al's eyes
started from their sockets, its legs grew perfectly stiff, and this time
the horse was really dead, while the shafts of the sledge vainly thrust
themselves into the air, like the gaping mouth of a deserted bird.

No farther progress was possible. The women sat trembling in the hut,
roasting before the fire, and shivering when a draught touched them. . . .
Ruth wept for the poor little horse, and Marx sat as if utterly crushed
beside his old friend's stiffening body, heeding nothing, least of all
the snow, which was making him whiter than the miller, with whom he had
expected to rest that evening. The doctor gazed in mute despair at his
dumb wife, who, with clasped hands, was praying fervently; the smith
pressed his hand upon his brow, vainly pondering over what was to be done
now, until his head ached; while, from the distance, echoed the howl of a
hungry wolf, and a pair of ravens alighted on a white bough beside the
little horse, gazing greedily at the corpse lying in the snow.

Meantime, the abbot was sitting in his pleasantly-warmed study, which was
pervaded by a faint, agreeable perfume, gazing now at the logs burning in
the beautiful marble mantel-piece, and then at the magistrate, who had
brought him strange tidings.

The prelate's white woollen morning-robe clung closely around his stately
figure. Beside him lay, side by side, for comparison, two manuscript
copies of his favorite book, the idyls of Theocritus, which, for his
amusement, and to excel the translation of Coban Hesse, he was turning
into Latin verse, as the duties of his office gave him leisure.

The magistrate was standing by the fire-side. He was a thick-set man of
middle height, with a large head, and clever but coarse features, as
rudely moulded as if they had been carved from wood. He was one of the
best informed lawyers in the country, and his words flowed as smoothly
and clearly from his strong lips, as if every thought in his keen brain
was born fully matured and beautifully finished.

In the farthest corner of the room, awaiting a sign from his master,
stood the magistrate's clerk, a little man with a round head, and legs
like the sickle of the waxing or waning moon. He carried under his short
arms two portfolios, filled with important papers.

"He comes from Portugal, and has lived under an assumed name?" So the
abbot repeated, what he had just heard.

"His name is Lopez, not Costa," replied the other; "these papers prove
i