"Hoffman the silversmith, who lives at the corner near the senate house?" asked Frederick.

"Precisely," replied the Count, and soon his firm unbroken step was heard ringing in the distance.

Frederick went out on the balcony to meditate on what possible steps his father proposed taking to overrule the opposition of Dumiger. With all his frivolity and dissipation he was greatly ambitious, and most anxious to sustain a reputation he had long enjoyed of having it in his power to command success in any pursuit to which he chose to direct his attention—that Alcibiades and Admirable Crichton character which is the principal source of failure to many men in life. With the exception of the hours wasted in the useless pursuit of Marguerite, he certainly had not in the present instance been wanting in exertion, and he also had, like many other chief burghers in Dantzic, turned his attention to mechanical pursuits; it was the first time, he now felt convinced, that those exertions would be all thrown away. As he looked down from the lofty gallery in which he was standing on the dense circle of happy dancers, who were whirling round and round in the center of the square; as he heard the joyous laugh from the numerous groups who thronged the coffee-houses; as the plumes of the guards waved in the moonlight, and the light flashed on the bright uniforms and brighter checks which reposed upon them, he began to think how idle was a life of ambition, how far happier he was when as a boy he joined in the merry supper; when the clear, bright, sparkling wine represented the free spirits of those who drank it; when maidens, with gay hearts and light golden hair, sought his love. "Give me back these joys," he exclaimed in agony; "give me that youth which graced the pursuits of love, and which dignified every enjoyment: take from me that ambition, which only leads to misery in its failure and to disappointment in its fulfillment."

CHAPTER III.

Hoffman, the silversmith, whom the count desired to see, was one of those men who have existed at all times and in all countries, who trade on the exertions of those who possess more energy and perseverance than themselves, and who really do seem essential to the great mechanism of society. He had from time to time rendered assistance to Dumiger, who, unfortunately at the present moment owed him a large sum of money, which it would take a long time to liquidate. The count also had dealings with the silversmith; for in the quartier Juif all classes meet and jostle each other. But Hoffman was a superior man of his order, he knew the secret history of most of the important burghers, was consulted on many very delicate subjects, and could have published more scandal than any Sunday Chronicle of these more modern days. The count was like all other counts, incessantly in debt; so, when Hoffman was ordered to attend on the Grand Master, he did not doubt that the mandate originated in the ordinary necessity, and he prepared himself accordingly to evade or concede. Some time previously the count had found it necessary to part with a great portion of his old family plate, and as it was during the passion of his son for Marguerite, and after Dumiger had carried off the prize, he had discovered from the loquacious goldsmith all the particulars relative to Dumiger, and amongst others the account of his pecuniary obligations, and that Hoffman had a bond from him for a very large sum in his possession. The object of the count's present interview with Hoffman was to know on what terms he could purchase the bond; and when the jeweler arrived, the bargain was soon concluded. Hoffman thought the bond would never be paid, and so the count purchased it for three times its apparent value.

On the previous evening Dumiger returned flushed and excited to his house. The moment his friends had left him, he began to regret the confidence he had placed in them, and the frankness with which he had expressed himself. He retained but a very slight recollection of all that he had said, but he thought it was quite sufficient to have aroused the ridicule of those around him. Most painful of all sensations, the vague sense of a folly committed, the extent and the consequences of which are alike unknown to us! As he approached his home it seemed to him that he had profaned his affection for Marguerite by mentioning her name in that rude society, and broken her confidence by alluding to his hopes and his fears. While his secret had been confined to his own breast, or communicated only to Marguerite, his confidence in himself had never for a moment been weakened; but now that others were made acquainted with his convictions and his hopes, they seemed to him exaggerated and unfounded. He had for a moment forgotten that the chief secret of success in all undertakings in life is Silence. Silence in the scheming, silence in the execution, silence in the fulfillment; half the charm that had given him strength was lost now that he had opened his breast and disclosed its secrets to others. And it was with a feeling approaching to disgust that he entered his workroom, and saw all the material of his great enterprise scattered about the floor.

He went to Marguerite's room. She was sleeping with all the freshness of youthful dreams glowing on her cheek; after the tumult of the day the stillness of that room soothed his spirit. He reflected how little satisfactory were all these pursuits compared to the tranquillity of home, but then, even as he sat by the bedside, and with her hand in his, pondered on the past and future—a pageant as it were, robed in cloth of gold and purple, and laurel-crowned, swept by him; and the glory of being preeminent among his fellow-men flashed upon his soul. If he should fail—. A cold damp settled on his brow at the thought, for in that event all his time had been thrown away, and there was no possibility of his meeting his various engagements. It was not one Hoffman but many that beset him, although Hoffman was truly the most avaricious of his tribe, where all were greedy. And then, as he gazed on the lovely countenance by his side, he thought of the affection which had resigned all luxury, and, far above all luxury, that consideration which women so prize, for him, and that he had brought her to a home where she had to deny herself many of those comforts to which she had been accustomed. He regretted the deed. Still more did he regret the time that he had that night wasted, and the money that he had squandered; but it was too late for repentance. All that he could now do was to nerve his energies for the toil of the morrow—that morrow which comes to all men, the faith of the procrastinator, the hope of the sufferer, the mercy of the unbeliever.

He awoke in the morning with renewed resolution, but his brow was still heated with the dissipation of the previous night, and his hand shook as he applied himself to his work. After a couple of hours, however, when Marguerite had taken her place by his side, he forgot Dantzic, Carl, and Krantz, all the annoyances which threatened him. He was absorbed in his pursuit, and Marguerite was looking over with her attention not less absorbed than his own, when to their astonishment the magnificent carriage, with the heavy, sleek, overfed horses, of the Count Albrecht, rolled up to the door.

"Look here, Dumiger," exclaimed Marguerite, running to the window with a woman's curiosity flushing her cheek. "Here is the Grand Master's carriage—what can he be doing at this house?"

"He must be calling on the new arrivals who took the apartments on the first-floor yesterday," said Dumiger, scarcely looking up from his work, on which all his attention was concentrated.

"They are beautiful horses, and the manes and tails are decorated with ribands which would furnish me with sashes for a whole life," thought Marguerite; but she avoided giving utterance to her feeling, lest Dumiger should interpret it into an expression of regret at having given up the prospect of ever obtaining all these luxuries.

Marguerite had just left the window when a heavy step was heard on the stair, and loud knock at the door roused Dumiger from his fit of abstraction, nearly making him jump from his chair. The impulsive "Come in!" which he uttered, was immediately succeeded by the appearance of the Count.

Dumiger, like most men of deep thought and habits of abstraction, was diffident. He stood for some moments thunderstruck without performing any of the usual courtesies of society. Marguerite in her surprise imagined that she must have been guilty of some great negligence while residing in the palace, with which the Count now came to reproach her.

The silence was broken by the Count himself, who nodded kindly, almost familiarly to Marguerite, and without any further ceremony took the chair from which Dumiger had just risen.

"I called to see whether you were comfortable, Marguerite, in your new abode. It is small," continued the Count, as lolling back in his chair he touched the wall with the back of his head: "I suppose, however, that you will some day be able to afford a larger. I do not wish to trespass upon your confidence, but as I have the liveliest gratitude for the admirable manner in which you, Marguerite, discharged all your duties while you were with me, you must let me evince my recollection of them by a small wedding present." And the Count laid a rouleau of gold pieces on the table.

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Dumiger, seizing the Count's hand with effusion, "you are so kind but I can assure you that we are quite happy here. When one is truly attached to another, the little sacrifices of life become a pleasure," and Dumiger's eyes so filled with tears, that he did not perceive the quiet, cold sneer on the Count's upper lip; but Marguerite remarked it. Moreover, she knew the Count well—his vast ambition, his supercilious pride; she had caught the inflection of his tone when he spoke to Dumiger, and she knew that when he affected that winning, cajoling manner, he was always the most dangerous, and most to be suspected. So her only answer or acknowledgment was a low courtesy, and the blood mantled in her cheek, but whether from gratitude or some sterner feeling the Count was unable to divine.

He looked at her for some time under his long gray eyelash; Marguerite met the look calmly and composedly. Dumiger was bustling about quite in an ecstacy of delight, and for the time entirely forgot the clock and the Dom. Not so the Count, he was curiously scanning all the various parts of the complicated machinery which were lying round him. He waited until Marguerite should retire before he judged it right to commence speaking to Dumiger on the subject that was next his heart, but Marguerite did not seem at all disposed to give him the opportunity.

