clad in a red mantle stood in the midst of us all, murmuring some unintelligible words, and looking highly displeased at us. The combatants seemed to fight more and more furiously. In a moment the stranger stooping down, filled his hands with sand which he cast repeatedly with the speed of light in thick clouds between the rivals, at the same time loudly laughing, ‘Hail to you, old master! well a day! have I played you a trick? now for Venice; now thou hast got it well—woe—woe!’
“We heard him say these words, though he was gone, nobody seemed to know how. Lost in astonishment, we at length turned our eyes to the duellists who both lay bleeding upon the ground; the senior was dead, and Marcellin we have here brought along with us in the situation you see. Their seconds have made their escape: and we, though less guilty, are come forward willingly to deliver ourselves up to whatever punishment may be thought due. No, we did not leave him helpless upon the ground.”
The Professor and Rhenfried, not without evident reluctance and shuddering, drew nigh the bier; pale and bloody, Marcellin raised himself up; he knew Nordenholm; moaned, and then exclaimed in rage, “Thou black sorcerer—abandoned sorcerer—I swore to do it—I saw thy hateful visage when you conjured up the image of my sweet wife’s father, all sorrowful and bathed in tears. Then sat she in her
