The president ordered both parties to be silent; then, again asking Colonel Vœthaün whether it was really Toric-Belfast who brought Hans of Iceland into camp a prisoner, at his assent he declared that the prize belonged to the soldier.
The small man gnashed his teeth, and the musketeer greedily stretched out his hands for the sack.
“One moment!” cried the little man. “Mr. President, that money according to the lord mayor’s proclamation, was to be given to him who took Hans of Iceland.”
“Well?” said the judge.
The little man turned to the giant: “That man is not Hans of Iceland.”
A murmur of surprise ran through the room. The president and private secretary moved uneasily in their chairs.
“No!” emphatically reiterated the small man, “the money does not belong to the cursed musketeer of Munkholm, for that man is not Hans of Iceland.”
“Halberdiers,” said the president, “remove this madman, he has lost his senses.”
The bishop interposed: “Will you allow me, most worthy President, to remark that you may, by refusing to hear this man, destroy the prisoner’s last chance? I demand that he be confronted with the stranger.”
“Reverend Bishop, the court will grant your request,” replied the president; and addressing the giant: “You have declared yourself to be Hans of Iceland; do you persist in that statement?”