Woman's prescience of danger for those she loves is wonderful. Without being able to assign any definite reason, Marguerite felt that the man's presence boded her no good; and it was therefore with a troubled spirit that she heard the Count, after looking several times at his watch, suggest that he wished to speak to Dumiger alone.

Dumiger looked at Marguerite, who thought it wiser at once to take the hint than to allow the Count to suppose that she at all questioned the sincerity of the kind interest which he affected to take in her. He waited until the door was fairly closed, and then drew his chair near to Dumiger's. The latter, quite unaccustomed to the neighborhood of so great a man, immediately withdrew his seat to a more deferential distance; but the dimensions of the room speedily put a stop to the retrogression and his modesty by arresting his chair.

"Don't be afraid," said the Count to Dumiger, in a somewhat harsher tone than he had yet used, for he was an impatient and testy old man. "Don't draw your chair back in that way. I wish to speak to you privately and confidentially."

Dumiger held his breath. What could the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights have to say to him? for, whatever might be his future greatness, at all events its promise could be known but to few others.

"You were out last night," continued the Count. "You went to a wine-shop—you spoke loudly—you drank deeply."

As the Count continued Dumiger's cheeks glowed. The Count must have heard all that he said. His heart sank within him as he recalled his weakness; but his mind was soon settled on that point by the Count.

"And when you spoke," continued he, you talked very wildly of becoming a great man; of obtaining more enduring fame than any of our noblest citizens. By the bye, you did me the honor to class me amongst those you were destined to triumph over."

"It was a wild, idle thought," said Dumiger, faltering forth a thousand apologies. "I did not know what I said. Two friends led me into this error. I am sure you will forgive me, sir: I was excited; my brain was in that state I really did not know what I said. Who ever could have repeated this to your Excellency?"

"No one repeated it." said the Count, "so you need not entertain any mistrust of your friends. One of my household overheard you; and his ear having caught the sound of my name, he listened attentively, that is all. But what does it signify? You did just as all young men—ay, and the best of our young men, do—drank deep of the Rhenish. I like you the better for it. And then, by all accounts, you had some cause for excitement, for you believe you are to win the greatest prize that Dantzic has ever proposed for one of her citizens."

The scene of the last night passed from Dumiger's memory when the hope of fame and the prospect of success were mentioned. His whole countenance changed, his eye brightened, and the nostril dilated.

"You heard that, also, your Excellency!" he said. "Well, then, I need not scruple to tell you the truth. Yes, I have labored night and day, and I hope to obtain the reward of all this self-sacrifice; and now I draw near the goal my blood is excited—I am fevered by my hopes. Look here, sir," and forgeting all his fears and etiquettes, he took the Count by the arm and led him to a curtain which was drawn across a corner of the room where the model-clock was placed. "Here is the work; it approaches completion; is it not worthy of the prize?"

Even to the most unpracticed eye this model of a great work appeared to be of admirable skill. So complicated was the machinery, that the marvel seemed to be how it was possible so nicely to have arranged its various parts, that they could find sufficient space for working. Massive weights were regulated by springs of such fine texture, that it was surprising how they could possibly have been made by a man's rude hand. The movement was perfectly noiseless, so beautifully were the balances arranged around the principal works of the clock itself: the heavenly bodies were moving in harmony and regularity; the face of the clock had not yet been affixed, so the whole of the interior operations of the machinery were apparent. The Count gazed astonished at the result of long perseverance and indomitable energy. Dumiger stood beside him holding the massive curtain aside, and delighting in the Count's amazement. At length he allowed it to fall, exclaiming, with pardonable self-love, "Surely this must succeed!"

The Count resumed his seat, and, for some time, was unable to regain the composure which he had lost by the sight which he had seen. Dumiger sat buried in thought.

"And when you have succeeded, Dumiger," said the Count, in a voice which he intended to be very kind, but whose inflection manifested a bitter disappointment,—"and when you have succeeded, will you be happier? Do you think, Dumiger, that greatness adds to happiness? Ah, you know little of the world if you believe this. Besides, remember, you may fail, and then how bitter your disappointment will be!"

Dumiger was seated with his arms folded, and scarcely paying any attention to the Count's observations: his mind was wandering amid the planets.

"Look, Dumiger, you are attached to Marguerite."

At the name of Marguerite, Dumiger raised his head and concentrated all his attention.

"You love her better than all the world?"

"Far better," said Dumiger.

"For her, like a man of heart, you would sacrifice everything!" continued the wily Count.

Dumiger nodded his head in assent.

"Even the clock?"

A glow mantled over Dumiger's cheek; he was about to answer in the affirmative, when he remembered that the clock had been his companion for five years past. He had lived with it, breathed his own life into its movements,—should he renounce the clock? It, as well as Marguerite, had become a part of himself; it had long stood him in the place of family, of love, of all those enjoyments which youth so wantonly and earnestly clings to. The results of success, ambition, honors, wealth,—all this he would give up for Marguerite; but his clock—he hesitated.

The Count repeated the question.

At that moment a sweet voice might be heard caroling one of those simple national airs which are dear to all nations and all times. Marguerite had a soft, winning voice, well adapted to the song she was singing. The Count, as well as Dumiger, paused in his conversation; the color rose again to Dumiger's face as he thought how nearly he was on the point of sacrificing his faith, and loving the work of his own hands more than the admirable work of Nature which had been bestowed upon him, and, as he listened, he lowered his voice and said,—

"For her I would sacrifice even the clock!"

"You shall," exclaimed the Count.

"I shall!" said Dumiger, starting from his seat. "Now in what way do you mean, my Lord Count?"

"You know," said the Count, "the value of the prize which is offered by the town. It is worth little in money. The honor is considered sufficient. Then you are to be given high place amongst the good citizens, a laurel crown, to ride a white horse, and sundry other trumperies."

The Count looked at Dumiger while he applied the word trumperies to those results which the latter had so impatiently striven for,—for which he had been laboring night and day. These outward signs of the results of great ambition,—these to be called trumperies! Dumiger looked at the Count with astonishment.

"And yet," said he, "it is for such trumperies men sacrifice their lives, sometimes their characters."

The old Count colored slightly as he gave a glance at the riband and star which he wore. Men did sometimes say that the Grand Master had not obtained all his honors without sundry sacrifices of one kind and another. Dumiger had not intended any allusion to these rumors, and he was surprised at the Count's change of color, for which, at the moment, he was unable to assign a reason.

"Well," said the Count hesitatingly, "as you say you prefer Marguerite's love even to your ambition, let us suppose, that in one moment you were able to attain certain wealth, to place her in a position worthy of her high qualities, to be at once on an equality with those of her fellow-citizens, who have hitherto—pardon me the word—treated her as an inferior; let us suppose that by some extraordinary powers all this could be immediately realized;—then let me ask you, would you sacrifice your clock?"

Dumiger marveled as he listened. He pictured Marguerite adorned with all those incidents which lend a new charm even to beauty like hers. He thought, with that vanity which clings to all men,—he thought if she were so much admired in her rustic dress, what would she be if she could rival in luxury and grace the chief ladies of Dantzic? He looked round the room; and instead of the rudely-carved, worn-out chairs, he pictured the most graceful and luxurious sofas; instead of two small, and, in spite of all Marguerite's taste and exertion, rather dusty and ungraceful-looking rooms, a suite of magnificent apartments, where he could gratify every taste and find people willing to come and applaud it. All this passed through his mind, and he did not perceive how curiously the Count was regarding him; but at last Dumiger was recalled to himself, and he thought how little occasion there was for him to draw such pictures, as they could never be realized; and why should he annoy himself by considering this proposition, which could only be made to him in joke.

"But why," he said to the count, "do you make me such a suggestion, when I can never hope to obtain this?"

The Count paused a moment, as though to examine Dumiger's countenance still more attentively, and then said,—

"You shall obtain this wealth, and much more."

"I!" exclaimed Dumiger, with astonishment.

"Yes," said the Count; "at a great price, I know; at a price, however, which I think you will still be willing to pay for it—for your clock."

"My clock worth that!" said Dumiger, "who will give it to me?"

It was the first time that Dumiger had tested, by the opinion of another, the value of the great work which he had achieved, and it gratified him to hear the magnificent offer.

"I," said the Count, "I will give you all that I have said; nay, more, I will use all my influence to have you placed high on the great book of the citizens. You shall have everything to make life happy. Give me the clock; sign me a paper, making over this clock to me; declaring, at the same time, that it is your free act and deed, and that you never completed it, and I will immediately settle that fortune upon you."

