"That dog, whom the judgment of our omnipotent Lord has pronounced guilty, shall receive condign punishment. Now let us pass to the trial of the red-hot irons. Although the first trial has proved to us the guilt of that slave, there is nothing as yet to prove that the other fellow is innocent. They may be both accomplices in the theft of my silver dish."
"Oh, my noble seigneur, I am in no fear!" cried the cook, his face beaming with celestial confidence. "I bless the name of God for His having reserved to me the opportunity to bear witness to my profound faith in our holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic religion, and to triumph a second time over the accusations of the wicked. I know, O Lord, that, faithful to your commandments, I shall triumph with humility."
With the believer impatiently awaiting the new triumph of his innocence, the clerk proceeded, agreeable to the usage, to consecrate and adjure the red-hot irons in the brasier, just as he had conjured the water in the tank. He ordered the red-hot irons with the same solemn invocations that they respect the soles of the slave's feet if he was innocent, and to burn him to the bone if he was guilty of having robbed his seigneur.
The conjuration being done, the stable blacksmiths drew forth from the stove, with the aid of long tongs, the nine red-hot plow-shares that they held in readiness, and laid them down in a row flat upon the stone floor at a distance of two or three inches from one another. Ranged in that order, they presented a strange aspect—an enormous red-hot gridiron.
"Quick!" said the count. "The irons must not be allowed to cool off."
"What a jig will not the cub dance on that row of burning irons, if he was in the plot with the other thief to steal your dish!"
"And yet what a wondrous miracle is about to be accomplished if the cook is really innocent!" remarked another leude with impatient curiosity. "To walk over red-hot plow-shares without burning one's feet! It takes the God of the Christians to accomplish such a miracle!"
Such was the curiosity of the Franks that their cruel wish to see the slave dance upon the red-hot irons struggled strongly against the wish to witness a wonderful miracle. Hardly was the last plow-share ranged in its place upon the floor than Neroweg, fearing to have them cool off, called out impatiently to Justin:
"Quick! Quick! Walk over them!"
"Go, my dear son; fear naught!" added the clerk.