“Did nobody,” said the president, “excite, encourage, and direct your insurrection?”
“There was a Mr. Hacket, who was forever talking to us about rescuing a count who was imprisoned at Munkholm, whose messenger he said he was. We promised to do as he asked, because it was nothing to us to set one more captive free.”
“Was not this count’s name Schumacker or Griffenfeld, fellow?”
“Exactly so, your worship.”
“Did you never see him?”
“No, sir; but if he be that old man who told you that he had so many names just now, I must confess—”
“What?” interrupted the president.
“That he has a very beautiful white beard, sir; almost as handsome a one as my sister Maase’s husband’s father, of the village of Surb; and he lived to be one hundred and twenty years old.”
The darkness of the room prevented any one from seeing whether the president looked disappointed at the mountaineer’s simple answer. He ordered the archers to produce certain scarlet flags.
“Wilfred Kennybol,” he asked, “do you recognize these flags?”