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Updated: June 1, 2025
Before the entrance hung a lantern, which threw a feeble light upon the street. "Let us see what you have found, mistress," said Sir Philip, standing under the light. Elsalill held up the coin to the lantern, and hardly had she cast eye upon it when she cried out: "This is Herr Arne's money! I know it well. This is Herr Arne's money!" "What's that you say, mistress?" asked Sir Reginald.
"Yes," answered the man, "it is Torarin the fish hawker, who has been this day at the assize at Branehog." Herr Arne's looks seemed to grow more cheerful at this, and Torarin heard him say: "Come forward then, Torarin, and give us news of the assize! I have sat here and waited for half the night." All this had such a real and natural air that Torarin began to feel more and more courageous.
"I have a palsied arm, and therefore I am fearful of taking upon myself any bold and hazardous thing. I have known these many days who were Herr Arne's murderers, but I have not dared to bring them to justice. And because I have held my peace they have made their escape and have found occasion to carry the maiden with them.
But in the same instant as these words were spoken: "Drink, brother! Herr Arne's hoard is not yet done," Elsalill saw the dead girl rise from the bench and vanish. And in that moment Elsalill saw before her eyes three men with great beards and rough coats of skin, struggling with Herr Arne's servants.
"I cannot look on while they come and seize him," she thought. She leaned toward Sir Archie and whispered to him: "Do you not hear, Sir Archie? They are asking the hostess whether any of Herr Arne's murderers is here within." Then Sir Archie threw a glance across the room and looked at the pikemen who were speaking with the hostess.
And also, to his unutterable delight, the play seemed to "score". He had gazed at the rows of respectable burghers of this prosperous manufacturing town, and wondered what understanding they could have of his tragedy of "genius". But they seemed to be understanding; at any rate they laughed and applauded; and when Lloyd smashed the violin over von Arne's head and the curtain went down, there was quite a little uproar.
One of them was Herr Arne's niece, a child of no more than fourteen years. She was fair-haired and of delicate build; her face had not yet reached its fullness, but had a promise of beauty in it. She had another little maid sitting beside her, a poor orphan without father or mother, who had been given a home at the parsonage.
Arne's "Artaxerxes," which the critics of the day praised as possessing "the beautiful melody of Hasse, the mellifluous richness of Pergolese, the easy flow of Piccini, and the finished cantabile of Sacchini, with his own true and native simplicity."
Torarin had talked with many men in the course of the day; again and again had he told the story of Herr Arne's death. He had been well entertained too at the assize and had been made to empty many a mug of ale with travellers from afar. Torarin felt dull and heavy and lay down upon his load.
Herr Arne was an old white-haired man, but he was still powerful and erect. His wife sat beside him. To her the years had been unkind; her head and her hands trembled, and she was nearly deaf. On Herr Arne's other side sat his curate.
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