IF the reader will transport himself to the highway leading from Throndhjem to Skongen, a narrow, stony road which skirts Throndhjem Fjord until it reaches the village of Vygla, he will not fail to hear the footsteps of two travellers, who left the city by what is known as Skongen Gate, at nightfall, and are rapidly climbing the range of hills up which the path to Vygla winds. Both are wrapped in cloaks. One walks with a firm, youthful step, his body erect and his head well up; the point of his sword hangs below the hem of his cloak, and in spite of the darkness, we see the plume in his cap waving in the breeze. The other is rather taller than his companion, but slightly bent; upon his back is a hump, doubtless formed by a wallet which is hidden by his large black mantle, whose ragged edges bear witness to its long and faithful service. His only weapon is a stick, with which he supports his rapid and uneven steps.

If darkness prevent our reader from distinguishing the features of the two travellers, he may perhaps recognize them by the conversation which one of them opens after an hour of silent, consequently tedious travel.

“Master, my young master! we have reached the point from which Vygla tower and Throndhjem spires may both be seen at the same time. Before us, on the horizon, that black mass is the tower; behind us lies the cathedral; its flying buttresses, darker still against the sky, stand out like the skeleton ribs of a mammoth.”

“Is Vygla far from Skongen?” asked the other wayfarer.

“We have to cross the Ordals, sir; we shall not reach Skongen before three o’clock in the morning.”

“What hour is that striking now?”

“Good heavens, master! you make me shiver. Yes, that is Throndhjem clock; the wind brings the sound to us. That’s a sign of storm. The northwest wind brings clouds.”

“In truth, the stars have all disappeared behind us.”

“Pray let us make haste, my noble lord, the storm is close at hand, and Gill’s corpse and my escape may already have been discovered in the city. Let us make haste!”

“Willingly. Old man, your load seems heavy; give it to me, I am younger and stronger than you.”

“No, indeed, noble master; it is not for the eagle to carry the shell of the tortoise. I am too far beneath you for you to burden yourself with my wallet.”

“But, old man, if it tires you? It seems heavy. What have you in it? Just now you stumbled, and it clinked as if there were iron in it.”

The old man sprang away from the young man.

“It clinked, master? Oh, no! you are mistaken. It contains nothing—but food, clothes. No, it does not tire me, sir.”

The young man’s friendly offer seemed to give his old comrade a fright which he tried to disguise.

“Well,” replied the young man, without noticing it, “if your bundle does not tire you, keep it.”

The old man, although his fears were set at rest, made haste to change the conversation.

“It is hard to travel by night as fugitives, over a road which it would be so agreeable, sir, to take by day as observers of Nature. On the shores of the fjord, to our left, are a quantity of Runic stones, upon which may be studied inscriptions traced, they say, by gods and giants. On our right, behind the rocks at the edge of the road, lies the salt-marsh of Sciold, which undoubtedly communicates with the sea by some subterranean passage; for the sea lobworm is caught there, that strange fish, which, as your servant and guide discovered, eats sand. It was in the Vygla tower, which we are now approaching, that the pagan king Vermond roasted the breasts of Saint Etheldreda, that glorious martyr, with wood from the true cross, brought to Copenhagen by Olaf III., and conquered from him by the Norwegian king. They say that since then repeated attempts have been made to turn that cursed tower into a chapel; every cross placed there, is consumed in its turn by fire from heaven.”

At this instant a tremendous flash of lightning covered the fjord, the hill, the rocks, the tower, and faded before the two travellers could distinguish any of these objects. They instinctively paused, and the lightning was almost immediately followed by a violent peal of thunder, which echoed from cloud to cloud across the sky, and from rock to rock along the earth.

They raised their eyes. All the stars were hidden, huge clouds rolled rapidly over one another, and the tempest hung like an avalanche above their heads. The tremendous blast, before which all these masses fled, had not yet descended to the trees, which no breath stirred, and upon which no drop of rain had as yet fallen. The roar of the storm was heard aloft, and this, with the noise of the fjord, was the only sound to be heard in the darkness of the night, made doubly dark by the blackness of the tempest.

