"Nothing," replied Master Sebald, bowing with folded arms before the judges.
The president covered his head with his black furred robe, and continued:
"Master! the justice of man hath pronounced thy doom, and will soon be satisfied. With a common criminal our office would here end, and but a few words of exhortation to repentance would accompany him to the executioner. But, criminal as thou art, we cannot forget that for sixty years thou wast our neighbor and our friend, and that those hands now red with murder have carved many a pure and holy image to strengthen and lift our souls toward God.
"How canst thou, whose works have so long glorified our Lord, now refuse to repent? Hast thou not read a thousand times the command, 'Thou shalt not kill'? Hast never reflected upon our Saviour's agony—his wounded hands, his lance-pierced side, his crown of thorns, the blows his face received, his shames, his griefs, avenged only by the words, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do'? Thou hast thought upon all this; thou hast even modelled with thy hands the bloody scenes of thy Redeemer's life; and yet thou couldst not learn to forgive—thou, who wast but a man!"
Here the president was for a moment silent, overcome by his emotion, and the old sculptor, as if shaken in his fierce resolve and gloomy pride by the words of his judge, slowly lifted his head and cast a troubled look around. "In the bitterness of thy heart," continued the president, "in the madness of thy wrath, all this thou didst forget; and yet to recall it all to mind, thou neededst but to lift thine eyes. Gaze not on us, Master Sebald; bear thy glances higher, and see above us the pallid face, the wounded form, the holy eyes of him who loved more than thou, who suffered more than thou, and who only avenged himself upon his torturers by saving them from death, albeit at the price of his own blameless life. Harken to me, betrayed friend! that Man-God had, too, a friend, and was betrayed by the kiss of that friend; listen, unhappy father! that Father was sold, scourged, crucified by his children. And if this God, reviled, dishonored, avenged not himself, was it not to set man an example of forgiveness? Thou hast not yet expiated thy crime, Master Koerner, and the hand of the executioner will soon deliver thee to a higher Judge. Christ will await thee at the gibbet, just and inflexible. Gaze on him ere thy death, poor sinner, with faith and love, for thy Judge is also thy Saviour."
So speaking, the president uncovered his head and pointed solemnly to the ivory crucifix. The eyes of Master Koerner followed the uplifted hand and rested on the agonized face of Christ. Then their fixed and stony glare grew soft; their dry and burning lustre grew moist; his lips quivered; he clasped his hands, and, after some moments of fierce struggling with himself, the old artist murmured in a trembling voice:
"Christ! God of the wretched—God of fathers alas! since Mina's death never have I turned mine eye to thee!"
His head fell once more upon his breast and his voice was choked in a sob, while Johann at his side lifted his hands toward heaven in an ecstasy of joy and gratitude.
There was a murmur and a motion in the crowd; then all was silence again as the voice of the president arose once more: