"You know, marshal, it is our rule to search all prisoners on their entering,—a routine from which we did not except even his grace."
"And what did you discover?"
"Upon his person—nothing; that is, nothing of consequence. But a few minutes afterwards a soldier caught sight of the remains of a book burning upon a fire that was close by."
"Flung there by the duke?"
"Without doubt. The mystery is how he contrived to do it without our knowledge, inasmuch as there were several persons standing by."
"You recovered the book from the flames?"
"We attempted to remove it with the tongs, but the thing fell to pieces; the pages were consumed; nothing but the leather cover remained, and that all charred; upon it we could just discern the title."
"And that was—?"
"'The Plays of Æschylus.' Now why should the duke desire to destroy his copy of the Greek poet?"
"He had a motive, I warrant, and that a powerful one. I wish, Miroslav, you had secured the volume in time. Æschylus, Æschylus," repeated Zabern, thoughtfully. "My classical scholarship has long since evaporated, but if I remember rightly," he added, his countenance suddenly lighting up with a new idea, "Æschylus wrote a play called 'The Furies.'"