This tumultuous silence was suddenly interrupted, close beside the travellers, by a growl which made the old man tremble.

“Omnipotent God!” he cried, grasping the young man’s arm, “that is either the laugh of the Devil in the storm, or the voice of—”

A fresh flash, a fresh peal, cut short his words. The tempest then burst with fury, as if it had only waited this signal. The travellers drew their cloaks closer, to protect themselves alike from the rain falling in torrents from the clouds, and from the thick dust swept in whirlwinds from the dry earth by a howling blast.

“Old man,” said the youth, “a flash of lightning just now showed me Vygla tower on our right; let us leave the path and seek shelter there.”

“Shelter in the Cursed Tower!” exclaimed the old man; “may Saint Hospitius protect us! Think, young master; that tower is deserted.”

“So much the better, old man! We shall not be kept waiting at the door.”

“Think of the abominable act which polluted it!”

“Well, let it purify itself by sheltering us. Come, old man, follow me. I tell you that on such a night I would test the hospitality of a den of thieves.”

Then, in spite of the old man’s remonstrances, he grasped his arm and hastened toward the building, which, as the frequent flashes showed him, was close at hand. As they approached, they saw a light in one of the loopholes of the tower.

“You see,” said the young man, “that this tower is not deserted. You feel easier now, no doubt.”

“Oh, my God! my God!” cried the old man, “where are you taking me, master? Saint Hospitius forbid that I should enter that oratory of the Devil!”

They had now reached the foot of the tower. The young traveller knocked loudly at the new door of this much dreaded ruin.

“Calm yourself, old man. Some pious hermit has come hither to sanctify this profane abode by dwelling in it.”

“No,” said his comrade, “I will not enter. I’ll answer for it that no monk can live here, unless he has one of Beelzebub’s seven chains for a chaplet.”

However, a light had descended from one narrow window to another, and now shone through the key-hole.

“You are very late, Nychol!” cried a sharp voice; “the gallows was erected at noon, and it takes but six hours to come from Skongen to Vygla. Did you have an extra job?”

These questions were asked just as the door was opened. The woman who opened it, seeing two strange faces instead of the one which she expected, uttered a frightened, threatening shriek, and started back.

Her appearance was by no means reassuring. She was tall; she held above her head an iron lamp, which threw a bright light upon her face. Her livid features, her bony, angular figure, were corpse-like, and her hollow eyes emitted ominous flashes like those of a funeral torch. She wore a red serge petticoat, reaching to her bare feet, and apparently stained in spots with deeper red. Her fleshless breast was half covered by a man’s jacket of the same color, the sleeves of which were cut off at the elbow. The wind, coming in at the open door, blew about her head her long gray hair, which was insecurely fastened with a strip of bark, and lent an added ferocity to her savage face.

“Good lady,” said the younger of the new-comers, “the rain falls in floods; you have a roof, and we have gold.”

His aged comrade plucked him by the cloak, whispering, “Oh, master, what are you saying? If this be not the abode of the Devil, it is the habitation of some robber. Our money, instead of protecting us, will be our ruin.”

“Hush!” said the young man; and drawing a purse from his bosom, he displayed it to his hostess, repeating his request as he did so.

The woman, recovering from her surprise, studied them in turn with fixed and haggard eyes.

“Strangers,” she cried at last, as if she had not heard their voices, “have your guardian angels forsaken you? What would you with the cursed inhabitants of the Cursed Tower? Strangers, they were no mortals who sent you here for shelter, or they would have told you: Better are the lightning and the storm than the hearth within Vygla tower. The only living man who may enter here, enters the abode of no other human being; he only leaves solitude for a crowd; he lives only by death; he has no place save in the curses of men; he serves their vengeance only; he exists by their crimes alone; and the vilest criminal, in the hour of his doom, vents on him the universal scorn, and feels that he has a right to add to it his own contempt. Strangers! You must indeed be strangers, for your foot does not yet shrink with horror from the threshold of this tower. Disturb no longer the she-wolf and her cubs; return to the road travelled by the rest of mankind, and if you would not be shunned by your fellows, do not tell them that your face ever caught the rays of the lamp of the dwellers in Vygla tower.” With these words, pointing to the door, she advanced toward the two travellers. The old man trembled in every limb, and looked imploringly at the young man, who, understanding nothing of the tall woman’s words because of the great rapidity of her speech, thought her crazy, and was in no wise disposed to go out again into the rain, which still fell heavily.

