Thus arrayed, he dismissed the old man, and alone in the silence, with the row of figures like effigies on a tomb beside him, paced up and down through the night, as the moon dropped lower and lower, in the heavens. There was a period of dark before the dawn, and at last the upper walls began to whiten with the coming day, and the Black Baron moaned uneasily in his drunken sleep. The Abbot paused in his walk and looked down upon them, and Gottlieb stole out from the shadow of the door and asked if he could be of service. He had evidently not slept, but had watched his chief, until he paused in his march. “Tell our brothers to come out and see the justice of the Lord.” When the monks trooped out, haggard and wan, in the pure light of the dawn, the Abbot asked Gottlieb to get a flagon and dash water from the spring in the faces of the sleepers. The Black Baron was the first to come to his senses and realise dimly, at first, but afterwards more acutely, the changed condition of affairs. His eye wandered apprehensively to the empty noose swaying slightly in the morning breeze above him. He then saw that the tall, ascetic man before him had doffed the Abbot’s robes and wore a sword by his side, and from this he augured ill. At the command of the Abbot the monks raised each prostrate man and placed him against the north wall. “Gottlieb,” said, the Abbot slowly, “the last office that will be required of you. You took from our necks the nooses last night. Place them, I pray you, on the necks of the Baron and his followers.” The old man, trembling, adjusted the ropes. “My Lord Abbot----” began the Baron. “Baron von Grunewald,” interrupted the person addressed, “the Abbot Ambrose is dead. He was foully assassinated last night. In his place stands Conrad von Stern, who answers for his deeds to the Emperor, and after him, to God.” “Is it your purpose to hang me, Baron?” “Was it your purpose to have hanged us, my Lord?” “I swear to heaven, it was not. ‘Twas but an ill-timed pleasantry. Had I wished to hang you I would have done so last night.” “That seems plausible.” The knights all swore, with many rounded oaths, that their over-lord spoke the truth, and nothing was further from their intention than an execution. “Well, then, whether you hang or no shall depend upon yourselves.” “By God, then,” cried the Baron, “an’ I have aught to say on that point, I shall hang some other day.” “Will you then, Baron, beg admittance to Mother Church, whose kindly tenets you have so long outraged?” “We will, we do,” cried the Baron fervently, whispering through his clenched teeth to Segfried, who stood next him: “Wait till I have the upper hand again.” Fortunately the Abbot did not hear the whisper. The knights all echoed aloud the Baron’s pious first remark, and, perhaps, in their hearts said “Amen” to his second.