"And yet my clock," thought Dumiger; "all the honors I have anticipated, the gratification of my ambition, that greatness I have dreamed of; can I forget all this?"

He was about to reply, when the door opened and Marguerite entered. The length of time that the conversation lasted had made her impatient; besides, she mistrusted the Count.

He looked annoyed at her appearance, for he imagined that Dumiger was on the point of acceding to his terms.

"Marguerite, I am so rejoiced you have come!" exclaimed Dumiger, as though a sudden light had burst upon him. "The Lord Count has offered to buy my clock, and to make us rich beyond all expectation; to have us placed high among the first class of the citizens; in fact to enable us at once to secure all that men pass their lifetimes in striving to attain, if I will give up my clock and declare that I failed in its execution. What do you say, Marguerite?"

"What do I say!" she exclaimed, and as she spoke she drew herself up to her full height, her brow contracted, the color glowed in her cheek. "And did you hesitate what reply to make?"

"I thought of you, Marguerite."

"Of me!" she replied. "Oh, do not think of me; or rather if you do so, think that I would sooner live in the most abject poverty, and suffer any amount of privation, than part with the work, the consummation of which will be the glory of your life. Part with your clock! no, I would sooner sell this hair which you so prize, part with all those qualities which render me dear to you; nay more, I think I would even be content to sacrifice your love rather than see all the results of your patient industry wasted, your noble ambition sacrificed. Think of me, dear Dumiger, but think of me only as a part of yourself, as one who would give up every hope and every future to secure your happiness, that is, your fame."

Dumiger rose from his seat, unmindful in whose presence he stood, he pressed Marguerite in his arms; again the nobility of his mind brightened in his eye and beamed over his countenance. It was another instance amid the thousand which, unknown to them, were passing around them of a man won to noble thoughts by a woman's influence, proving that she is the animating power to save him in all his difficulties; that she invokes and renews all those noble thoughts which are concealed in the recesses of his mind. Hers is the light to dispel the mists which the chill atmosphere of the world hangs around the brightest portions of the mind: great at all times, greatest of all when, in a moment of difficulty, she is called upon to decide between the good and the evil, the just and the unjust, the generous and the mean, the ingenuous and the sophistical; and Marguerite, in one glance, saw all that Dumiger had failed to discover in the Count's appearance and manner,—the dark design, the selfish calculation; her simplicity of mind perceived indications of low, mean purposes, which he failed to discern. Thus it is ever that the first impressions, and, above all other first impressions, the impressions of innocence and youth, are the truest and most to be depended on.

For wherein is it that men—so often men of the shrewdest intelligence and keenest intellect—deceive themselves by their own egregious vanity.—by that vanity which makes them prefer to depend on the refinements and subtle processes of their own intelligence, rather than on the first impressions of the mind which Heaven has bestowed upon them? They are not satisfied with perceiving that a thing is good, but they must learn why it is so. They are not satisfied with knowing that the world is beautiful, that the harmony of this globe and its planets is admirable, but they must know the origin of this beauty, and the cause of the harmony which strikes them with wonder. It is not enough for them to be told they are "fearfully and wonderfully made," but they must attend schools to learn why they live, move, and have their being. Such is man, blinded by his self-conceit; blasted not by the excess, but by the partial light which bursts upon him: whereas woman moves clear in her apprehension, because she believes that "whatever is, is right;" and great in her intelligence, because she knows she is ignorant.

The count saw that all further appeals to Dumiger's interest would now be thrown away, but he was not on that account to be baffled.

"Very well, sir," he said, in an angry voice; "I make you the greatest offer that was ever made to any workman in this city, and you reject it with contempt. The day will come when you shall repent it. I would have saved you for that woman's sake, from the distress and ruin which are impending over you, but you will not be free. Look to it, sir, for there is danger even now. Your success is not so certain. I have it in my power to crush you, and your pride shall be broken."

So saying he took up the rouleau of gold he had given to Marguerite and departed. Dumiger and Marguerite stood side by side, alarmed, but still unbending; and yet the man who spoke to them was of great power. To recite his titles once more:—Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights, President of the City Council; magnificent in his promise, fierce in his resentments, unscrupulous in his means. For a moment Dumiger looked at Marguerite as though he were disposed to yield to the tyranny of that great man, but a glance from her reassured him; and it was with a low but formal reverence that he opened the door to the illustrious visitor, while Marguerite stood proud, haughty, and reserved.

"Did we do wisely?" said Dumiger, when the door closed upon them.

"Wisely!" exclaimed Marguerite; "oh, Dumiger, can you doubt it? I feel myself worthier of you now that I was able to influence you in your moment of uncertainty. I say moment, for I will not believe that, upon reflection, you could have hesitated in your decision. Better risk all and lose all than sacrifice the glorious object which you have in view. Who would not prefer the greatness which must be yours, if you succeed? and the count has at least taught us one thing, that success is almost certain,—who would not prefer this to that wealth of which he is so proud, and that eminence which it makes him giddy to stand on? No, Dumiger, you were in the right; and come what may, you will feel proud of your decision and self-denial."

"It was you who decided for me," replied Dumiger, as he pressed her lips fondly to his own.

He toiled throughout the day, and the dusk was settling over the town when the last wheel was finished and the clock was completed.

CHAPTER IV.

It was late in the evening of the same day. Marguerite and Dumiger were sitting by the fire together. The fire burnt so brightly that it was not necessary to light the candles. Marguerite, with her eyes closed and half reposing in Dumiger's arms, was enjoying all the happiness which the sense of returning affection gives. The night was somewhat changed since they first sat there. The rain beat against the casement, and the wind whistled down the chimney. The more it rained and blew, the closer crept Marguerite to Dumiger's side. It was a picture of comfort; of that comfort which, alas! is so easily destroyed by the breath of tyranny. It was a type of the many hearths which are covered with ruins when the trumpet sounds through the city and the tocsin rings to arms; when war or rebellion sweeps like a pestilence, not alone over the ruins of palaces and of senate-houses, but over the abodes of the humble, where every room can tell a tale of affection and toil.

There was a knock at Dumiger's door, which made Marguerite start and called all the color into her cheeks.

There was something ominous in the knock. It was a short, quick, clear, and decisive knock. It was the knock of a man in authority; of one who felt that although standing on the outside of the door, he had a right to be within. Marguerite and Dumiger both looked at the fire, as though they could read in its confused shapes the reason of this interruption; but the result could not have been very satisfactory, for neither spoke, while reluctantly Dumiger rose to open the dour, and Marguerite followed his movements with intense anxiety.

The truth is that people are never thoroughly comfortable and happy without a sense of the uncertainty of human happiness stealing over them. We speak of those whose lives are not a succession of parties of pleasure, of soft dreams and golden fulfillments—to such favored ones all sense of happiness is deadened by satiety—but they who toil through long, long days, and are blest with a few moments of repose, value them so highly that they scarcely believe such happiness can last.

Dumiger opened the door, and uttered a faint cry. Marguerite was in a moment by his side.

He had, indeed, some cause for alarm. An officer of the Grande Court de Justice stood there. There was no mistaking his character, for the uniform of the myrmidons of that court was too well known to all the inhabitants of Dantzic, and more especially to the poorer classes, who gazed on them with awe, for they were in general stern, hard-featured, and hard-hearted men, who did their duty without gentleness, and rarely deserted a man when once they had him in their clutches. Dumiger had made acquaintance with them of old on one or two occasions, and the recollection was anything but agreeable.

The man entered the room very quickly, took his seat in Dumiger's chair, and drew his missive from his pocket. It was Dumiger's bill to Hoffman for a very large sum, which had been purchased by the Count.

"What is this?" gasped forth Dumiger; for, at the moment, the debt had entirely escaped his recollection. "Ach Gott!" exclaimed Dumiger, "is it possible?" but observing Marguerite standing by, pale, tearful, and trembling, he restrained his impetuosity.

Dumiger rose and went to a drawer. He counted over, with the eagerness of a miser, all the dollars which were kept there,—the few which had remained after the expenses of the last fortnight. For some time past he had devoted all his energies so entirely to the construction of the clock, that the smallest receipts of his craft had been despised.

A cold perspiration stood on his forehead as he gazed upon his small store. He knew too well, that by the laws of Dantzic the debtor was either dragged to the common prison or all his goods were seized. Either alternative was terrible. He looked round the room. On one side stood the clock, the child of his mind and industry, on the other was Marguerite, beautiful in her grief.

