“Two gold ducats!” muttered the hangman; “what an exorbitant price! If you will not come down in your terms, my dear fellow, we can never make a trade.” “It is my first and probably my last trade; I am bent on having it a good one.” “Consider that I may make you repent of your obstinacy. To-morrow you will be in my power.” “Do you think so?” These words were uttered with a look which escaped the hangman. “Yes; and there is a certain way of tightening a slip-knot--but if you will only be reasonable, I will hang you in my best manner.” “Little do I care what you do to my neck to-morrow,” replied the monster, with a mocking air. “Come, won’t you be satisfied with two crowns? What can you do with the money?” “Ask your comrade there,” said the brigand, pointing to the turnkey; “he charges me two gold ducats for a handful of straw and a fire.” “Now by Saint Joseph’s saw,” said the hangman, angrily addressing the turnkey, “it is shocking to make a man pay its weight in gold for a fire and a little worthless straw.” “Two ducats!” the turnkey replied sourly; “I’ve a good mind to make him pay four! It is you, Master Nychol, who act like a regular screw in refusing to give this poor prisoner two gold ducats for his corpse, when you can sell it for at least twenty to some learned old fogy or some doctor.” “I never paid more than twenty escalins for a corpse in my life,” said the hangman. “Yes,” replied the jailer, “for the body of some paltry thief, or some miserable Jew, that may be; but everybody knows that you can get whatever you choose to ask for Hans of Iceland’s body.” Hans of Iceland shook his head. “What business is it of yours?” said Orugix, curtly; “do I interfere with your plunder,--with the clothes and jewels that you steal from the prisoners, and the dirty water which you pour into their thin soup, and the torture to which you put them, to extort money from them? No, I never will give two gold ducats.” “No straw and no fire for less than two gold ducats,” replied the obstinate jailer. “No corpse for less than two gold ducats,” repeated the unmoved brigand. The hangman, after a brief pause, stamped his foot angrily, saying: “Well, I’ve no time to waste with you. I am wanted elsewhere.” He drew from his waistcoat a leather bag, which he opened slowly and reluctantly. “There, cursed demon of Iceland, there are your two ducats. Satan would never give you as much for your soul as I do for your body, I am sure.” The brigand accepted the gold. The turnkey instantly held out his hand to take it. “One instant, mate; first give me what I asked for.” The jailer went out, and soon returned with a bundle of dry straw and a pan of live coals, which he placed beside the prisoner. “That’s it,” said the brigand, giving him the two ducats; “I’ll make a warm night of it. One word more,” he added in an ominous tone. “Does not this prison adjoin the barracks of the Munkholm musketeers?” “It does,” said the jailer.