“I should readily believe it,” rejoined the hermit, with a sarcastic smile, not quite hidden by his cowl, “if he were not such a coward. But how could he covenant with Satan? He is as cowardly as he is wicked. When fear takes possession of him, he actually forgets his own identity.” The hermit spoke slowly, as if with intention, the very deliberation of his words lending them peculiar force. “He forgets his own identity!” mentally repeated Spiagudry. “It’s a pity for a bad man to be a coward,” said the hangman; “for he’s not worth hating. We fight a serpent, but we can only crush a lizard.” Spiagudry ventured a few words in his own defence. “But, gentlemen, are you sure that the official of whom you speak is really what you say? Is his reputation so bad?” “His reputation!” repeated the hermit; “he has the worst reputation of any man in the district!” Benignus, in his disappointment, turned to the hangman. “Master, what fault have you to find with him? For I do not doubt that your dislike is just.” “You are right, old man, not to doubt it. As his trade resembles mine, Spiagudry does all he can to injure me.” “Oh, master, never believe it! Or, if it be so, it is because he never saw you, as I have, surrounded by your good wife and lovely children, admitting strangers to the delights of your domestic circle. Had he enjoyed your kind hospitality as I have, sir, the unfortunate man could never be your enemy.” Spiagudry had scarcely ended this wily speech, when the tall woman, who had been silent until then, rose, and said in a sharp, stern voice, “The viper’s tongue is never more venomous than when it is smeared with honey.” Then she sat down again, and went on polishing her pincers,--a task whose hoarse, grating sound, filling up the spaces in the conversation, performed the office of the chorus in a Greek tragedy, at the expense of the ears of the four travellers. “That woman is crazy indeed!” thought the keeper, unable otherwise to explain the ill effect of his flattery. “Becky is right, my fair-haired sage,” exclaimed the hangman. “I shall think you have a viper’s tongue, if you defend that Spiagudry much longer.” “God forbid, master!” exclaimed the latter; “I would not defend him for the world.” “Very good. You do not know how far he carries his insolence. Would you believe that the impudent scamp is bold enough to dispute my right to the possession of Hans of Iceland?” “Hans of Iceland!” exclaimed the hermit. “Yes, to be sure. Do you know that famous knave?” “Yes,” said the hermit. “Well, every thief belongs to the hangman, doesn’t he? What does that infernal Spiagudry do? He asks to have a price set upon the head of Hans.” “He asks to have a price set upon the head of Hans?” interrupted the hermit. “He had the audacity to do so, and that, simply that the body might fall to his share, and I might be defrauded of my property.”