The man had lit a pipe, and was carelessly smoking.

"Come," said the officer at last, as shaking out the ashes of his pipe and drawing himself to his full stature, so as to give weight to his authority—"come, we have no time to lose, Herr Dumiger. The money or the furniture, or to prison. Consult the pretty jungfrau there: but you must come to a conclusion directly, for time presses and I have several other little bits of business to perform to-night: so I will light another pipe while you make up your minds."

It was no easy matter for Marguerite to bring her mind to a decision. She thought on the one hand of the lonely nights she might have to pass; on the other, of the irreparable loss the clock would be to Dumiger. Dumiger clasped her hands in his own, and as his lips clung to hers he exclaimed, "Perish all things but love." He rose—he was on the point of desiring the man to take away the clock in payment of the debt, in the hope that he might redeem it on the morrow, when the sudden thought struck him that the Count was the instigator of this act. He caught hold of the man by one arm, which was hanging listlessly over the back of the chair, and exclaimed—

"Tell me who sent you on this mission."

The man only looked round with an expression of astonishment at his presumption, and without deigning any reply, he resumed his pipe.

"Was it the Grand Master?" asked Dumiger.

"Obey my orders and ask no questions," said the man. "You had better follow my example. I have told you already that there is no time to spare. Tell me what course you intend to take. Give up some articles in this room—there is that clock, which will do more than pay the bill—or follow me immediately. There is no other alternative."

The whole conversation with the Grand Master occurred to Dumiger. There could be no doubt that the clock would go into his possession; that it was a deep-laid scheme to spoil him of the result of all his labor. Better, far better, that Marguerite should bear the pain of separation, than that the clock should be endangered, and by such a man.

"Marguerite," said Dumiger, in a low voice, after a long pause, "it is fixed. We must part for a short time. I will write from my prison to some of my friends; they will not desert me in this necessity. A few short hours, and I shall return to you, my own Marguerite."

But Marguerite had fainted, and the lips which touched his cheek were cold and pale.

Slowly she opened those large blue eyes, and although her lips faltered, the look and the voice were both earnest as she bade him go.

"Yes, Dumiger, you are right: ambition such as yours is a less selfish passion than love like mine. Leave me for a time. I know the interval will be short. It is another step toward the greatness to which you are aspiring."

The man looked at them with a vague and vacant look. He had been witness to this description of scene so frequently, that he began to believe it to be a part of the debtor's craft. As some people can regard the most beautiful varying tints of heaven, the lights and shadows which flit across the face of nature, and see nothing more in them than a part of that vast and complicated machinery that governs the world—so he, in these lights and shadows of life, only beheld the natural workings of the human mind.

With a pale cheek but a firm step Dumiger departed. The last sound that fell upon his ear as he left his door, was the blessing murmured by his bride. Again he felt disposed to turn back and sacrifice all for his affection; but already one of the city guard stood behind him, and the rattle of arms on the pavement told him that his arrest had not been lightly planned or carelessly conducted.

The castle toward which Dumiger and his guards directed their steps was the Grimshaus, formerly a citadel and an important point of defense for the town of Dantzic, though now converted into a prison for political offenders and debtors. The reader may be aware that the laws against debtors in the great free commercial cities were intolerably severe. Some men were permitted to groan away their whole lives in hopeless misery. The creditor was in general without pity, and the debtor unpitied. He was entirely at the mercy of the jailer, who had it in his power to load him with chains, and even on the slightest pretext of insubordination to execute summary justice upon him. These laws, however, had as yet little affected Dumiger; though threatened with arrest on one or two previous occasions his difficulties had always been arranged. But the present debt was more serious than any which had as yet been pressed for, and he could not but feel that friends might be less willing to become surety.

They arrived at the square in which the Grimshaus was situated. It was a wild, unhealthy, stern, fantastic pile, which stood, in point of fact, upon an island, for a wide, wet ditch surrounded it, except where a drawbridge connected it with the square. The towers and ramparts had in some places mouldered away, and huge bars of iron were introduced in different parts of the wall to give strength to the building by binding the yawning mason-work together.

The square was deserted. The cry of the sentinel at the most distant of the landward posts sounded ominous, like that of a lost bird at night. Although the moon shone brightly, it was difficult to distinguish the whole outline of the building, on account of the pestiferous vapors which arose from the moat, and hung like a pall over the recently flooded plain. Through these mists the city chimes sounded muffled and melancholy. It was solitude—of all solitude the most fearful—a prison solitude in the neighborhood of a great town. The very escort appeared to feel the influence of their melancholy and lonely scene, for the jests stopped as the foot of the vanguard clanged on the drawbridge. This was merely the effect of discipline; but to Dumiger it appeared a part of the drama, and it added to his sense of fear.

They were detained some time upon the drawbridge while the sergeant was holding some conversation with the officer of the watch.

"By the Holy Mary!" exclaimed the functionary who had arrested Dumiger, "there must be something more than a mere debt in all this. I never saw such a fuss made about the receipt of the body of a debtor in all my life. And then, it was rather strange my being ordered to take a file of my guard instead of honest Jean, who would have held him just as firm in his grasp, and not kept my poor fellows shivering out all night in this unhealthy atmosphere. No, no, there is something more than a debt due: it is a case of political crime. Is it not so, my lad?" he exclaimed, giving Dumiger a thump on his back which made the chain-bridge rattle.

"Is it not what?" said Dumiger, who was quite taken by surprise. He had been gazing on the water, and the purest drops in it were the two tears which had fallen from his eyes. "I have heard nothing," he replied. "What does all this mean, and why am I kept here?"

"Ah, that's just what I wish to know!" answered the man, "and no one can tell us better than yourself. It is not merely for a case of debt that I was sent to your house to-night. No, no, I am wiser than that. Come now, tell us the real truth. What conspiracy have you entered into, what political offense have you committed, to entitle you to be escorted with such honor, and be made the subject of so many forms? There is no use denying it," he continued, for Dumiger's astonished countenance was quite a sufficient protestation against any such inference. "Look here; the lieutenant of the tower has been called up, and the guard is reinforced."

It was quite true. Had Dumiger been a state prisoner of the highest rank, he could not have been received with more ceremony. The guard turned out, and the rattle of the muskets was heard as the massive gates rolled ponderously upon their axes. The one light in the entrance gave an awful but not unpicturesque appearance to the scene, for it was reflected on the glittering steel. It cast its wild gleams on the bronzed cheeks of the guards, while the length and height of the hall were lost in the gloom.

"Forward!" was the word, and tramp, tramp, tramp, mingled with the rattle of the chains of the bridge. Dumiger was now placed in the center of the guard.

The soldiers presented arms to the burghers: the burghers carried theirs as they passed. The single drum beat, and its echo vibrated through the building. The gates closed behind them—bolt after bolt was drawn, and Dumiger was separated from the world.

His heart sank within him, and well it might; for as the moon shone into the courtyard beyond the hall where he was standing, he could see that the windows which looked into it were all trebly barred. Besides, the building looked throughout so miserably damp and wretched; and there was an entire absence of care for the comfort of its inmates, which chilled his blood.

The lieutenant of the tower, after the conference with Dumiger's officer had lasted some time, approached him. He took him gently by the arm, and brought him to the broken, rotten, creaking stairs, which led to the upper rooms, or rather cells, from which they were separated by two large, massive iron doors.

The lieutenant himself opened the locks, while two soldiers, standing on either side with flambeaux, gave Dumiger a full view of the desolate stair which he had to ascend. The passage to which it led had been taken out of the thickness of the walls, so massive were they. They passed through a large hall where a huge fire was blazing, about which some soldiers slept, with their cloaks drawn tightly round them to ward off the draughts which came in strong gusts beneath the doors and even through the shutters; one or two with handkerchiefs tied round their heads, to serve the purpose of night-caps, were sitting by the fire smoking. They took the pipes from their lips to salute the lieutenant as he passed, but beyond this notice paid no attention to the object of his visit. It was evidently an event of no uncommon occurrence. More passages, more bars, more doors battered by age and mended by slabs of iron, and at last Dumiger arrived at the room, or rather the cell, which had been prepared for him. The preparations, it must however be admitted, were of the very simplest character. A palliasse thrown down in the corner, a rickety chair, and the strangest apology for a table, were the whole furniture of the place. Without one word of explanation the lieutenant motioned him into his new abode. In vain Dumiger stormed and raved, and desired to know whether this was the way in which free citizens were treated in the free city of Dantzic. The lieutenant only shrugged his shoulders, gave orders to the soldiers to withdraw, and Dumiger was left to his melancholy meditations.

