“Oh!  Marguerite!” exclaimed Dumiger, “if you were here, what would you counsel?”

“What would she counsel,” said the stranger, “except to accept this offer?  Remember, if you refuse it you remain here for days, if not weeks.  You cannot hope to obtain the preference unless you are enabled to inform any one of the secret of setting the works in motion, and then it would require a hand as steady and experienced as my own to carry out your directions; and I should not undertake to do it except on the conditions which I have named.”

“Show me the conditions drawn out,” said Dumiger.

The man rolled out slowly one of the long strips of parchment which he held in his hand; he gave it to Dumiger, who drew the lamp near him, and for a few minutes reveled in the ideas of freedom and wealth.  He had but to say the word, and he enjoyed all that he had been laboring for through life; but then, at what price? at that which it pained him to contemplate—­the citizenship of his native town, where his family had dwelt respected for centuries.  No doubt he was selling his birthright; he was parting with all that a man should cling to in adversity as in prosperity—­that which is not to be purchased with gold—­all his old ties, his affections, his faith.  Once signed, the deed was irrevocable; and yet if he did not sign, what had he to hope for?

He leaned his head on his hands, in one of those stern struggles which age a man in a few minutes, as breaths of frost wither the freshest leaves.  He invoked the Spirit of Love—­he called forth Marguerite, and she stood beside him.  He saw her with her cheek paler than when he had parted from her; he saw her bosom heaving with sighs instead of love; he heard her soft whisper in his ear, and he thought that whisper expressed assent—­that for him, she too was willing to relinquish the home and the friends of her childhood.  Ay, is it not ever so?  Invoke whom we may in hours of trial, does not the oracle take its tone from our own wishes?  Fond and futile pretense to invoke the Spirit of Love to decide where love is interested!  As Marguerite seemed to stand beside Dumiger he lost sight of ambition, and all its pomp and circumstance; all he asked was to be free.

“Give me the paper,” he said in a firm voice:  “the clock is yours, and the principle of the movement is to be found engraved on a small plate under the mainspring.”

If he had seen the smile of triumph which passed over that man’s countenance, he would have hesitated.

The deed was done:  the man put his materials and his paper into his pocket again.

“Now,” he said, rising to go, “the third day’s post will find you free; and take my advice, leave Dantzic soon.  The people will be irritated at being deprived of their master-piece.  I would not have you trust to their render mercies; for that matter, it is well for you that you are safe in prison.  Remember this advice, for I know the Dantzickers as well as you do.”