“Did you not come to help me to escape?” he feebly muttered. The hangman laughed. “Yes, truly! to help you to escape into the spirit-land, whence I warrant you will not be brought back.” Musdœmon grovelled on the floor. “Mercy! Have pity on me! Mercy!” “I’ faith,” coldly observed the hangman, “‘tis the first time I was ever asked such a thing. Do you take me for the king?” The unfortunate man dragged himself on his knees, trailing his gown in the dust, beating his head against the floor, and clasping the hangman’s feet with muffled groans and broken sobs. “Come, be quiet!” said the hangman. “I never before saw a black gown kneel to a red jerkin.” He kicked the suppliant aside, adding: “Pray to God and the saints, fellow; they will be more apt to hear you than I.” Musdœmon still knelt, his face buried in his hands, weeping bitterly. Meantime, the hangman, standing on tiptoe, passed his rope through the ring in the ceiling: he let it hang until it reached the floor, then secured it by a double turn, and made a slip-knot in the end. “I am ready,” said he, when these ominous preparations were over; “are you ready to lay down your life?” “No!” said Musdœmon, springing up; “no; it cannot be! There is some horrible mistake. Chancellor d’Ahlefeld is not so base; I am too necessary to him. It is impossible that it was for me he sent you. Let me escape; do not fear that the chancellor will be angry.” “Did you not say,” replied the executioner, “that you were Turiaf Musdœmon?” The prisoner hesitated for an instant, then said suddenly: “No, no! my name is not Musdœmon; my name is Turiaf Orugix.” “Orugix!” cried the executioner, “Orugix!” He snatched off the periwig which concealed the prisoner’s face, and uttered an exclamation of surprise: “My brother!” “Your brother!” replied the prisoner, with a mixture of shame and pleasure; “can you be--” “Nychol Orugix, hangman for the province of Throndhjem, at your service, brother Turiaf.” The prisoner fell upon the executioner’s neck, calling him his brother, his beloved brother. This fraternal recognition would not have gratified any one who witnessed it. Turiaf lavished countless caresses upon Nychol with a forced and timid smile, while Nychol responded with a gloomy and embarrassed look. It was like a tiger fondling an elephant, while the monster’s ponderous foot is already planted upon its panting chest. “What happiness, brother Nychol! I am glad indeed to see you.” “And I am sorry for you, brother Turiaf.” The prisoner pretended not to hear these words, and went on in trembling tones: “You have a wife and children, I suppose? You must take me to see my gentle sister, and let me kiss my dear nephews.” “The Devil fly away with you!” muttered the hangman. “I will be a second father to them. Hark ye, brother, I am powerful; I have great influence--”