“It was upon that execrable hearth,” said he to his comrade, “that the embers of the true cross consumed the limbs of a saint.” A rude table stood some distance away from the fire. The woman invited the travellers to be seated at it. “Strangers,” said she, placing the lamp before them, “supper will soon be ready, and my husband will probably make haste to get here, for fear the midnight ghost should carry him off as it passes the Cursed Tower.” Ordener--for the reader has doubtless already guessed that he and his guide, Benignus Spiagudry, were the two travellers--could now examine at his leisure the strange disguise, in the concoction of which Benignus had exhausted all the resources of his fertile fancy, spurred on by a dread of recognition and capture. The poor fugitive had exchanged his reindeer-skin garments for a full suit of black, left at the Spladgest by a famous Throndhjem grammarian, who drowned himself in despair because he could not find out why “Jupiter” changed to “Jovis” in the genitive. His wooden shoes gave place to a stout pair of postilion boots, whose owner had been killed by his horses, in which his slender shanks had so much spare room that he could not have walked without the aid of half a truss of hay. The huge wig of an elegant young Frenchman, slain by thieves just outside the city gates, concealed his bald pate and floated over his sharp, crooked shoulders. One of his eyes was covered with a plaster, and, thanks to a pot of paint which he had found in the pocket of an old maid who died of disappointed love, his pale, hollow cheeks were tinged with an unwonted crimson, an ornament which the rain had now divided with his chin. Before seating himself, he carefully placed beneath him the pack which he carried on his back, first wrapping it in his old mantle, and while he absorbed his comrade’s entire attention, all his thoughts seemed centred in the roast which his hostess was watching, toward which he cast ever and anon a glance of anxiety and alarm. Broken ejaculations fell from his lips at intervals: “Human flesh! _Horridas epulas!_ Cannibals! A feast for Moloch! _Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet!_ Where are we?--Atreus--Druidess--Irmensul--The Devil struck Lycaon with lightning--” Finally he exclaimed: “Good Heavens! God be thanked! I see a tail!” Ordener, who, having watched and listened attentively, had closely followed the train of his thoughts, could not help smiling. “That tail need not comfort you. It may be the Devil’s hind quarter.” Spiagudry did not hear this pleasantry. His eyes were riveted on the back of the room. He trembled, and whispered in Ordener’s ear,-- “Master, look yonder, on that heap of straw, in the shadow!” “Well, what is it?” said Ordener. “Three naked bodies,--the corpses of three children!” “Some one is knocking at the door,” cried the red woman, who was squatting by the fire.