The Chancellor moved to the appointed chair and took his seat in silence.
‘And now,’ said Otto, opening the roll, ‘what is all this? it looks like the manuscript of a book.’
‘It is,’ said Gotthold, ‘the manuscript of a book of travels.’
‘You have read it, Doctor Hohenstockwitz?’ asked the Prince.
‘Nay, I but saw the title page,’ replied Gotthold. ‘But the roll was given to me open, and I heard no word of any secrecy.’
Otto dealt the Chancellor an angry glance.
‘I see,’ he went on. ‘The papers of an author seized at this date of the world’s history, in a state so petty and so ignorant as Grünewald, here is indeed an ignominious folly. Sir,’ to the Chancellor, ‘I marvel to find you in so scurvy an employment. On your conduct to your Prince I will not dwell; but to descend to be a spy! For what else can it be called? To seize the papers of this gentleman, the private papers of a stranger, the toil of a life, perhaps—to open, and to read them. And what have we to do with books? The Herr Doctor might perhaps be asked for his advice; but we have no index expurgatorius in Grünewald. Had we but that, we should be the most absolute parody and farce upon this tawdry earth.’
Yet, even while Otto spoke, he had con-
