such was the revulsion in poor Benedict’s feelings that he burst into an agony of tears, sobbing as if his heart would break.
This was too much for the Gnome, who, as we have intimated, was a good fellow at bottom, and he resolved at once to “cut short all intermission,” and end his victim’s troubles.
“My poor Benedict,” said he, “be of good cheer; resume thy wonted spirits, thou shalt not die. I have learned that thou art innocent, and I have come to release thee from thy bonds and from prison.”
He then drew a key from his pocket. “Let us see,” said he, “if it will fit.”
The padlock flew open at a touch, and the chains fell from the hands and feet of the prisoner. The benevolent confessor having then changed dresses with the tailor, dismissed him with these instructions:
“Walk slowly, with an air as grave as a monk, till thou hast passed the guards at the doors of the prison and at the town gate; then tuck up thy robe, and be off as fast as thou canst to the mountains, nor stop till thou hast reached Liebenau, and art at Clara’s door; knock gently at her window; she awaits thee with heart’s impatience.”
Benedict at first imagined this was all a dream; but having, by dint of rubbing his eyes and soundly pinching his legs and arms, ascertained that he was quite awake, he threw himself at the feet of his de-