“Faith, good hostess, you describe a strange character, whose acquaintance I would not lose this chance of making.”

“His acquaintance, young man, is soon made, sooner ended. If your evil spirit urge you to seek it, go kill some living man, or profane the dead.”

“Profane the dead!” repeated the old man, in a faltering voice, hiding himself in his companion’s shadow.

“I scarcely comprehend,” the latter said, “your suggestions, which seem somewhat indirect; it is shorter to stay here. No one but a madman would continue his journey in such weather.”

“Unhappy man!” exclaimed the woman, “do not knock at the door of one who can open no door save that of the tomb.”

“And if the door of the tomb should indeed open for me with that of your abode, woman, it shall not be said that I shrank from an ill-omened word. My sword is my safeguard. Come, close the door, for the wind is cold, and take this money.”

“Bah! what is your money to me!” rejoined their hostess; “precious in your hands, in mine it would become more vile than pewter. Well, stay if you will, and give me the gold. It may protect you from the storms of Heaven; it cannot save me from the scorn of men. Nay; you pay a higher price for hospitality than others pay for murder. Wait here an instant, and give me your gold. Yes, it is the first time that a man’s hands have entered here filled with gold, without being stained with blood.”

So saying, after putting down her lamp and barricading the door, she disappeared beneath the arch of a dark staircase built at the back of the room.

While the old man shuddered, and, invoking the glorious Saint Hospitius under every name, cordially, but in an undertone, cursed his young companion’s imprudence, the latter took the light and surveyed the large circular apartment in which they had been left. What he saw as he approached the wall, startled him; and the old man, who had watched him closely, exclaimed,—

“Good God, master! a gallows?”

A tall gallows, in fact, rested against the wall, reaching to the keystone of the damp, high, arched roof.

“Yes,” said the young man, “and here are saws of wood and iron, chains and iron collars; here is a rack, and huge pincers hanging over it.”

“Holy saints of Paradise!” cried the old man; “where are we?”

The young man calmly went on with his inspection.

“This is a roll of hempen cord; here are furnaces and caldrons; this part of the wall is covered with tongs and scalpels; here are leathern whips with steel tips, an axe and a mace.”

“This must be the wardrobe of hell!” interrupted the old man, terrified by this dreadful catalogue.

“Here,” continued the other, “are copper screws, wheels with teeth of bronze, a box of huge nails, and a lever. In truth, these are sorry furnishings. It may seem to you hard that my impatience should have brought you hither with me.”

“Really, you agree to that!”

The old man was more dead than alive.

“Do not be frightened. What matters it where you are? I am with you.”

“A fine protection!” muttered the old man, whose increasing terror modified his fear and respect for his young companion; “a sword three feet long against a gibbet nine feet high!”

The big, red woman returned, and again taking up the iron lamp, beckoned to the travellers to follow her. They cautiously climbed a narrow, rickety flight of stairs built in the thickness of the tower wall. At each loop-hole a blast of wind and rain threatened to extinguish the quivering flame of the lamp, which their hostess shielded with her long, transparent hands. After stumbling more than once upon a rolling stone, in which the old man’s alarmed fancy saw human bones scattered over the stairs, they reached the next floor, and found themselves in a circular hall like the one below. In the centre, according to Gothic custom, burned a huge fire, the smoke of which escaped through a hole in the roof, but not without perceptibly obscuring the atmosphere of the hall. It was the light from this fire, combined with that of the iron lamp, which had caught the notice of the two wayfarers. A spit, loaded with fresh-killed meat, revolved before the flames. The old man turned from it in disgust.

“It was upon that execrable hearth,” said he to his comrade, “that the embers of the true cross consumed the limbs of a saint.” A rude table stood some distance away from the fire. The woman invited the travellers to be seated at it.

