a moment be doubted that it was the work of highest genius exhibited, but in its quiescent state it contrasted disadvantageously with the admirable systems revolving round it.  Marguerite held her breath while she gazed; neither did she perceive how much attention she herself had awakened—­the moment for vanity had passed, her present interests lay far deeper.  Immediately above her the Grand Council, with the Grand Master, were sitting, dressed in their robes of state.  The Count Albrecht wore his cordon of the Fleece, and looked every inch a grand master; the anxiety for his son’s success was apparent in the nervous glances which he cast around him.  Behind, and amid the retainers, stood the dark, designing-looking stranger, who held in his hand the fate of Dumiger.

The heralds proclaimed silence, and then the Grand Master rose to read the decision of the council.  It commenced with reciting the list of the competitors, and when it mentioned Dumiger’s name, it said, “the work is imperfect, and therefore must be withdrawn.”

“It is not imperfect,” cried two stentorian voices from the farther end of the hall.

The voices proceeded from Carl and Krantz, whose excitement could no longer be retained.

“No! it is not imperfect,” said the gentler voice of Marguerite.

All eyes were turned toward the spot whence that voice proceeded.  Marguerite nearly fainted to find herself the object of so much attention.

“Keep your courage,” whispered Carl.  “Tell them that Dumiger will soon be free, and the works put in motion.  I will tell them for you,” he exclaimed, and he began to speak, when the mysterious stranger stepped forth.

“Stay,” he said, “let me touch the works of this clock—­the secret is mine.”

He forced his way through the crowd, looked carefully over the machinery, opened a secret spring, arranged two small wheels, on which the accurate movement of the whole machinery depended, and immediately it was all in motion.

The proceeding was watched with intense interest by all.  The stranger’s eye gleamed with delight, for he was anxious, with the true spirit of Hamburg jealousy, that the people of Dantzic should feel the value of what they were about to lose.

It was indeed a marvelous piece of workmanship:  the planets all revolved in their regular order, figures of exquisite workmanship appeared and disappeared to mark the seconds, and the dial plate was of elaborate beauty.  The people for some time stood entranced in wonder.  At last they exclaimed, as with one voice—­

“It is a work worthy of Dantzic—­and Dumiger has won!  Dumiger forever’.”

If Marguerite had nearly fainted from fear, she was now pale with delight.

“Dumiger, Dumiger forever!” again shouted the crowd; “where is the laurel? where is the triumph?  Greatest amongst his citizens, Dumiger has won!”

But at that moment the stranger came forward with a paper in his hand.  The Count’s face, which had been overspread with anger and shame at these shouts, was again lit up with hope, for after Dumiger’s his son’s was evidently the best.