Towards midnight, Count Henrik stood in his apartment, next the king's chamber, in the upper story of the castle. He had extinguished his light, in order to retire to rest, but remained standing half-undressed, at the high arched-window, which looked towards the east, and from which he gazed out in the moonlight upon the Sound, watching the distant vessels gliding away over the glittering mirror of the waters. Since his visit to St. George's hospital, he had been silent and pensive. At the evening repast he had constantly drained his cup, for the purpose of raising his spirits. His pulse beat hard; recollections of the past, and hopes for the future, passed rapidly through his mind, in fair and vivid imagery. At the sight of the ocean and the distant prospect, he gave himself up to visionary longings after his distant fatherland, and a beloved form seemed to flit before him, as he pressed the blue shoulder-scarf to his lips, and hung it carefully over a high-backed chair. He took a gold chain, which the king had lately given him, from his breast, and laid his sword aside. "Deeds, achievements, honour, first!" he said to himself, "and then love will surely also twine me a wreath. Now that _his_ life and happiness are at stake, he shall not have called me his friend in vain. Let him become a Waldemar the Victorious! and Henrik of Mecklenborg's name shall be famed like that of Albert of Orlamund[oe]. But another sort of fellow, and a right merry one, will _I_ be." He now heard the weapons of the bodyguard clashing in the antechamber, where a young halberdier kept guard, with twelve spearmen. It was not, however, usual for the king to be surrounded by a guard, when he made a progress through the country, and passed the night at any of the royal mansions; but here, where the banished archbishop and the outlaws still had their numerous friends, and where the ecclesiastical rulers of the town were on doubtful terms with the king, Count Henrik had counselled this precaution as in some degree necessary, after so recent an insurrection, and where the king's mediation had not been able to satisfy all the discontented. While Count Henrik was undressing himself, the Drost's letter dropped from his vest, and he pondered thoughtfully over the solemn warnings it contained. "Hum! The junker," he said to himself "his own brother--and yet surely a traitor--never shall I forget his countenance that night at Kallundborg--the blood of the unhappy commandant was surely upon his head--_he_ will be no joyous wedding guest--he would assuredly rather stand by the bridegroom's grave;--then might a crown yet fall upon his raven's head. Hum! They are murky, these Danish royal castles," he continued, looking around the dark gothic chamber, with its arched roof and walls, a fathom thick, "Is he safe here among his guests? The little spying bishop was Grand's good friend. I like him not; the haughty, gloomy abbot still