On the eventful morning which has been described, Dumiger arose full of hope, his triumph was to be secured; and in the evening he even entertained a secret impression and belief that the people would not permit the clock to be removed, and that the error he had made might be retrieved by their energetic wills.  He heard the bands of music playing in the distance.  The merry chimes floated over the water, and bade him good speed.  He thought that he could even discern the buzz of enjoyment, and the shout of anticipated triumph.  He took out the last letter which Marguerite had written to him, and pressed it to his heart; that day, he thought, was to see them united never to be parted again.

What sound was that?—­Was it the wind?  No, the murmur of many voices, the tramp of a thousand feet, shook the drawbridge.  He heard his own name called out.  Yes, it is! it surely cannot be an error; it is Dumiger they are invoking.  Now there can be no mistake, the crowd unite in one loud cry,—­

“Where is Dumiger?”

“I am here, I am here,” he shrieks out; “Open the gates.”

What could it mean? the guards were resisting.  There is a shot fired—­is this the way in which a triumph is conducted?  There is a pause—­a parley.

“We want the man Dumiger, the prisoner,” exclaims one.

“Good, you shall have him.  Let but a few enter,” says the lieutenant of the tower, “and the guard shall withdraw.”

Immediately there is a loud rush on the stair, not the tramp, tramp, of regular troops.

“Here, here!” exclaims Dumiger; “here am I, my friends!  Welcome, welcome!” and he rushes to embrace the first who enters.

“Back, traitor!” answers the man.

Dumiger tumbles against the wall in terror and astonishment.

“Yes, you are the traitor,” continued he who acted the part of leader of the motley crowd; “you have sold your birthright—­you have betrayed our interests.  What punishment is fit for such a usurer?”

“Down, down with him,” cried the mob.

The leaders consulted together for one moment.

“My good people,” continued the same man, “we have taken counsel, and you shall redress.  We will not take this man’s life.  This is what we decide,—­We will keep the clock to be the glory of our town, but he shall never see it, neither shall he have it any more in his power to make another equal to it or better, for we will put out his eyes.”

“Yes, yes,” vociferated the mob, “it is excellent.  Put out his eyes at once.”

Before Dumiger could collect his scattered senses two strong, stalwart men had seized him.  In spite of his shrieks and entreaties they threw him down on the straw; one more savage than the rest drew forth a small knife—­agony on agony! horror on horror! in one moment to the living man there was Cimmerian darkness.  The deed was done, and they who had done it looked on with horror and fear at their own crime.  There were no shrieks to break the fearful silence:  a few inarticulate sobs of heart wrung from his misery were all that was heard, and the mob withdrew silent and repentant.