“Strangers,” said she, placing the lamp before them, “supper will soon be ready, and my husband will probably make haste to get here, for fear the midnight ghost should carry him off as it passes the Cursed Tower.”

Ordener—for the reader has doubtless already guessed that he and his guide, Benignus Spiagudry, were the two travellers—could now examine at his leisure the strange disguise, in the concoction of which Benignus had exhausted all the resources of his fertile fancy, spurred on by a dread of recognition and capture. The poor fugitive had exchanged his reindeer-skin garments for a full suit of black, left at the Spladgest by a famous Throndhjem grammarian, who drowned himself in despair because he could not find out why “Jupiter” changed to “Jovis” in the genitive. His wooden shoes gave place to a stout pair of postilion boots, whose owner had been killed by his horses, in which his slender shanks had so much spare room that he could not have walked without the aid of half a truss of hay. The huge wig of an elegant young Frenchman, slain by thieves just outside the city gates, concealed his bald pate and floated over his sharp, crooked shoulders. One of his eyes was covered with a plaster, and, thanks to a pot of paint which he had found in the pocket of an old maid who died of disappointed love, his pale, hollow cheeks were tinged with an unwonted crimson, an ornament which the rain had now divided with his chin. Before seating himself, he carefully placed beneath him the pack which he carried on his back, first wrapping it in his old mantle, and while he absorbed his comrade’s entire attention, all his thoughts seemed centred in the roast which his hostess was watching, toward which he cast ever and anon a glance of anxiety and alarm. Broken ejaculations fell from his lips at intervals:

“Human flesh! Horridas epulas! Cannibals! A feast for Moloch! Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet! Where are we?—Atreus—Druidess—Irmensul—The Devil struck Lycaon with lightning—” Finally he exclaimed: “Good Heavens! God be thanked! I see a tail!”

Ordener, who, having watched and listened attentively, had closely followed the train of his thoughts, could not help smiling.

“That tail need not comfort you. It may be the Devil’s hind quarter.”

Spiagudry did not hear this pleasantry. His eyes were riveted on the back of the room. He trembled, and whispered in Ordener’s ear,—

“Master, look yonder, on that heap of straw, in the shadow!”

“Well, what is it?” said Ordener.

“Three naked bodies,—the corpses of three children!”

“Some one is knocking at the door,” cried the red woman, who was squatting by the fire.

In fact, a knock, followed by two louder raps, was heard above the ever-increasing din of the storm.

“It is he at last! It is Nychol!”

And seizing the lamp, their hostess hurried downstairs.

The two travellers had not had time to resume their conversation, when they heard a confused murmur of voices below, in the midst of which they caught these words, uttered in a voice which made Spiagudry start and shiver:

“Be quiet, woman; we shall stay. The thunderbolt enters without waiting for the door to be opened.”

Spiagudry pressed closer to Ordener.

“Master, master,” he quavered, “we are lost!”

The sound of footsteps was heard on the stairs, and two men in ecclesiastic dress entered the room, followed by the startled hostess.

One of these men was tall, and wore the black gown and close-clipped hair of a Lutheran minister; the other was shorter, and wore a hermit’s robe tied with a girdle of rope. The hood drawn over his face concealed all but his long black beard, and his hands were entirely hidden by his flowing sleeves.

When he saw these two peaceful strangers, Spiagudry recovered from the terror which the peculiar voice of one of them had caused.

“Don’t be alarmed, my good lady,” said the minister. “Christian ministers do good even to those who injure them; why should they harm those who help them? We humbly beg for shelter. If the reverend gentleman with me spoke harshly to you just now, he was wrong to forget the gentle voice recommended to us in our ordination vows. Alas! the most saintly may err. I lost my way on the road from Skongen to Throndhjem, and could find no guide through the darkness, no shelter from the storm. This reverend brother, whom I encountered, being like myself far from home, deigned to allow me to accompany him hither. He praised your kind hospitality, dear lady; doubtless he was not mistaken. Do not say to us, like the wicked shepherd, ‘Advene, cur intras?’ Take us in, worthy hostess, and God will save your crops from the storm, God will protect your flocks from the tempest, as you give a refuge to travellers who have gone astray!”