A heavy weight, such as magnetic influence affects the brain with, oppressed his forehead; he threw himself on the palliasse, and endeavored to recall the events of the last few hours: but so rapid and intense had they been, that they already seemed to be numbered amongst the visions of the past. When the heart is oppressed with suffering, and above all, with the most painful of all suffering, anxiety, solitude and sleep are the only consolations. But then the sleep is not the light, happy, joyous slumber, from which we awake refreshed and strengthened; it is a leaden, sullen, sodden trance, from which we awake with the sensation that the whole weight of the atmosphere has been concentrated on our brows. This was the case with Dumiger: the flickering, dreary light of the lamp kept waving before his eyes as he lay there. He felt like a man whose limbs have been paralyzed by some grievous accident. At last be breathed heavily, and the load of oppression fell from his eyelids. Such was the sleep we have described.

When he awoke in the morning the light had gone out; but a few pale, melancholy gleams of morning pierced the prison-bars, which were so far above him that it was not possible for him to reach them. He strove to remember where he was; his eyes fell on the grotesquely-painted figures which covered the walls, and which had escaped his observation on the preceding night. These were the handicraft of some man who had evidently endeavored to wile away his time in prison by caricaturing his persecutors; and certainly he had succeeded in the attempt. Nothing more absurd than some of these pictures could be imagined; every possible deformity was ascribed to the originals, and the sketches were surrounded by pasquinades and quaint devices. Here and there might be found expressions of deeper and more fearful import, if indeed anything could be more fearful than the contrast between the ridiculous and such a dungeon. "Non omnis moriar," wrote one man in a yellow liquid, which too evidently was discolored blood. "Justum et tenacem recti virum," scrawled another, immediately followed by a portrait of the "vultis instantis tyranni," who had, if we may judge by the chain suspended from his neck, once been a famous Grand Master. On one part of the wall might be deciphered a whole romance scrawled with an old nail, in which the prisoner had arrived at such excellence, that the letters were like the most admirable type. It was a long, and doubtless melancholy tale; so much so, that the kind guardians of the place had scratched it with their knives to prevent its being easily deciphered. In fact, that little cell had evidently contained an Iliad of romances; and if the walls could have spoken, or even the scrawls been deciphered, some strange tales, and perhaps many mysterious events, would have come to light. Dumiger gazed on these sad records of prior existences with a melancholy interest. In vain he endeavored to explain to himself the cause of his being treated with such unparalleled severity. He could not recall any crime such as might excuse his incarceration in such an abominable place. He buried his face in his hands. He thought of Marguerite and the clock, and then, happily for him, he wept, as the young alone can weep when they are in sorrow, and when their sorrow is unselfish.

He was roused by an unbolting of bars, the turning of huge, unwieldy keys, and the lieutenant of the castle stood before him.

Dumiger was in that state of mind when whatever of pride belongs to the consciousness of innocence loses its strength. Though there was little to invite confidence in the outward demeanor of the functionary, he ran toward him, seized him by both hands, and exclaimed, "Have pity upon me, sir; tell me why I am here!"

"Pooh, pooh," replied the bronzed old Cerberus: "be a man."

"Be a man!" shrieked Dumiger, "I am a man: and it is because I am a man, a free man of Dantzic, that I appeal against this monstrous treatment. Be a man! why, I appeal to you, sir, to be a man, and to give up that situation, if it can only be retained by cruelty to others. I say again, be you a man, and cease to torture me."

The lieutenant continued looking at him with the most perfect indifference. He whistled a tune, took the only two turns in the cell which its extent permitted, and then, as if a sudden recollection had struck him, put two letters into Dumiger's hands.

"Come, you are not very ill treated, young man, when you are allowed to read."

Dumiger felt a glow of delight thrill through his frame. Everything is by comparison, and after the pain be had endured, the sight of two letters, the one in the handwriting of Marguerite, the other of Carl, made his heart leap with joy. They seemed to him to be the guarantees of immediate safety.

The lieutenant still remained near him. Dumiger would not open the letters in his presence. At last the officer, after some minutes' delay, and having sung sundry snatches of martial airs, gave Dumiger a contemptuous, indignant glance, and stalked out of the cell, taking care to rattle the bolts and bars as a punishment to Dumiger for not gratifying his curiosity. Poor devil, it was his only amusement to pry into the prisoners' secrets.

"How is the lad?" asked the second in command when his commander appeared.

"Better than he will be when he knows the charges for which he is shut up. At present he is under the impression it is only for debt; but when he learns it is for treason, he will whimper and whine even more than he has been doing."

"What, so young and a traitor!" exclaimed the subaltern, who was evidently the kinder spirit of the two. "It is almost incredible."

"It may be," continued the lieutenant. "I have directions from the Grand Master and Council to keep a strict watch over him. They say that he is a most dangerous character. But I never trouble myself much about these kind of fellows. I do my duty quietly. Meanwhile, I have given him letters which won't add to his happiness much when he reads them, if I am to believe what the inspector told me, who of course read them and sealed them again."

The moment the lieutenant had left the cell, Dumiger eagerly tore open Marguerite's letter, without remarking that it had been opened ere it reached him. He read it through with that rapidity of glance and mental discernment which fear and love combined can alone give. It was with a groan of horror that he allowed the letter to drop from his hands, for the full extent of the difficulties of his situation now broke upon him. She told him that the same evening, the moment his arrest was known in the neighborhood, bills had poured in from all quarters; that she had seen his friends Carl and Krantz, who called early on that morning, and who found it impossible to obtain one-tenth of the sum now required for his release. All they could do, therefore, was to take charge of the wonderful model, and carry it to the Court-house, where it would have to remain until the decision of the Council should be proclaimed. The second letter, which was from Carl, was still more appalling, for he told Dumiger how essential it was for him to make any sacrifice in order to put the whole machinery in order, so that his work might appear to the judges in the most favorable point of view. He undertook, however, to engage the best mechanist in Dantzic, in the event of Dumiger not being able to obtain his release before the appointed day.

What was to be done? Dumiger felt himself driven almost to frenzy. He thought of Marguerite, of his clock, of his friends; he then began to think that be had acted very foolishly in refusing the offer of the Grand Master, who, he felt assured, although the lieutenant would not admit it to him, was the cause of all his misery. The more he reflected on the past, the more desperate he became; he rolled on the ground in agony; the whole day passed in efforts to reach the window, whence at least he might perceive the situation of his house, or to shake the bars of the strongly-ironed door. Toward evening a soldier brought him some refreshment, but preserved an obstinate silence. Dumiger allowed the refreshment to remain untasted on the ground; he could not touch it. The evening grew on apace, the merry chimes from the Dom of the city came across the water; it struck him that they had never chimed so musically before, or with so much meaning. Another long, long night of agony was to be passed, and where and how was suspense to end?

Time swept on, but this night they brought him no lamp, so that he had no means of measuring its progress; he could only judge how heavily the hours rolled by the tramp of the guards as they marched over the drawbridge to the several reliefs. At ten o'clock he heard the bugles sounding the retreat, and then when he pictured to himself his gentle young bride, so sweet, so lovely—when he remembered how greatly he had neglected her for his ambition—he loathed himself for what he used to consider laudable, but now felt to have been mere selfishness.

It was still very early, for the gray cold streaks of morning had not pierced the prison-bars, when Dumiger was roused from his uneasy slumber by the rattling of the lock of his door. He looked up and saw with surprise a man who was not dressed in uniform.

"Who are you? What do you want?" exclaimed Dumiger, "for there is such a thing as intrusion even in a prison."

The man whom he addressed only replied by taking possession of the single chair which stood by the bedside; he then very quietly and coolly took a tinder-box from his pocket, struck a light in the most deliberate manner, and lit the small lamp which had remained unreplenished from the preceding evening. Dumiger had then an opportunity of examining his visitor.

He was a little, jesuitical, sly, crafty, leering person, with a quick, intelligent, practical eye—a man who was evidently conversant with the world; and to judge from the sensual expression of his mouth and the protuberance at the nape of the neck, whose world was of the worst description—a phrenologist or physiognomist would have hung him at once. It is fortunate for some men that these sciences are not more extensively understood, or a great many persons would suffer for their natural and cerebral conformation.

"You will soon be free, my son."

"Free! thank God!" exclaimed Dumiger, throwing himself back on his pillow and clasping his hands in gratitude.

