The Seigneur of La Piroche was in despair. He was all for his armor. He made promise of a reward of ten gold _écus_ to any one who should deliver to him the thief, dressed as he was in dying. They ransacked the houses; they found nothing. No one presented himself. They caused a sage of the town of Rennes to be sent for, and they propounded this question to him: “In what way does a dead man who has been hanged manage to free himself from the rope that holds him in the air by the neck?” The sage demanded eight days to ponder over the question, at the termination of which he replied: “He can not do it.” Then they propounded this second question: “A thief, unsuccessful in stealing while alive, and having been condemned to death for stealing, can he steal after his death?” The sage replied: “Yes.” He was asked how it could be done. He replied that he knew nothing about it. He was the greatest sage of his time. They sent him home and contented themselves with believing, for those were the days of witchcraft, that the thief was a wizard. Then they said masses to exorcise that evil spirit, which was without doubt taking his revenge upon the Seigneur who had ordered his death and upon those who had come to see him die. A month passed in fruitless search. The gibbet still stood there as always, humiliated, gloomy, and discredited. Never had a gibbet committed such a breach of confidence. The Seigneur of La Piroche continued to clamor for his armor from man, God, and the devil. Nothing. At last he was beginning, without a doubt, to make the best of this strange event, and of the loss which had been the result, when one morning, as he was waking, he heard a great commotion on the square where the execution had taken place. He was making ready to inform himself of what was passing when his chaplain entered the room. “Monseigneur,” said he, “do you know what has happened?” “No, but I am going to ask.” “I can tell you, I can.” “What is it, then?” “A miracle from heaven!” “Really!” “The hanged man--” “Well?” “He is there!” “Where?” “On the scaffold.” “Hanging?” “Yes, Monseigneur.” “In his armor?” “In your armor.” “True, for it _is_ mine. And is he dead?” “Absolutely dead--only--” “Only what?” “Did he have spurs on when they hanged him?” “No.” “Well, Monseigneur, he has them, and in place of having the casque on his head, he has placed it with great care at the foot of the gibbet, and left his head hanging uncovered.” “Let us see, Mr. Chaplain, let us see, straight off!” The Seigneur of La Piroche ran to the square crowded with the curious. The neck of the hanged man had passed again into the running noose, the corpse was there at the end of the rope, and the armor was there on the corpse. It was astounding. So they proclaimed it a miracle. “He has repented,” said one, “and has come to hang himself over again.” “He has been there all the time,” said another; “only we did not see him.”