“Old man,” broke in the woman in a fierce voice, “I have neither crops nor flocks.”

“Well, if you are poor, God blesses the poor more than the rich. You and your husband shall live to a good old age, respected, not for your wealth, but for your virtues; your children shall grow up blessed in the esteem of all men, and be what their father was before them.”

“Silence!” cried the hostess. “If they continue to be what we are, our children must grow old as we have, scorned by all,—a scorn handed down from generation to generation. Silence, old man! Your blessing turns to curses on our heads.”

“Heavens!” returned the minister, “who then are you? Amid what crimes do you pass your life?”

“What do you call crime? What do you call virtue? We enjoy one privilege,—we can possess no virtue and commit no crime.”

“The woman’s reason wanders,” said the minister, turning to the little hermit, who was drying his coarse robe before the fire.

“No, priest!” replied the woman. “Learn where you are. I would rather inspire horror than pity. I am not mad, but the wife of—”

A prolonged and violent knocking at the door drowned her words, to the great disappointment of Spiagudry and Ordener, who had silently listened to the dialogue.

“Cursed,” muttered the red woman, “be the mayor and council of Skongen, who gave us this tower so near the high-road for our dwelling! Perhaps that is not Nychol, now.”

Still, she took up the lamp.

“After all, if it be another traveller, what matters it? The brook can flow where the torrent has passed.”

The four travellers, left alone, examined each other by the firelight. Spiagudry, terrified at first by the hermit’s voice, and then reassured by his black beard, might have trembled afresh if he had seen the piercing eye with which the monk observed him from beneath his cowl.

In the general silence the minister ventured a question: “Brother monk, I presume that you are one of the Catholic priests who escaped from the last persecution, and that you were returning to your retreat when I was fortunate enough to meet you. Can you tell me where we are?”

The broken door of the ruined staircase opened before the hermit could answer.

“Woman, let a storm but burst, and there is always a crowd to sit at our hated board and take shelter beneath our accursed roof.”

“Nychol,” replied the wife, “I could not help it!”

“What do I care how many guests you have, provided they pay? Money is as well earned by lodging a traveller as by strangling a thief.”

The speaker paused at the door, and the four strangers had ample opportunity to examine him. He was a man of colossal size, dressed, like their hostess, in red serge. His enormous head seemed to rest directly upon his broad shoulders, in strong contrast with his gracious lady’s long, bony neck. He had a low forehead, flat nose, and thick eyebrows; his eyes, rimmed with red, shone like burning coals in a pool of blood. The lower part of his face was shaved smooth, exposing his big mouth, whose black lips were parted in a hideous grin, like the gaping edges of a never-healing wound. Two wisps of frizzled beard, extending from his cheeks to his chin, made his face seem square when seen from the front. He wore a gray felt hat, which dripped with rain, and which he did not deign to remove in the presence of the four travellers.

As he looked at him, Benignus Spiagudry uttered a cry of fright, and the Lutheran minister turned away, struck with horror and surprise; while the master of the house, recognizing, addressed him thus: “What, are you here, minister! Indeed, I did not expect to have the pleasure of seeing your scared and woebegone face again to-day.”

The priest mastered his first feeling of repulsion. His face became serious and serene.

“And I, my son, rejoice at the chance which has brought together the shepherd and the lost sheep, to the end, no doubt, that the sheep may return to the fold.”

“Ah, by Haman’s gibbet,” rejoined the other with a loud laugh, “this is the first time that ever I was compared to a sheep! Believe me, Father, if you would flatter the vulture, you must not call him a dove.”

“He who can change the vulture to a dove, consoles, my son, and does not flatter. You think that I fear you, and I only pity you!”

“You must indeed have a goodly store of pity. I should have fancied that you had exhausted it all on that poor devil to whom you displayed your cross this morning in the hope of hiding my gallows from his eyes.”

“That unfortunate man,” replied the priest, “was less to be pitied than you; for he wept, and you laugh. Happy is he who learns in the moment of atonement how much less powerful is man’s arm than the word of God!”

