Ordener, at first struck with horror, shuddered, and regretted both his journey and the storm. But soon a peculiar feeling of curiosity took possession of him, and although he pitied his old guide’s distress and terror, he devoted his entire attention to observing the speech and manners of the singular being before him,--just as a man might listen eagerly to the growl of a hyena or the roar of a tiger, brought from the desert to one of our great cities. Poor Benignus was far from being sufficiently easy in his mind to make psychological observations. Hidden behind Ordener, he drew his mantle closely about him, raised a restless hand to his plaster, pulled the back of his loose periwig over his face, and sighed heavily. Meantime the hostess had dished up the joint of roast lamb, with its reassuring tail, on a large earthen platter. The hangman seated himself opposite Ordener and Spiagudry, between the two clergymen; and his wife, after putting upon the table a jug of sweetened beer, a piece of _rindebrod_,[8] and five wooden plates, sat down by the fire and busied herself in sharpening her husband’s dull tools. “There, reverend sir,” said Orugix, laughing; “the sheep offers you a piece of lamb. And you, Sir Periwig, was it the wind that blew your hair over your face?” “The wind, sir,--the storm--” stammered the trembling Spiagudry. “Come, pluck up a spirit, old boy! You see that these reverend gentlemen and I are good fellows. Tell us who you are, and who your silent young friend is, and talk a bit. If your conversation is as amusing as your person, it must be funny indeed.” “Your worship jests,” said the keeper, pursing his lips, showing his teeth and winking, to make himself look merry. “I am but a poor old man.” “Yes,” interrupted the jovial hangman, “some old scientist, some old sorcerer.” “Oh, my lord and master, a scientist, but no sorcerer!” “So much the worse; a sorcerer would complete our joyful Sanhedrim. Gentlemen and guests, let us drink to restore this old sage’s speech, so that he may enliven us at supper; the health of the man we hanged to-day, brother preacher! Well, father monk, do you refuse my beer?” The hermit had, indeed, drawn from under his gown a large gourd of clear water, from which he filled his glass. “Zounds, hermit of Lynrass!” cried the hangman, “if you will not taste my beer, I will taste the water which you prefer to it.” “So be it,” answered the hermit. “First take off your glove, worthy brother,” answered the hangman. “Water should always be poured with the bare hand.” The hermit shook his head, saying, “It is a vow.” “Well, then, pour,” said the hangman. Hardly had Orugix raised the glass to his lips when he set it down hastily, while the hermit drained his at a draught.