“Oh, father,” she sighed, “while you speak thus, this noble and unfortunate youth may be dying for your sake!”
The aged minister shook his head doubtfully.
“That I can neither believe nor wish. And even so, how am I to blame? I should merely show myself ungrateful to the young man, as so many others have shown themselves to me.”
A deep sigh was Ethel’s only answer; and Schumacker, turning to his table, tore up with an absent air a few leaves of “Plutarch’s Lives,” which volume lay before him, already tattered in countless places, and covered with marginal notes. A moment later the door opened, and Schumacker, without looking up, cried out as usual: “Do not enter! do not disturb me! I will see no one!”
“It is his Excellency the governor,” was the answer.
An elderly man dressed in the uniform of a general, with the collars of the Elephant, the Dannebrog, and the Golden Fleece about his neck, advanced toward Schumacker, who half rose, muttering, “The governor! the governor!” The general bowed respectfully to Ethel, as she stood at her father’s side, timidly and anxiously watching him.
Perhaps before proceeding further, it will be well briefly to recall the motives of General Levin’s visit to Munkholm. The reader will remember the unpleasant news which disturbed the old governor, in the twentieth chapter of this truthful narrative. On receiving it, he at once saw the importance of questioning Schumacker; but he was extremely reluctant to do so. The idea of tormenting a poor prisoner, already a prey to so much that was painful, and whom he had known in his days of power, of severely scanning the secrets of an unfortunate man, even if guilty, was most unpleasant to his kind and generous soul. Still, his duty to the king required it. He ought not to leave Throndhjem without such fresh light as might be gained by questioning the apparent author of the rebellion among the miners. Accordingly, the night before his departure, after a long and confidential talk with Countess d’Ahlefeld, the governor made up his mind to visit the prisoner. As he approached the fortress, thoughts of the interests of the State, of the advantage to which his many personal enemies might turn what they would style his negligence, and perhaps too the crafty words of the chancellor’s wife, worked within him, and confirmed him in his purpose. He therefore climbed to the Lion of Schleswig tower with every intention to be severe; he resolved to bear himself toward Schumacker the conspirator as if he had never known Griffenfeld the chancellor,—to cast aside all his memories, and even his natural disposition, and to speak as a firm judge to this former fellow-sharer in the royal favor.
So soon, however, as he entered the ex-chancellor’s apartment, the old man’s venerable though sombre face made a strong impression upon him; Ethel’s sweet though dignified expression touched him; and with his first glance at the two prisoners, his stern intentions died within him.
He advanced toward the fallen minister, and involuntarily offered him his hand, saying, without remarking that his politeness met with no response:—
“How are you, Count Griffenf—” His old habit overcame him for the moment; then he corrected himself quickly—“Mr. Schumacker?” With this he paused, satisfied and exhausted by such an effort.