“Well said, Father!” replied the host, with a horrid and ironical mirth. “Happy is he who weeps! That fellow to-day, moreover, had no other fault than that of loving the king so much that he could not live without making his Majesty’s picture upon little copper medals, which he then gilded artistically to render them more worthy of the royal effigy. Our gracious sovereign was not ungrateful, and rewarded him for such a display of affection with a fine hempen decoration, which, let me inform my worthy guests, was conferred upon him this very day, in Skongen market-place, by me, lord chancellor of the Order of the Gibbet, assisted by this gentleman here present, grand chaplain of the said order.”

“Stop, wretched man!” broke in the priest. “How can he who punishes forget that punishment awaits us all? Listen to the thunder—”

“Well, what is thunder? Satan’s laughter.”

“Good God, he has just looked on death, and he blasphemes!”

“A truce to your sermons, old fool!” cried the host, in a loud, angry tone, “unless you would curse the angel of darkness who has brought us together twice in one day, in the same carriage and under the same roof. Imitate your friend the hermit, who is silent, for he longs to be back again in his cave at Lynrass. I thank you, brother monk, for the blessing which I see you bestow upon the Cursed Tower every morning as you cross the hill; but the fact is that you always seemed tall to me until now, and that black beard of yours looked white. Are you sure that you are the hermit of Lynrass,—the only hermit in the province of Throndhjem?”

“I am the only one,” said the hermit in a hollow voice.

“We are, then,” rejoined his host, “the two recluses of the district—Hollo, Becky, make haste with that roast lamb, for I am hungry. I was detained at Burlock village by that confounded Dr. Manryll, who would only give me twelve escalins for the corpse. That miserable fellow who keeps the Throndhjem Spladgest gets forty. Ha, Master Periwig, what’s the matter with you? Are you going to tumble over? By the way, Becky, have you finished the skeleton of that famous magician, Orgivius the poisoner? It is high time it was delivered to the Bergen Museum. Did you send one of your little pigs to the mayor of Loevig to get what he owes me,—four double crowns for boiling a witch and two alchemists, and for removing several chains from the cross-beams of his tribunal, which they disfigured; twenty escalins for hanging Ishmael Typhaine, a Jew against whom the good bishop entered a complaint; and a crown for putting a new wooden arm to the stone gallows of the tower.”

“Your wages,” replied his wife in sour tones, “remain in the mayor’s hands, because your son forgot to take a wooden spoon to receive the money, and none of the judge’s servants were willing to put it into his hand.”

The husband frowned.

“Only let their necks fall into my hands, and they shall see whether I need a wooden spoon to touch them. But we must manage the mayor carefully, for it is to him that robber Ivar complained that he was put to the rack by me, and not by a regular executioner, alleging that, as he had not yet been tried, he was not upon my level. By the way, wife, do keep the children from playing with my nippers and pincers; they have spoiled all my tools, so that I really could not use them to-day. Where are they, the little monsters?” added the man, going up to the heap of straw where Spiagudry had fancied that he saw three dead bodies. “Here they are in bed; they sleep through all our noise as soundly as if they had been hanged.”

From these words, whose grim horror was in strong contrast with the speaker’s mirth and fierce, frightful composure, the reader will have guessed who was the inhabitant of the Vygla tower. Spiagudry, who upon his first appearance recognized him from having often seen him act in his official capacity in the Throndhjem market-place, felt ready to faint, particularly when he considered his own powerful personal motive for dreading this awful personage. He leaned over to Ordener, and said in scarcely articulate tones, “It is Nychol Orugix, the hangman of the province of Throndhjem!”

Ordener, at first struck with horror, shuddered, and regretted both his journey and the storm. But soon a peculiar feeling of curiosity took possession of him, and although he pitied his old guide’s distress and terror, he devoted his entire attention to observing the speech and manners of the singular being before him,—just as a man might listen eagerly to the growl of a hyena or the roar of a tiger, brought from the desert to one of our great cities. Poor Benignus was far from being sufficiently easy in his mind to make psychological observations. Hidden behind Ordener, he drew his mantle closely about him, raised a restless hand to his plaster, pulled the back of his loose periwig over his face, and sighed heavily.