"You are too quick, young man," continued the stranger. "I said you would soon be free, if—you see there is an if. It is for you to remove it."

"If—if what? I will do anything you tell me," almost shrieked Dumiger, so terrified was he at the possibility of his hopes deserting him.

"Well," continued the little man, putting on his spectacles and examining the roll of his papers, "I will commence by telling you that I am a native of Hamburgh and like yourself, a great mechanist. I was sent for by the Council last evening, to examine all the models which have been received. I do not hesitate to say to you that yours is by far the best."

"God be praised, Marguerite, Marguerite!" ejaculated Dumiger.

"Yes," quickly remarked the mysterious visitor, "yours is by far superior to all the rest, but it will not win the prize."

"Not win the prize!" said Dumiger; for now all his ambition had returned to him.

"Certainly not," was the reply; "you know as well as I do that the machinery requires some directing power. No one knows how to apply it: no one knows the secret."

"Yes, there is a secret," said the youth, his face brightening even through the cold, clammy prison atmosphere.

"And you cannot get out to tell it, or to arrange your own work, for here I have a schedule of the judgments for debt which have been lodged against you;" and he held out a list some twelve inches in length.

Dumiger groaned. "And are there no means of paying this?"

"You can answer that question as well as myself," replied the man. "I will tell you that there are none for the present; but there is one way in which the clock may still be the admiration of Dantzic, and yourself free with a great independence in three days."

"What way? what way? tell me quickly!" cried Dumiger, gasping with anxiety.

"Be still, young man, be still; we have plenty of time: let's proceed quietly," said the stranger.

"Well, well, but be quick," continued Dumiger, in anything but a quiet tone of voice.

"I have told you," said the man, quietly readjusting his spectacles, which Dumiger had slightly disturbed by the violence with which he seized his arm, "I have told you that I am a native of Hambro', a mechanician; that I have seen your clock, admired it, and taken the trouble to obtain a list of your liabilities,—here it is again."

Dumiger gave another groan.

"Your position," continued the stranger, "appears to me to be this—that without my assistance your clock will be worth nothing, while you will remain quietly in prison here, charged besides, as far as I can understand the matter, with some political offense; that Marguerite will either pine away or atone for your loss by amusing herself with some of your friends—Carl and Krantz for instance. You see I am au fait with all your domestic matters."

Oh, jealousy! oh, cowardice of the heart! At the name of Carl the blood flew to Dumiger's temples. It just occurred to him that it was strange that Marguerite should have gone to him for assistance without any direction from himself to do so. Root out the feeling, Dumiger; root it out, or you are lost.

The stranger smiled sarcastically, but affected not to notice his flushed cheek and faltering voice.

"Now there is but one means to relieve yourself from all these risks and this load of misery."

"Again I inquire, what is it?" said Dumiger.

"Sell me your clock: I have come to purchase it on the part of the free city of Hamburgh," was the calm, deliberate reply.

"Sell my clock!" echoed Dumiger.

"The city of Hamburgh," continued the stranger, without appearing to remark Dumiger's exclamation, "authorizes me to offer for the clock of best workmanship, the freedom of her walls, an income of four thousand dollars, a place in the chief council with due precedence, and many other minor advantages. If you accept these terms a large installment of money will be paid within three days,—that is, within the time for the return of post. You will naturally inquire, Why the city of Hambro' should make so extravagant an offer? I will recall to you the extreme jealousy which has always existed between these two great commercial cities. You will remember that this rivalry is unceasing—that it comprehends all things, the smallest as well as the greatest. They attempted to vie with each other in the construction of their doms: Dantzic gained the advantage. The fame and the prize given for excellence in these clocks, and of the unrivaled workmanship which may be expected, has spread throughout Germany. The inhabitants of Hambro' are inferior in science. They wish to obtain a piece of workmanship which shall be unrivaled, in the easiest manner, and I was sent here to negotiate the purchase. Well, I was selected by the Council here as one of the judges. It is an act of treachery—granted: that cannot affect you. All that there is for you to decide on are the terms I have offered you."

"Oh! Marguerite!" exclaimed Dumiger, "if you were here, what would you counsel?"

"What would she counsel," said the stranger, "except to accept this offer? Remember, if you refuse it you remain here for days, if not weeks. You cannot hope to obtain the preference unless you are enabled to inform any one of the secret of setting the works in motion, and then it would require a hand as steady and experienced as my own to carry out your directions; and I should not undertake to do it except on the conditions which I have named."

"Show me the conditions drawn out," said Dumiger.

The man rolled out slowly one of the long strips of parchment which he held in his hand; he gave it to Dumiger, who drew the lamp near him, and for a few minutes reveled in the ideas of freedom and wealth. He had but to say the word, and he enjoyed all that he had been laboring for through life; but then, at what price? at that which it pained him to contemplate—the citizenship of his native town, where his family had dwelt respected for centuries. No doubt he was selling his birthright; he was parting with all that a man should cling to in adversity as in prosperity—that which is not to be purchased with gold—all his old ties, his affections, his faith. Once signed, the deed was irrevocable; and yet if he did not sign, what had he to hope for?

He leaned his head on his hands, in one of those stern struggles which age a man in a few minutes, as breaths of frost wither the freshest leaves. He invoked the Spirit of Love—he called forth Marguerite, and she stood beside him. He saw her with her cheek paler than when he had parted from her; he saw her bosom heaving with sighs instead of love; he heard her soft whisper in his ear, and he thought that whisper expressed assent—that for him, she too was willing to relinquish the home and the friends of her childhood. Ay, is it not ever so? Invoke whom we may in hours of trial, does not the oracle take its tone from our own wishes? Fond and futile pretense to invoke the Spirit of Love to decide where love is interested! As Marguerite seemed to stand beside Dumiger he lost sight of ambition, and all its pomp and circumstance; all he asked was to be free.

"Give me the paper," he said in a firm voice: "the clock is yours, and the principle of the movement is to be found engraved on a small plate under the mainspring."

If he had seen the smile of triumph which passed over that man's countenance, he would have hesitated.

The deed was done: the man put his materials and his paper into his pocket again.

"Now," he said, rising to go, "the third day's post will find you free; and take my advice, leave Dantzic soon. The people will be irritated at being deprived of their master-piece. I would not have you trust to their render mercies; for that matter, it is well for you that you are safe in prison. Remember this advice, for I know the Dantzickers as well as you do."

"Stay, stay one moment," cried Dumiger, as the stranger was about to leave the cell, "who told you so much about me? How did you obtain this list of debts? How came you to hear of Marguerite, and Carl, and Krantz? Surely," and he passed his hand across his brow like a man who is pained by the intensity of a ray of light after having been long in darkness—"tell me before you go, what does this mean?" And he caught a firm hold of the man's cloak.

"There is no reason why I should not tell you the truth now," said he, buttoning his coat tightly over the papers. "I was sent for by the Grand Master, who engaged me to obtain the sale of your clock at any price. And he gave me good inducements to undertake the job."

The whole scheme broke on Dumiger's mind.

"And with what object?" he gasped forth; "tell me that."

"To get rid of your competition," said the man quietly. "After yours there is no doubt that his son's is the best; and, therefore, when yours is sold to Hambro', his will be prized in Dantzic. As for me, I shall get rewarded for my exertions, both by the Grand Master your noble count, and my own city. Here is the truth of the matter," said he; "now let me go."

"Let you go, miscreant!" exclaimed Dumiger, "never, until you return me that paper. Let you go! I will follow you to death rather. You betrayed me into this act; it was not my own free will. I am the victim of the basest conspiracy. I have been induced to sell my birthright—I prefer to remain in prison—I love my townspeople—I will not be free on these conditions! Give me back my bond!"

"Never!" said the man, putting himself into an attitude of defense.

And he did wisely, for there was desperation in Dumiger's eye. He waited a moment, and then with a maniac's strength he flew at the man, but he found a powerful and vigorous antagonist. The stranger, who had appeared half decrepit and aged, rose up in all the strength of youth. In a moment he had grasped Dumiger's arms, very coolly taken out a handkerchief, and in spite of all Dumiger's efforts bound his hands together. After he had performed this operation he drew the document again from his pocket, so as to be well assured that it was correctly signed, and smiled as he said to Dumiger—

"You know that signature?"

"Scoundrel! miscreant!" were the only words to which Dumiger could give utterance.

