The Prince had now taken the glass from the old gentleman; there was a loud whispering and rustling on the stand. "There they come--pray sit down," echoed on all sides, and all eyes, whether furnished with glasses or not, sought the long hill Count Grieben had pointed out to the Prince, and on which in fact three moving specks now became visible, which with great speed, considering the distance, glided down the hill, and had already disappeared in a hollow, when four or five other moving dots appeared in precisely the same spot, likewise glided down the hill, and vanished. But the interest of the public was almost exclusively fixed upon the three foremost dots. From the interval of time between the appearance of the first three specks and the four following--to say nothing of the stragglers--it was now evident that the victor must be one of their number; and although even the best glass could only distinguish that the three moving clots were horsemen racing at the top of their speed, two names were already mentioned with positive certainty; there was a doubt about the third rider; some thought it was Baron Kummerrow on Hengist, while others bet upon Count Zarrentin's Rebecca, ridden by the younger Baron Breesen. "But the two others, Your Highness--the two others are my Curt and Carl Brandow," shrieked old Count Grieben, crimson with excitement and gesticulating furiously, in a tone so loud that it could be heard over the whole stand. Count Grieben! Carl Brandow! Like an alarm of fire the names flew from lip to lip along the stand, down the steps, and through the dense throng of men below, who were standing on tiptoe and stretching their necks; Count Grieben! Carl Brandow on Brownlock! Carl Brandow! A strange emotion thrilled Gotthold's frame. That was the name which, like the spell of some evil magician, had desolated and ruined his life; the name with which so many unpleasant thoughts had been connected from his youth, and which in early and later times, and even during the last few days, had been to him the incarnation of the principle that in every human breast strives and rebels against the God of light. And here the name rang on his ears from every lip. Carl Brandow! Carl Brandow! like a man from whose approach streams happiness and blessing; and beautiful eyes sparkled, and aristocratic hands impatiently fluttered the lace-edged handkerchiefs with which they wished to wave a welcome to the victor. Was the man whom a whole people thus awaited in breathless suspense, perhaps right when he ventured all and anything to gain his shining goal; wealth, and honor, and woman's favor? Could one who took every obstacle so boldly, be expected to turn aside from his path for a pious scruple? Could one who unhesitatingly risked his life when the victory could not be obtained at a lesser price, be blamed if he was not so punctilious about the weal and woe or even the lives of others, as may be expected and demanded from the quiet citizen?