felt free to act as he deemed proper, all his obligations to the accused
having been fulfilled. Just how far this story accords with the actual
facts we are unable to say, but Adalbert, despite his indignant protest,
was sentenced to death and beheaded.

Hatto had reached his dignity in the church by secular instead of
ecclesiastic influence, and is credited with employing his power in this
and other instances with such lack of honor and probity that he became
an object of the deepest popular contempt and execration. His name was
derided in the popular ballads, and he came to be looked upon as the
scapegoat of the avarice and licentiousness of the church in that
irreligious mediæval age. Among the legends concerning him is one
relating to Henry, the son of his ally, Otho of Saxony, who died in 912.
Henry had long quarrelled with the bishop, and the fabulous story goes
that, to get rid of his high-spirited enemy, the cunning churchman sent
him a gold chain, so skilfully contrived that it would strangle its
wearer.

[Illustration: THE MOUSE-TOWER ON THE RHINE.]

The most famous legend about Hatto, however, is that which tells the
manner of his death. The story has been enshrined in poetry by
Longfellow, but we must be content to give it in plain prose. It tells
us that a famine occurred in the land, and that a number of peasants
came to the avaricious bishop to beg for bread. By his order they were
shut up in a great barn, which then was set on fire, and its miserable
occupants burned to death.

And now the cup of Hatto's infamy was filled, and heaven sent him
retribution. From the ruins of the barn issued a myriad of mice, which