. Hans of Iceland . Well, Is that all ?Saladin. What did you expect ?The Mameluke. Nothing more for the messenger of good fortune. Lessing : Nathan the Wiat, PALE and worn, Count dAhlefeld strode up and downhis apartment; in his hand he crushed a bundle ofletters which he had just read, while he stamped his footon the smooth marble floor and the gold-fringed rugs. At the other end of the room, in an attitude of deeprespect, stood Nychol Orugix in his infamous scarlet dress,felt hat in hand. You have done me good service, Musdoemon, hissedthe chancellor. The hangman looked up timidly: * Is your
. Hans of Iceland . Well, Is that all ?Saladin. What did you expect ?The Mameluke. Nothing more for the messenger of good fortune. Lessing : Nathan the Wiat, PALE and worn, Count dAhlefeld strode up and downhis apartment; in his hand he crushed a bundle ofletters which he had just read, while he stamped his footon the smooth marble floor and the gold-fringed rugs. At the other end of the room, in an attitude of deeprespect, stood Nychol Orugix in his infamous scarlet dress,felt hat in hand. You have done me good service, Musdoemon, hissedthe chancellor. The hangman looked up timidly: * Is your Gracepleased ? What do you want here ? said the chancellor, turningupon him suddenly. The hangman, proud that he had won a glance from thechancellor, smiled hopefully. What do I want, your Grace ? The post of execu-tioner at Copenhagen, if your Grace will deign to bestowso great a favor on me in return for the good news Ihave brought you. *? The poor mother was — From drawing by HANS OF ICELAND. 193 The chancellor called to the two halberdiers on guardat his door: Seize this rascal; he annoys me by hisimpudence. The guards led away the amazed and confoundedNychol, who ventured one word more: My lord — You are no longer hangman for the province ofThrondhjem; I deprive you of your office! cried thechancellor, slamming the door. The chancellor returned to his letters, angrily read andre-read them, maddened by his dishonor; for these werethe letters which once passed between the countess andMusdoemon. This was Elphegas handwriting. He foundthat Ulrica was not his daughter; that, it might be, theFrederic whom he mourned was not his son. The un-happy count was punished through that same pridewhich had caused all his crimes. He cared not now ifvengeance evaded him; all his ambitious dreams van-ished, — his past was blasted, his future dead. He hadstriven to destroy his enemies; he had only succeededin losing his own reputation, his adviser, and
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