“What an outrage, Master Orugix, to dare to dispute your right to a thing which so plainly belongs to you!” These words were accompanied by a malicious smile, which alarmed Spiagudry. “The trick is all the worse, hermit, because I only need one good hanging, such as that of Hans would be, to remove me from my obscurity, and to make the fortune which I failed to make by beheading Schumacker.” “Indeed, Master Nychol?” “Yes, brother monk, on the day that Hans is arrested, come and see me, and we will sacrifice a fat pig to my future greatness.” “Gladly; but who knows whether I shall be at liberty upon that day? Besides, you just now sent ambition to the Devil.” “Oh, why not, Father, when I see that to destroy my best founded hopes it only needs a Spiagudry, and a request to set a price upon a man’s head?” “Ah!” repeated the hermit, in a peculiar tone; “so Spiagudry asked that a price be set!” That voice was to the wretched keeper what the toad’s eye is to a bird. “Gentlemen,” he urged, “why judge rashly? It is not at all sure; it may be a false report.” “A false report!” cried Orugix; “the thing is but too certain. The petition of the city council, supported by the signature of the keeper of the Spladgest, is in Throndhjem at this very moment. It only waits the decision of his excellency the governor-general.” The hangman was so well informed, that Spiagudry dared not continue his defence; he contented himself with swearing inwardly, for the hundredth time, at his youthful companion. But what was his horror when he heard the hermit, who for some moments had seemed lost in thought, suddenly exclaim in bantering tones: “Master Nychol, what is the penalty for sacrilege?” These words produced the same effect on Spiagudry as if his periwig and plaster had been torn off. He anxiously awaited the reply of Orugix, who stopped to empty his glass. “That depends on the nature of the sacrilege,” said the hangman. “Suppose it was profaning the dead?” Upon this the shivering Spiagudry expected every instant to hear his name issue from the lips of the unaccountable monk. “Formerly,” coolly remarked Orugix, “they buried the offender alive, with the body he had outraged.” “And now?” “Now the punishment is milder.” “Is milder!” said Spiagudry, scarcely daring to breathe. “Yes,” rejoined the hangman, with the satisfied and indifferent air of an artist talking of his own art; “they brand him first, with a hot iron, with the letter S, on the calf of the leg.” “And then?” broke in the old keeper, upon whom it would have been difficult to inflict this part of the sentence. “Then,” said the executioner, “they merely hang him.” “Mercy!” said Spiagudry; “hang him!” “Well, what’s the matter with you? You look at me as the victim looks at the gallows.” “I am glad,” said the hermit, “to see that people are growing more humane.” At this moment, the storm having ceased, the clear, intermittent sound of a horn was distinctly heard outside.