Meantime the hostess had dished up the joint of roast lamb, with its reassuring tail, on a large earthen platter. The hangman seated himself opposite Ordener and Spiagudry, between the two clergymen; and his wife, after putting upon the table a jug of sweetened beer, a piece of rindebrod,[8] and five wooden plates, sat down by the fire and busied herself in sharpening her husband’s dull tools.

“There, reverend sir,” said Orugix, laughing; “the sheep offers you a piece of lamb. And you, Sir Periwig, was it the wind that blew your hair over your face?”

“The wind, sir,—the storm—” stammered the trembling Spiagudry.

“Come, pluck up a spirit, old boy! You see that these reverend gentlemen and I are good fellows. Tell us who you are, and who your silent young friend is, and talk a bit. If your conversation is as amusing as your person, it must be funny indeed.”

“Your worship jests,” said the keeper, pursing his lips, showing his teeth and winking, to make himself look merry. “I am but a poor old man.”

“Yes,” interrupted the jovial hangman, “some old scientist, some old sorcerer.”

“Oh, my lord and master, a scientist, but no sorcerer!”

“So much the worse; a sorcerer would complete our joyful Sanhedrim. Gentlemen and guests, let us drink to restore this old sage’s speech, so that he may enliven us at supper; the health of the man we hanged to-day, brother preacher! Well, father monk, do you refuse my beer?”

The hermit had, indeed, drawn from under his gown a large gourd of clear water, from which he filled his glass.

“Zounds, hermit of Lynrass!” cried the hangman, “if you will not taste my beer, I will taste the water which you prefer to it.”

“So be it,” answered the hermit.

“First take off your glove, worthy brother,” answered the hangman. “Water should always be poured with the bare hand.”

The hermit shook his head, saying, “It is a vow.”

“Well, then, pour,” said the hangman.

Hardly had Orugix raised the glass to his lips when he set it down hastily, while the hermit drained his at a draught.

“By the Holy Grail! good hermit, what is that infernal stuff? I have not drank its like since the day that I came near drowning in my voyage from Copenhagen to Throndhjem. Truly, hermit, that is no water from Lynrass spring; it is salt water.”

“Salt water,” repeated Spiagudry, his terror increasing as he looked at the hermit’s glove.

“Well, well!” said the hangman, turning toward him with a loud laugh; “so everything alarms you, old Absalom,—even to the drink of a holy monk who chooses to mortify his flesh!”

“Alas, no, master! But salt water—There is but one man—”

“Come, come, you don’t know what you are talking about, sir doctor; your distress must be caused by your bad conscience, or else you despise our company.”

These words, uttered in a humorous tone, reminded Spiagudry that he must needs hide his fears. To mollify his much-dreaded host, he called his vast memory to his aid, and summoned up all the presence of mind which was left to him.

“I despise you,—you, my lord and master! You, whose presence in a province gives that province the merum imperium![9] You, mighty hangman, the executioner of secular vengeance, the sword of justice, the shield of innocence! You, whom Aristotle in the sixth book and last chapter of his ‘Politics’ ranks with magistrates, and whose salary Paris de Puteo, in his treatise ‘De Syndico,’ fixes at five gold crowns, as this passage proves: Quinque aureos manivolto! You, sir, whose Cronstadt colleagues were ennobled when they had cut off three hundred heads,—you, whose terrible but most honorable functions are performed with pride in Franconia by the most recent bridegroom, in Reutlingen by the youngest of the city councillors, in Stedien by the last-made citizen! And do I not also know, good master, that your colleagues in France have the right of havadium upon every leper, upon pigs, and upon cake on Epiphany eve? How could I fail to feel the deepest respect for you when the abbot of Saint Germain des Prés gives you a boar’s head every year, on Saint Vincent’s Day, and puts you at the head of his procession!”

Here the keeper’s erudite flow of fancy was abruptly cut short by the hangman.

“Upon my word, this is the first that I have heard of it. The learned abbot of whom you speak, my worthy friend, has hitherto defrauded me of all these fine privileges which you describe in such attractive fashion.—Strangers,” continued Orugix, “aside from all this old fool’s extravagant nonsense, it is quite true that I have missed my career. I am only the poor hangman of a poor province. Well, I certainly ought to have done better than Stillison Dickoy, the famous hangman of Moscow. Would you believe that I am the same man who was chosen twenty-four years ago to behead Schumacker?”

