At this instant a ray from the lamp fell upon Gill Stadt’s bloody head. “Good God!” exclaimed Ordener, “what abominable sacrilege!” “Great Saint Hospitius, pity me!” sighed the poor keeper. “Old man,” continued Ordener, in threatening tones, “are you so remote from the tomb that you can safely violate the respect which is its due? And do you not fear, wretched fellow, that the living will teach you what you owe to the dead?” “Oh,” cried the poor keeper, “mercy! It was not I! If you only knew--” And he stopped; for he remembered the little man’s words: “Be faithful, be dumb.” “Did you see any one escape through that aperture?” he asked faintly. “Yes; was it your accomplice?” “No; it was the guilty man, the only guilty man! I swear it by all the torments of hell, by all the blessings of heaven, by this same body so infamously profaned!” and he fell upon the pavement before Ordener. Hideous as Spiagudry was, there was yet an accent of truth in his despair and protestations, which convinced the young man. “Old man,” said he, “rise; and if you did not outrage death, do not degrade age.” The keeper rose. Ordener continued: “Who is the culprit?” “Oh, silence, noble youth! You know not of whom you speak. Silence!” And Spiagudry mentally repeated: “Be faithful, be dumb.” Ordener answered coldly: “Who is the culprit? I must know!” “In Heaven’s name, sir, do not say so! Be silent, for fear--” “Fear will not silence me, but shall make you speak.” “Excuse me; forgive me, young master!” said the agonized Spiagudry. “I cannot.” “You can, for I insist. Tell me the profaner’s name!” Spiagudry still strove to evade. “Well, noble master, the profaner of this corpse is the assassin of that officer.” “Then that officer was murdered?” asked Ordener, reminded, by this abrupt transition, of the object of his search. “Yes, undoubtedly, sir.” “And by whom,--by whom?” “In the name of the saint on whom your mother called when she gave you birth, do not seek to know his name, young master; do not force me to reveal it.” “If my desire to know it required any spur, you would add it, old man, in the shape of curiosity. I command you to name the murderer.” “Well, then,” said Spiagudry, “see these deep wounds, made by long, sharp nails on the body of this unfortunate man. They will name the assassin.” And the old man showed Ordener a number of ugly scratches on the naked, freshly washed corpse. “What!” said Ordener, “was it some wild beast?” “No, my young lord.” “But unless it was the Devil--” “Hush! Beware, lest your guesses come too close to the mark. Did you never hear,” added the keeper in a low voice, “of a man or a monster with human face, whose nails are as long as those of Ashtaroth who ruined us all, or of Antichrist who will yet destroy us?” “Speak more plainly.” “‘Woe unto you!’ says the Apocalypse--” “I demand the assassin’s name!” “The assassin--his name? My lord, have pity on me; have pity on yourself!”