"And now, fellow-citizen," said the man, "I bid you farewell. Keep your temper; these sober arts should have taught you this kind of self-command. You will soon be free. As for your arms, I dare not untie them now, but I will send the guard to you. Now, holloa, guard without there!" and he left the cell.

What did all this mean? A mystery seemed to be encircling Dumiger which he could not penetrate. He knew there was danger near him, but was unable to define its extent. Only one thing was now certain—he had sold that clock on which years of toil had been bestowed, and not in vain. He had but a few days since contemplated certain success, now how far it was from him! And Hamburgh—to be great and ennobled there, what did that signify to him? How long would it not take for him, the inhabitant of the great rival city, to be admitted into this new society? No, he had made an error which could never be recalled; he had broken the ties which were once so dear to him. Dumiger now learned the great truth, that it is only the opinion of the few with whom we are most intimate that we care for. It is nothing to be great amongst those with whom we have no sympathies, no affections in common. The kind word from one lip which we love is far more to be prized than the loudest acclamations of thousands to whom we are indifferent.

CHAPTER V.

The day at last arrived for the triennial exhibition of the productions of Dantzic art, on which day the council had agreed that the prize for the clock was to be adjudged. It was a great fete for the town. At an early hour of the morning the inhabitants began to decorate their houses with tapestry, and to hang garlands over the door-posts. All classes prepared their dresses of brightest colors, and their gayest, happiest smiles. And none was happier than Marguerite, for Dumiger had written to tell her that on the next day he was certain to be free; but he had not ventured to inform her that the clock was sold to Hamburgh. Still, although the deed of sale was irrevocable, his feelings would not permit him to believe that the excellence of his work would remain unknown to his towns-people; he felt convinced that the strangers vanity would induce him to make use of the secret confided to him, so he wrote to Marguerite that all would go right. Carl and Krantz arrived early in the morning to accompany her to the great hall. She had within her a secret which she would not have disclosed to the universe,—the secret of her husband's success, of his fame and future happiness. So far Dumiger had informed her that there was an intrigue against him, in which the Grand Master was the principal: he explained to her that the object the Grand Master had in view was to obtain the prize and its accompanying honors for his own son. Carl and Krantz undertook to protect her through the crowd, and it was with an abundant feeling of confidence that she dressed for the ceremonial.

She wore her hair braided round her head; a bodice, which showed the beauty and shape of her form, of scarlet cloth, attached by threads of gold across the shirt, which was of the softest and most delicate material; the short blue petticoat, which reached some way below the knee, but did not descend so far as to conceal the ankle, the symmetry of which was well-defined by the silk stocking. The shoe might have stirred the envy of any grisette in Paris—a class which was, even in those days, supposed to enjoy a monopoly of taste and refinement. There was a modesty combined with refinement and strength of character in the appearance of Marguerite which would have distinguished her in any crowd. She was a being for love and sunshine; but one who, at the same time, would have dared much for him she loved. The kind and generous are ever gallant, and rarely are the beautiful unworthy.

Carl and Krantz were also dressed out in their gayest costumes. It would have been hard to have decided which was the predominant color in the dresses of these two worthy citizens; they would have rivaled any tulip bed in a Dutch garden, and perfectly dazzled Marguerite when they entered the room.

At length the last touch was given to the toilette, and they sallied forth. Already the streets were so crowded that it was difficult to move through them; but Carl and Krantz were determined, energetic fellows, and what with their elbows and Marguerite's bright smiles, after incurring a few risks of some jokes on Carl's extravagant appearance, they reached the great hall.

The street in front of the Courthouse was lined with the burgher guard, stationed there to keep back the crowd; but Marguerite had an order for admittance at a private entrance, so, escorted by her cavalier, she ascended the staircase.

When she entered the hall she was struck with awe and astonishment. The whole of that enormous space, with the exception of the portion railed off for the competitors and the dais where the council were sitting, was crowded by a dense mass of people: along the sides of the vast edifice, and up to the very roof, were arranged all the various productions of national art. Nothing can be pictured more beautiful than the combination of rich and varied colors, or more curious than the forms which art and genius had given them: here were dyes which might have rivaled those of Tyre, and fabrics of finer texture than a Penelope could have woven. At one end, toward which Marguerite's eyes were most anxiously turned, the models of the clocks were arranged. Dumiger's was placed in the center, for it was at the same time the largest model, and contained the most elaborate and complicated machinery; but, alas! the works remained still, while all the others were in motion, and showed in the smallest space the movements of the heavenly bodies, and the progress of time. If Dumiger's meant anything more than a confused mass of machinery, it could not for a moment be doubted that it was the work of highest genius exhibited, but in its quiescent state it contrasted disadvantageously with the admirable systems revolving round it. Marguerite held her breath while she gazed; neither did she perceive how much attention she herself had awakened—the moment for vanity had passed, her present interests lay far deeper. Immediately above her the Grand Council, with the Grand Master, were sitting, dressed in their robes of state. The Count Albrecht wore his cordon of the Fleece, and looked every inch a grand master; the anxiety for his son's success was apparent in the nervous glances which he cast around him. Behind, and amid the retainers, stood the dark, designing-looking stranger, who held in his hand the fate of Dumiger.

The heralds proclaimed silence, and then the Grand Master rose to read the decision of the council. It commenced with reciting the list of the competitors, and when it mentioned Dumiger's name, it said, "the work is imperfect, and therefore must be withdrawn."

"It is not imperfect," cried two stentorian voices from the farther end of the hall.

The voices proceeded from Carl and Krantz, whose excitement could no longer be retained.

"No! it is not imperfect," said the gentler voice of Marguerite.

All eyes were turned toward the spot whence that voice proceeded. Marguerite nearly fainted to find herself the object of so much attention.

"Keep your courage," whispered Carl. "Tell them that Dumiger will soon be free, and the works put in motion. I will tell them for you," he exclaimed, and he began to speak, when the mysterious stranger stepped forth.

"Stay," he said, "let me touch the works of this clock—the secret is mine."

He forced his way through the crowd, looked carefully over the machinery, opened a secret spring, arranged two small wheels, on which the accurate movement of the whole machinery depended, and immediately it was all in motion.

The proceeding was watched with intense interest by all. The stranger's eye gleamed with delight, for he was anxious, with the true spirit of Hamburg jealousy, that the people of Dantzic should feel the value of what they were about to lose.

It was indeed a marvelous piece of workmanship: the planets all revolved in their regular order, figures of exquisite workmanship appeared and disappeared to mark the seconds, and the dial plate was of elaborate beauty. The people for some time stood entranced in wonder. At last they exclaimed, as with one voice—

"It is a work worthy of Dantzic—and Dumiger has won! Dumiger forever'."

If Marguerite had nearly fainted from fear, she was now pale with delight.

"Dumiger, Dumiger forever!" again shouted the crowd; "where is the laurel? where is the triumph? Greatest amongst his citizens, Dumiger has won!"

But at that moment the stranger came forward with a paper in his hand. The Count's face, which had been overspread with anger and shame at these shouts, was again lit up with hope, for after Dumiger's his son's was evidently the best.

"You mistake, my friends," said this man: "Dumiger is not a citizen of Dantzic, but of Hamburg, and the clock belongs to that noblest of free cities."

"Madman! fool!" burst from the astonished crowd; "we all know Dumiger, his family are eminent in the list of our freemen—you are mad! Grand Master, proclaim that Dumiger has won the prize, that Dumiger is great."

Joy thrilled through Marguerite's frame.

The Grand Master rose, and his voice trembled with anxiety and secret pleasure as he spoke.

"It is too true," he said; "the clock is sold to Hamburg, and Dumiger has lost his rights of citizenship here by becoming a freeman of that town. The prize, therefore, in accordance with the decision of the council, is adjudged to the second—to my son."

Then the anger of the people rose, wild and savage; in one moment, like the bursting of a thunder-cloud, the whole aspect of the place had changed.

"Show us the deed!" they exclaimed.

The stranger took it and held it up. There was no mistaking it; it was headed by the arms of Hamburg, and signed by Dumiger. The storm of indignation had subsided for a moment, but only as it seemed to gain additional strength.

"Tear him in pieces—he shall not have the clock. Down with Dumiger—crucify the man who could prefer the freedom of Hamburg to the honors of Dantzic. Down with him!"

And the people tore up the benches, drove back the burgher guard; some of the boldest dashed on the platform; the Grand Council had to escape, carrying the stranger with them. The mob tore out of the hall, and told their friends outside—anger led to anger, the passions rose like the waves at the equinox. Nothing could stop the mob, from so apparently trifling a cause a tumult was created; the jealousy of the townsmen now appeared—that jealousy, smothered and subdued for so many years, burst forth in this madness.

