With emotion he raised his hand to his eyes and gave a signal, when the procession slowly moved forwards. The crowd dispersed quietly and in silence; twelve peasants only attending, who walked, with blazing fir-torches, on both sides of the waggon. Near to the king's head rode Drost Peter, with the falcon on his arm; whilst the steed followed his dead master. As the procession moved past the flaming barn, a strong light fell on the drost's earnest countenance, and the royal corpse lay aloft on the waggon, visible to all. At its feet sat the two pages, with torches in their hands. Silently and slowly the gloomy funeral train disappeared in the deep night; and here and there, on the highways and byways, along the road to Viborg, stood astonished peasants, gazing in wonder. * * * At Scanderborg, the queen and the young princes were still in deep slumber, at the early hour when Claus Skirmen reached the palace on his panting norback, which had carried his light rider more than forty English miles in six hours. The landsknechts who held watch at the castle-gate and by the palace-stairs recognised the drost's squire, and instantly admitted him. They were surprised at his haste. "Pull up the drawbridge, and lock the gates!" he cried: "the foe is at my heels!" The grave landsknechts were amazed: no enemy was perceptible in the misty dawn, and they were not accustomed to receive orders from a squire. Whilst they hesitated and delayed, Skirmen leaped from his saddle, and hurried up to the queen's large ante-chamber, where Sir Thorstenson himself kept night-watch with the royal body-guards. "The king is murdered!" cried Skirmen, almost breathless. The whole of the knight's men in the hall sprang up, and stood as if thunderstruck or petrified. "Murdered!" exclaimed Sir Thorstenson: "art thou in thy right senses, Skirmen?" "Murdered!" repeated Skirmen; "and the murderers are not half a mile distant: they are approaching, with a numerous band of horsemen. If you would not have the palace surprised, sir, let it be barricaded instantly!" "Wilt thou drive us mad, Skirmen? Bar the palace, trabants! and every man to his arms! Righteous God! murdered!" The alarmed trabants hastily quitted the hall, with scarcely sense enough left to execute the orders of their captain. "Now, by Satan, speak, Skirmen!" exclaimed the enraged Thorstenson, stamping. "Who has ventured on this atrocious deed? Ha! was it the algrev--the accursed algrev?"