"It is possible," replied Raschke.
The Professor jumped up, and sought in great haste for his pocket copy of Tacitus.
"Here is the reading of the Florentine manuscript, comparison with the parchment sheets will throw light on it." He compared some sentences. "It appears an accurate copy," he said, "too accurate--awkwardly accurate."
He held the manuscript searchingly towards the light; he poured a drop of water on the corner of the parchment and wiped it with a towel; the next moment he flung towel and parchment to the ground, and clasped his hands over his face. Raschke seized the leaves, and looked at the damaged corner.
"It is true," he exclaimed, sorrowfully; "a writing that had been on the parchment six hundred years would leave other traces on the material."
He paced hastily up and down, his hands in his coat pocket, rubbed his face with the towel, and, perceiving his mistake, threw it away from him.
"I only know of one word for this," he exclaimed--"a word that men unwillingly allow to pass their lips--and that word is villainy!"
"It was a piece of vile and rascally knavery," exclaimed Werner, in a strong voice.
"Here let us stop, friend," begged Raschke; "we know that a deception has been intended; we know that the attempt has been made lately; and when we compare the place of the discovery and your presence here, we may assume as a fact, without doing injustice to any one, that the trick was intended to deceive you. Of the person who has practiced it we have only suspicion, well-grounded suspicion, but no certainty."
"We will make it certainty," explained Werner, "before the day becomes many hours older."