to embark in a Swedish vessel, he had dreamt the most marvellous things. He fancied he had beheld an entirely changed world; without monasteries and monks, without fortified castles, without the images of the Madonna and the saints, without kings and thrones, even without women and children, and with nothing but men, with keen staring eyes and diminutive and deformed bodies, like Master Thrand's. At last it seemed to him that the sun was burnt out and hung, like a great black coal, over his head; that the moon and all the stars were pulled down and used instead of stones, for fences and inclosures round small withered cabbage gardens. All trees and flowers were torn up and peeled into fibres; all birds and animals lay slaughtered and cut open; and the little hump-backed men sat, with great spectacles, examining the putrified carcases. All that he beheld,--the whole subverted and disjointed world, seemed to him at last metamorphosed into one enormous mass of stone, and a terrific voice sounded over the petrified world, and cried "Behold! _This_ is thy world! _this_ is thy God! _this_ is the philosopher's stone!" Amid his dismay at hearing this voice, Aagé awakened, just as his brisk squire knocked at his door, still so confused by his dream that he