Certainly, if poor Benignus could have escaped at that moment upon some such aerial steed, the narrator of this story doubts not that he would most gladly have trusted his frail and terrified body to its tender mercies. Never before was his love of life so strong as now that he clearly perceived the extreme imminence of his danger. Everything that he saw frightened him,--the legends of the Cursed Tower, the wild eyes of the red woman, the voice, gloves, and beverage of the mysterious monk, the rash courage of his young companion, and especially the hangman,--the hangman, into whose abode he had fallen in his effort to escape from the charge of crime. He trembled so violently that he could scarcely move, particularly when the conversation turned upon himself, and he heard the dreadful Orugix’s question. As he had no desire to imitate the heroism of the priest, his faltering tongue found great difficulty in framing a reply. “Well!” repeated the hangman, “don’t you know the name of the keeper of the Spladgest? Does your wig make you deaf?” “Somewhat, sir; but,” he finally stammered out, “I don’t know his name, I swear I don’t.” “He don’t know?” said the hermit’s terrible voice. “He does wrong to take oath to it. That man’s name is Benignus Spiagudry.” “My name! my name! Great heavens!” exclaimed the affrighted old man. The hangman burst out laughing. “And who said that it was your name? We are talking of that dog of a keeper. In good sooth, this learned fellow is scared at nothing. How would it be if his ridiculous grimaces had a genuine cause? It would be fun to hang the old fool. So then, venerable doctor,” added the hangman, whom Spiagudry’s fears entertained, “you do not know this Benignus Spiagudry?” “No, master,” said the keeper, somewhat reassured by his disguise; “I assure you I don’t know him. And since he is so unfortunate as to displease you, I should be very sorry, master, indeed I should, if I did know the fellow.” “And you, hermit,” said Orugix,--“you seem to know him?” “Yes, truly,” replied the hermit; “he is a tall, dried-up, bald old fellow--” Spiagudry, justly alarmed at this minute description, hastily adjusted his wig. “He has,” added the hermit, “long hands like those of a thief who has not seen a traveller for a week, a bent back--” Spiagudry sat up as straight as he could. “Moreover, he might easily be taken for one of the corpses in his charge if he had not such sharp eyes.” Spiagudry clapped his hand to his plaster. “Many thanks, Father,” said the hangman; “I shall know the old Jew now, wherever I may run across him.” Spiagudry, who was an excellent Christian, indignant at this intolerable insult, could not help exclaiming, “Jew, master!” Then he stopped short, trembling lest he had said too much. “Well, Jew or Pagan, what does it matter which, if he have dealings with the Devil, as they say he has?”