“The second of those prayers would destroy the first, even if serious reasons did not compel me to tear that name from your lips. Abuse my patience no longer.” “So be it, if you insist, young man,” said Spiagudry, raising himself, and in a loud voice. “The murderer, the profaner, is Hans of Iceland.” This terrible name was not unknown to Ordener. “What!” he cried, “Hans! that execrable bandit!” “Do not call him a bandit, for he has no followers.” “Then, wretch, how do you know him? What common crimes have brought you together?” “Oh, noble master, do not stoop to believe in appearances. Is the oak-tree poisonous because the serpent finds shelter within its trunk?” “No idle words! A scoundrel has no friend who is not an accomplice.” “I am not his friend, and still less his accomplice; and if all my oaths fail to convince you, sir, let me implore you to observe that this monstrous sacrilege exposes me, twenty-four hours hence, when Gill Stadt’s body is to be removed, to the torture allotted to those guilty of profanation, and thus casts me into the most fearful state of anxiety ever endured by innocent man.” These considerations of personal interest moved Ordener more than the suppliant voice of the poor keeper, much of whose pathetic though useless resistance to the little man’s sacrilegious act they had doubtless inspired. Ordener reflected a moment, while Spiagudry tried to read in his face whether this pause meant peace or boded a storm. At last he said, in a severe though quiet tone: “Old man, speak the truth! Did you find any papers upon that officer?” “None, upon my honor.” “Do you know if Hans of Iceland found any?” “I swear by Saint Hospitius that I do not know.” “You do not know? Do you know where this Hans of Iceland hides?” “He never hides; he roams about perpetually.” “Perhaps; but where is his den?” “That pagan,” whispered the old man, “has as many dens as the island of Hitteren has reefs, or the dog-star rays.” “I order you again,” broke in Ordener, “to speak in plain terms. Let me set you an example; hearken. You are mysteriously allied with a brigand, whose accomplice you still declare that you are not. If you know him, you must know where he has gone. Do not interrupt me. If you are not his accomplice, you will not hesitate to lead me in search of him!” Spiagudry could not contain his fright. “_You_, noble lord! _you_,--great God! full of youth and life,--_you_ would provoke, seek out that demon! When four-armed Ingiald fought the giant Nyctolm, at least, he had four arms!” “Well,” said Ordener, with a smile, “if four arms are a requisite, will you not be my guide?” “I! your guide! How can you jest with an old man who almost needs a guide himself?”