Poor Marguerite had fainted. Carl and Krantz, by herculean exertions, dragged her through the mob; she was taken to a small room over the great hall, and laid there until the storm should be appeased.

It did not seem likely to be so. Unfortunately, one of the guards had in the tumult struck a burgher; in some of the smaller streets they were even now fighting; but the crowd in the great square seemed to have a firmer purpose, there was a gradual calm. At last one man climbed up the statue in the Center of the square.

"Where is Dumiger?" he asked.

And another voice answered, "He is in the debtor's prison."

"We will go and lead him to his triumph," was the dark and threatening reply of the people, who now moved forward in columns.

CHAPTER VI.

The two days which elapsed since the interview with the stranger had been passed by Dumiger in great misery. He blamed himself deeply for having been so easily entrapped into what he feared would prove a snare, and very foolishly, as we have seen, he wrote to Marguerite that she had everything to hope, as he still retained the desire of being honored by his fellow-townsmen, although they were not to enjoy the fruit of his labors.

On the eventful morning which has been described, Dumiger arose full of hope, his triumph was to be secured; and in the evening he even entertained a secret impression and belief that the people would not permit the clock to be removed, and that the error he had made might be retrieved by their energetic wills. He heard the bands of music playing in the distance. The merry chimes floated over the water, and bade him good speed. He thought that he could even discern the buzz of enjoyment, and the shout of anticipated triumph. He took out the last letter which Marguerite had written to him, and pressed it to his heart; that day, he thought, was to see them united never to be parted again.

What sound was that?—Was it the wind? No, the murmur of many voices, the tramp of a thousand feet, shook the drawbridge. He heard his own name called out. Yes, it is! it surely cannot be an error; it is Dumiger they are invoking. Now there can be no mistake, the crowd unite in one loud cry,—

"Where is Dumiger?"

"I am here, I am here," he shrieks out; "Open the gates."

What could it mean? the guards were resisting. There is a shot fired—is this the way in which a triumph is conducted? There is a pause—a parley.

"We want the man Dumiger, the prisoner," exclaims one.

"Good, you shall have him. Let but a few enter," says the lieutenant of the tower, "and the guard shall withdraw."

Immediately there is a loud rush on the stair, not the tramp, tramp, of regular troops.

"Here, here!" exclaims Dumiger; "here am I, my friends! Welcome, welcome!" and he rushes to embrace the first who enters.

"Back, traitor!" answers the man.

Dumiger tumbles against the wall in terror and astonishment.

"Yes, you are the traitor," continued he who acted the part of leader of the motley crowd; "you have sold your birthright—you have betrayed our interests. What punishment is fit for such a usurer?"

"Down, down with him," cried the mob.

The leaders consulted together for one moment.

"My good people," continued the same man, "we have taken counsel, and you shall redress. We will not take this man's life. This is what we decide,—We will keep the clock to be the glory of our town, but he shall never see it, neither shall he have it any more in his power to make another equal to it or better, for we will put out his eyes."

"Yes, yes," vociferated the mob, "it is excellent. Put out his eyes at once."

Before Dumiger could collect his scattered senses two strong, stalwart men had seized him. In spite of his shrieks and entreaties they threw him down on the straw; one more savage than the rest drew forth a small knife—agony on agony! horror on horror! in one moment to the living man there was Cimmerian darkness. The deed was done, and they who had done it looked on with horror and fear at their own crime. There were no shrieks to break the fearful silence: a few inarticulate sobs of heart wrung from his misery were all that was heard, and the mob withdrew silent and repentant.

Carl had followed at a distance. He had made frantic, but ineffectual efforts to enter the cell; when the crowd dispersed he went up the stairs without impediment, and there he found his friend extended. He raised him, he bore him home with those sightless, bleeding orbs. He comes, Marguerite; hasten forth to meet your husband: let the light of your love bless him, for the light of Heaven has departed forever.

CONCLUSION.

There is great excitement in Dantzic, for the noble clock, which has been for ten years the marvel of Germany,—the clock which was made by the cunningest artificers who followed Dumiger's model, has stopped. No one can arrange it; the model was broken up as a jealous precaution. There is but one who understands it—who can regulate the wondrous movement; that is he who constructed it.

Yes. the Council will go to Dumiger. They seek his house; they repent of the fearful crime they committed.

"Dumiger, come forth!" they exclaim. "Forgive us our offense. Greatest of citizens, all honors and rewards shall be heaped upon you. Regulate this great work, prized above all others in this city, for which we contended for five years with Hamburg. Stand forth in glory and honor!"

And a man, young in years, but decrepit in suffering, appears, supported by two friends. The partner of his hopes and fears is long since dead. The streets ring with applause as he appears, and many kneel to kiss his hand—ay, some his feet. But all he asks is to be led first to Marguerite's grave. There, in the presence of thousands, he prays for strength; and then he desires them to conduct him to the clock-tower.

When he appears outside, the air is rent with shouts. "Dumiger, Dumiger, the first of the citizens!" Oh, popular feeling, at once base and baseless!

He seems to see the works again; he climbs up and touches every part of the wonderful construction—his hand has found the secret of the movement, again it is in order, and the pride of Dantzic is saved.

He stands still for some minutes. A god could not have been more worshiped, or a prophet looked grander. Again his hand is on the movement—crash, crash,—the slight spring on which the whole machinery depended is rent asunder by his own hand; the clock falls to pieces, never to be repaired. At the same moment there is a fall, a fearful groan, and Dumiger lies on the pavement a bleeding corpse. The clock and its maker have ceased to exist.

Such is the legend, and from that day there has been no clock in the Dom of Dantzic.

* * * * *

THE SHIP "EXTRAVAGANCE."

Oh, Extravagance saileth in climes bright and warm. She is built for the sunlight and not for the storm; Her anchor is gold, and her mainmast is pride— Every sheet in the wind doth she dashingly ride! But Content is a vessel not built for display, Though she's ready and steady—come storm when it may. So give us Content as life's channel we steer. If our Pilot be Caution, we've little to fear!

Oh! Extravagance saileth 'mid glitter and show, As if fortune's rich tide never ebbed in its flow; But see her at night when her gold-light is spent, When her anchor is lost, and her silken sails rent; When the wave of destruction her shatter'd side drinks, And the billows—ha! ha!—laugh and shout as she sinks. No! give us Content, as life's channel we steer. While our Pilot is Caution, there's little to fear.

—Charles Swain.

* * * * *

LAUGHING IN THE SLEEVE.—A writer in Notes and Queries gives an instance of Curry's wit, introduced after a defeat in a conversational contest with Lady Morgan. "It was the fashion then for ladies to wear very short sleeves; and Lady Morgan, albeit not a young woman, with true provincial exaggeration, wore none—a mere strap over her shoulders. Curry was walking away from her little coterie, when she called out, 'Ah! come back, Mr. Curry, and acknowledge that you are fairly beaten.' 'At any rate,' said he, turning round, 'I have this consolation, you can't laugh at me in your sleeve!"

* * * * *

An antiquarian discovery has just been made in Kremusch, near Treplitz, in Bohemia. Some twelve feet below the surface of the earth, a tomb, with six bodies in it, was found. It contained, besides, a gold chain about a yard and a half long, three gold ear-rings, two gold balls of the size of a walnut, a gold medallion with a cameo representing a Roman Emperor, and an iron plate, thickly silvered, on each side of which is engraved a reindeer, with a hawk on its hind quarters. The workmanship of the different objects, which evidently belong to the ante-Christian era, is remarkable for its neatness.

* * * * *

DEATH.

"Death is a road our dearest friends have gone; Why, with such leaders, fear to say 'Lead on?' Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried; But turns in balm on the immortal side. Mothers have pass'd it; fathers; children: men, Whose like we look not to behold again; Women, that smiled away their loving breath.— Soft is the traveling on the road of Death. But guilt has passed it? Men not fit to die? Oh, hush—for He that made us all, is by. Human were all; all men; all born of mothers; All our own selves, in the worn-out shape of others; Our used, and oh! be sure, not to be ill-used brothers."

—Leigh Hunt.

* * * * *

So perfect were the Egyptians in the manufacture of perfumes that some of their ancient ointment, preserved in an alabaster vase, in the museum of Alnwick, still retains a powerful odor, though it must be within 2,000 and 3,000 years old.

THE END