So quietly did the little procession leave the hall that not a man or a dog stirred in his sleep. There crept into Rikulf's heart a feeling of fear, which he tried to shake off with a laugh. "I am glad I never interfered with any of your affairs, Hardberd," he said gaily, as they paused before passing through the rough hole that was the entrance to the dungeon.

The dungeon was a rude passageway cut into the rock. Though it had an appearance of great age, it had been cut out only in Hardbeid's youth; for it was one of the few Roman ideas the knight had brought home with him.

The gust of air that greeted them in the passageway sickened Rikulf. The close, damp atmosphere was heavy with the stench of decaying animal matter, but more powerful than this was the smell of rats. Sure enough, they had not gone far before they were surrounded by a swarm of rodents. Before, at the sides, behind, they ran, squeaking and gliding over one another, always at a distance but terrible in their persistence.

A shudder of horror went through Rikulf's marrow.

"We had better hasten, or we shall not see even the bones of Ekkehard," he said, glancing at the rats.

Hardberd noticed his look and laughed.

"Never fear, he will be there all right. We are nearly at the place."

He walked on rapidly, chuckling to himself, holding the torch high in the air. The fever danced in Rikulf's veins. He could think of nothing but the effort of moving. The monk who clutched his arm in terror seemed to be pulling him back with the strength of a giant.

A large, rusty rack loomed in the distance. As the light grew brighter, Rikulf noticed the festoons of cobwebs with which it was draped. The grave-like desolation of the place filled him with dread. Shaking off the monk, he ran forward to greet the prisoner, half fearing to find him crazy with the darkness and loneliness. An iron ring was fastened to the wall about the height of a man's neck; the chains and rings for his feet lay on the floor; but there was no man.

"He is gone!" exclaimed Rikulf. Suddenly Hardberd sprang forward, pushed Rikulf against the ring, and held him there. Then turning to the monk he said, "Chain him." The monk without a word set down the bread and water and, kneeling before Rikulf, began fastening the chains.

Blank amazement paralyzed the man and he looked at his host dumbly; the next moment anger quickened him and he struggled with all his might. But after a feeble twist he stopped, panting with exhaustion. Hardberd laughed until the passageway rang with his mirth.

"So you have forgotten my lady Hildegard the White-armed, eh?" shaking Rikulf as a terrier does a rat. "But I remember, I have always remembered. I tried to kill you at Ravenna; but you were too well protected, so I came home. I have thought and thought how to get at you, and here you come right into my hands. Now you remember her?" And he laughed again.

"Hildegard the White-armed! You fool," cried Rikulf, "she had nothing to do with you. That woman was one of Prince Ludolf's mistresses. She worked her way into court to kill Queen Adelaide, of whom she was jealous. I tortured her simply to find out what she knew, and sent her to the nunnery because it was the best place for her. A nun killed her there,for some woman's reason."

"I'll not believe your talk," sneered Hardberd.

"Of course you won't," said Rikulf calmly, though inwardly he was now cold with fear for Hildebold, now hot with wrath at the fate of his mission. "I might know you couldn't comprehend it. I didn't think you had sense enough to trap me like this, but I see you have been thinking of it for years. But let Hildebold go. Give him an oath. He will keep it for the emperor's sake. Otto's business must be carried out. Do it for Otto's sake. My mission must not be delayed." Rikulf's voice broke with his earnestness.

"Hildebold shall tell no tales. I do not need to serve the emperor."

"Start your rack, then. I've often watched men on it and wondered how I should behave. Now I shall know." Rikulf laughed.

Hardberd also laughed, and turned away. touch you. I'll let the rats do that."

"Oh, I shall not

To be eaten by

The torch spun round before Rikulf's eyes. rats in a cellar! He thought of his life, the better half of his work not done; all the plans he and Grimwald had made; all the good he had wanted to do. The utter uselessness of the old man's vengeance and of his own death filled him with mute

wrath. Tears of rage stood in his eyes; but not for life itself would he have wept before Hardberd.

"Perhaps you would like to confess," suggested Hardberd, and, walking back to Rikulf, held the torch so that it lighted up his face. Rikulf turned his head quickly for fear his tears

should be seen.

The monk came forward holding out his crucifix. But Rikulf held back his head. "I'll not confess to a coward and a murderer," he said, with such fierce scorn that the priest shrank back.

"You had better do it," advised Hardberd; "if you don't you'll spend more years in hell."

"I'd rather spend the years in hell." The monk came forward again. He thrust the crucifix into Rikulf's face so that he could not choose but see. The rude figure on the cross somehow reminded him of Grimwald. He thought of the kind-faced old man, of the one-legged bird, the cat with her tail tied to a stick, of their quiet talks, of St. Mark's Gospel; Grimwald loved him, he would want him to confess.

A sudden burst of sobs shook the man. The little monk had to support him to keep him from strangling in the iron ring. The sobs and confession were so mixed that the priest heard not half the words, and comprehended very little of what he heard. But he gave him absolution and blessing. When he had finished he walked silently to his lord's side.

For a moment they paused to look at the man. His violent burst of emotion had left him unconscious. He hung limply in his chains, his head resting on the iron ring into which his neck had been thrust. His eyes were shut, his face white; the tears still sparkled on his eyelashes and beard.

The men turned and walked away. The rats squealed as they gathered. The men quickened their footsteps. The rats did not follow them this time.

CAROLINE THOMAS RUMBOLD.

"What you need," remarked the Doctor," is a complete rest. If you stay in bed two weeks you will feel like a new creature."

On the Disadvantages of Good Ancestry

fully.

"But I can't stay in bed two weeks," I protested, "I would never be able to get my work made up.' The Doctor regarded me thought

"Do you come of a long line of New England ancestors?"

she asked, and then added, as I answered in the affirmative, "And you are eligible for most of the societies like the Colonial Dames ?"

"All of them," I answered, not without some pride, "from the Descendants of the Mayflower down."

"H'm, I thought as much," she replied, "you've inherited more conscience than you need for everyday use."

The foregoing conversation caused me to reflect that this was only one of a great number of disadvantages arising from good ancestry. Surely the daughter of a hundred earls is not to be envied, provided, of course, that they were good earls who feared God and honored the king. The responsibilities of living up to a family reputation are simply enormous, and pride of race, like a cruel spur, drives us forward when we are weary and fainting, and would far rather fall into "innocuous desuetude" and consign the family reputation to eternal oblivion.

And not only have your ancestors left a name behind them that dwells in the minds of men, so that it is always held up like a mirror to reflect the imperfections of the present generation, but the very blood which they bequeathed to their posterity teems with reminders of those who made it what it is. Perhaps a button comes off your glove just as you are starting for church. "Sew it on, there is time enough," says your room-mate whose ancestors appeared in Kansas two generations ago, and gave no account of their former dwelling or pursuits. But although, theoretically, you are sure it is not half as bad to sew on that button as it is to go into the house of the Lord with an empty buttonhole, somehow as you thread the needle you do not feel quite comfortable. The spirit of some staunch old Puritan ancestor seems to be whispering, "Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work," and-well, all the rest of the day you can not help wishing you had not sewed on that button.

This is only one of a thousand ways that the ideas and prejudices of our forefathers creep in and tincture all our thoughts and actions, until sometimes it is hard to believe that we are anything at all of ourselves, but only that which preceding generations have bequeathed to us. Yet at times we are bitterly reminded that this is not the case.

"It is strange," your relatives say, "that you should have such a frightful temper. Both your father's family and your mother's were noted for their good dispositions." And again,