night on urgent business, the young man gave no further heed to the noise. Again it sounded, and nearer this time, and he imagined he could distinguish a stealthy footfall close to his ear. He lowered the lamp-wick and looked about the chamber.
It contained one costly painting, which extended from floor to ceiling, representing the coronation of the fair Jacqueline, that ill-starred heroine of so many Netherland ballads and dramas. In one part of the picture was an assassin, dagger in hand, sent by the Duke of Burgundy to murder his cousin. The gleam of the dying embers in the grate shot forth a lurid, fitful glare, and the light falling on the dagger and on the life-sized figures in the picmade them seem real. To the highly wrought imagination of the young man the scene was once more enacted.
Again he heard that curious, muffled sound, accompanied by a clicking noise. Was he dreaming or not? The picture seemed to move inward like a door! Conrad placed his hand on his trusty sword and watched. Soon he saw the dark face of a man peering cautiously into the room. Reassured by the heavy breathing of the Prince, the man advanced. He was a powerfully built Spaniard, and in his hand was a gleaming dirk.
Conrad saw at a glance that in open contest the ruffian was more than a match for him. There was little time to consider what was the best mode of
