A deafening and prolonged trumpet blare, echoing to the valley’s heights and depths, startles him from his speculations. Then, as at last that spends itself, there falls a silence, broken only by the buz-chirp-twee of the myriad insect creatures footing it about the sward, till Niklaus von Steinbach bursts forth with a stentorian “Well! Master Hackernagel?” Syndic Hackernagel’s jaw starts open, much as if string were its motive power. The movement is, however, productive of nothing beyond a fearsome elongation of his hatchet face, and a silence intenser than the first prevails. “Well, I say, Master Hackernagel,” reiterates von Steinbach, “we are waiting your very good pleasure,” and he glances peremptorily from the Syndic’s face to the parchment his lean fingers clutch with such convulsive restlessness, that presently it slips to the ground. “I—I,” stammers Hackernagel, stooping to recover it, “am—must I—am I to—speak first?” “First and last, my friend. You have it all your own way this time. I and these gentlemen here are but witnesses.” “Yes, precisely—quite so—perfectly so. But—but,” and with an idiotic contortion of his lips, only by the grossest flattery to be construed into a smile, the Syndic blinks over his shoulder. “Ay! ay! to be sure, Syndic, quite right,” nods Niklaus, following the direction of his glance. “So it should be.” And the stick signals a second trumpet blast; which bursting with terrific force in the rear of the unprepared Syndic, sends him forward with a distracted bound. “But I tell you,” gasps he, turning ragefully on Niklaus, and mopping the great heat drops beading profusely out all over his peaked forehead, “I tell you—this is informal! Out of all ruling. There should be some—something to lead up to—there sh—should be at least three preliminary——” “And so there should. Thunder and lightning! so there should. You’re the man to understand these little things. Ho there! drums and trumpets, ho!” And the Burgomaster’s stick evokes a third rousing blast, which rolls thunderously through the hills, and sends the birds flying frantically shrieking over the dark waters. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” “No, no!” protests Hackernagel, glowering through tears of mingled spite and discomfort at von Steinbach, and then with shuddering apprehension at the hateful array of musical instruments. “I didn’t; and—and let me tell you, Bur—Burgomaster——” “O yes! O yes! O yes!” shouts the Recorder. “Now, Master Hackernagel!” prompts Niklaus, lifting his stick with an admonitory flourish. “But—but——” “Now, Master Hackernagel!” Soft, clear, resonant as a bell, falls that voice upon the Syndic’s ear, chasing from his face every particle of colour as entirely as it conjures the deepest of crimson flushes to Surgeon Wolkenberg’s.