“The way to discover it is easy enough. In this document there are one hundred and thirty-two letters, giving seventy-nine consonants to fifty-three vowels. This is about the proportion found in most southern languages, the idioms of the north being much more rich in consonants. We may confidently predict, therefore, that we have to deal with a southern dialect.”
Nothing could be more logical.
“Now,” said Professor Hardwigg, “to trace the particular language.”
“As Shakespeare says, “that is the question,'” was my rather satirical reply.
“This man Saknussemm,” he continued, “was a very learned man: now as he did not write in the language of his birthplace, he probably, like most learned men of the sixteenth century, wrote in Latin. If, however, I prove wrong in this guess, we must try Spanish, French, Italian, Greek, and even Hebrew. My own opinion, though, is decidedly in favor of Latin.”
This proposition startled me. Latin was my favorite study, and it seemed sacrilege to believe this gibberish to belong to the country of Virgil.
“Barbarous Latin, in all probability,” continued my uncle, “but still Latin.”
“Very probably,” I replied, not to contradict him.
“Let us see into the matter,” continued my uncle; “here you see we have a series of one hundred and thirty-two letters, apparently thrown pell-mell upon paper, without method or organization. There are words which are composed wholly of consonants, such as m.rnlls, others which are nearly all vowels, the fifth, for instance, which is unteief, and one of the last oseibo. This appears an extraordinary combination. Probably we shall find that the phrase is arranged according to some mathematical plan. No doubt a certain sentence has been written out and then jumbled up—some plan to which some figure is the clue. Now, Harry, to show your English wit—what is that figure?”
I could give him no hint. My thoughts were indeed far away. While he was speaking I had caught sight of the portrait of my cousin Gretchen, and was wondering when she would return.
We were affianced, and loved one another very sincerely. But my uncle, who never thought even of such sublunary matters, knew nothing of this. Without noticing my abstraction, the Professor began reading the puzzling cryptograph all sorts of ways, according to some theory of his own. Presently, rousing my wandering attention, he dictated one precious attempt to me.
I mildly handed it over to him. It read as follows:
m m e s s u n k a S e n r A . i c e f d o K . s e g n i t t a m u r t n
e c e r t s e r r e t t e , r o t a i v s a d u a , e d n e c s e d s a d n e
l a c a r t n i i i l u J s i r a t r a c S a r b m u t a b e l e d m e k
m e r e t a r c s i l u c o Y s l e f f e n S n I .
I could scarcely keep from laughing, while my uncle, on the contrary, got in a towering passion, struck the table with his fist, darted out of the room, out of the house, and then taking to his heels was presently lost to sight.
III
An Astounding Discovery
“What is the matter?” cried the cook, entering the room; “when will master have his dinner?”
“Never.”
“And, his supper?”
“I don’t know. He says he will eat no more, neither shall I. My uncle has determined to fast and make me fast until he makes out this abominable inscription,” I replied.
“You will be starved to death,” she said.
I was very much of the same opinion, but not liking to say so, sent her away, and began some of my usual work of classification. But try as I might, nothing could keep me from thinking alternately of the stupid manuscript and of the pretty Gretchen.
Several times I thought of going out, but my uncle would have been angry at my absence. At the end of an hour, my allotted task was done. How to pass the time? I began by lighting my pipe. Like all other students, I delighted in tobacco; and, seating myself in the great armchair, I began to think.