“Flogged he was--by St. Stephen!” cried Adolf, plucking back the fellow’s tattered shirt and disclosing a foul row of scarcely healed welts; “but like enough for good causes.” “Ay, call me liar an you will,” growled the fellow, snapping at his red tangle of a beard; “a few sweet words more or less will not hurt, when all’s to end on the halter.” “Go on, rogue,” I enjoined; “why did that flogging make you take to the Regenstein woods? Answer that.” “Because my little farm was seized from me. The cattle were sold by the Vogt, who grasped my poor worldly gear. With never a groschen in my bag I was led to the verge of the abbey domain, and told ‘Begone; if you come back, it won’t be whips for you, but gallows.’ So I sought your woods. I was desperate, and had to keep from starving.” “Umph! Have you a wife and children?” “My wife is with the saints these ten years--God rest her well! I’ve no sons. One daughter is honestly married to a smith in Wernigerode. The other is a lay servitor at Quedlinburg abbey.” “Is, you say?” I asked, feeling my pulses tingle. “Was she not dismissed when you were disgraced?” “No, she was kept; the abbess did not push her fury so far.” “What’s your name, fellow?” “Gunter, Countly Grace, Gunter of the Brook--for by it was my poor farm.” I rose abruptly from the judgment seat. I had reached a sudden decision. “Adolf,” I commanded, “conduct this man to my private chamber. I will interrogate him apart from this rabble. Graf Moritz, do me the honor to come with me.” “But the gallows?” pressed Adolf in dismay. “There’ll be no hanging at present. Let Rüdiger unrig them.” “And your Lordship will be alone with this villain?” cried Adolf, as if misdoubting his ears. “Exactly so. Obey me.” My tone brooked no denying. To the immense disappointment of the crowded hall I had the fellow into my own room, and there with only Moritz for witness I drew out all I wished to know. The case was not an unusual one: an honest, well-meaning man paying for one burst of passion by being transformed into a lawless knave. But I pass over his own personal story; it was what he had to tell of his daughter who served at the abbey which I lit on as if his words were pearls.