“Schumacker, Count of Griffenfeld!” exclaimed Ordener.

“Does that surprise you, Sir Silent? Yes, that selfsame Schumacker who, strange to say, would again fall into my hands should it please the king to recall his reprieve. Let us empty this jug, gentlemen, and I will tell you how it happens that after so brilliant a beginning I end my career so miserably.

“In 1676, I was assistant to Rhum Stuald, the royal hangman at Copenhagen. At the time of Count Griffenfeld’s sentence, my master falling ill, I was, thanks to my powerful patrons, selected to act in his place. On June 5,—I shall never forget that day,—at five o’clock in the morning, assisted by the carpenter, I erected in the public square a huge gallows, which we hung with black, out of respect for the prisoner. At eight, the king’s guards surrounded the scaffold, and the Schleswig Uhlans kept back the crowd that thronged the square. Who would not have been dazzled in my place? Erect, and sword in hand, I stood waiting on the platform. All eyes were upon me; at that moment I was the most important personage in the two kingdoms. My fortune, thought I, is made; for what could all these great lords, who have sworn the chancellor’s ruin, do without me? I already regarded myself as the royal hangman of the town, by letters-patent; I had servants and privileges of every sort. Just listen! The clock on the fortress struck ten. The prisoner left his cell, crossed the square, and ascended the scaffold with a firm step and calm face. I wanted to tie his hair; he refused, and himself performed this last office. ‘It’s a long time,’ he said smilingly to the prior of St. Andrew’s, since I dressed my own hair.’ I offered him the black bandage; he declined it scornfully, but without showing any contempt for me. ‘My friend,’ said he, ‘this is perhaps the first time on record, that the space of a few feet ever held the two officers representing the extremes of the law,—the chancellor and the executioner!’ Those words have remained graven on my memory. He also refused the black cushion which I would have given him for his knees, embraced the priest, and knelt, after declaring his innocence in a loud voice. Then I broke his escutcheon with a single blow of my mace, crying aloud, as is the custom, ‘This is not done without just cause!’ This affront shook the count’s firm bearing; he turned pale, but soon mastered himself and said, ‘The king gave me my arms; the king can take them from me!’ He placed his head on the block, turned his eyes toward the east, and I raised my sword in both hands. Now listen! At that instant a shout fell upon my ears,—‘Pardon, in the king’s name! Pardon for Schumacker!’ I turned; I saw a royal aide-de-camp galloping toward the gallows waving a parchment. The count rose, with a look not of pleasure, but of satisfaction. The parchment was handed to him. ‘Good God!’ cried he, ‘imprisonment for life! Their mercy is more cruel than death.’ He stepped, looking like a thief, from the scaffold which he had mounted so serenely. It was nothing to me. I had no idea that this man’s salvation meant my ruin. After removing the scaffold, I returned to my master still full of hope, although slightly disappointed at losing the golden crown, my fee for removing a head. That was not all. Next day I received an order to leave the city, and an appointment as executioner for the province of Throndhjem. A provincial hangman, and that in the most miserable province of Norway! Now you shall see, gentlemen, how small causes sometimes bring about great results. The count’s enemies, by way of displaying their generosity, had done all in their power to keep back the pardon until the execution was over. It lacked but one minute; they blamed me for being so slow, as if it would have been decent to prevent an illustrious man from amusing himself for a few moments, before he breathed his last! As if a royal executioner beheading a lord high chancellor could act with no more dignity and sense of proportion than a country hangman turning off a Jew! Ill-will was added to this. I had a brother; indeed, I think I have one still. He had changed his name, and succeeded in finding employment in the house of the new chancellor, Count d’Ahlefeld. My presence in Copenhagen disturbed the scoundrel. My brother despised me, because it might some time fall to my lot to hang him.”

Here the fluent narrator stopped to give vent to his mirth; then he went on:—

“You see, my dear guests, that I made the best of it. The deuce take ambition! I ply my calling honestly. I sell my dead bodies, or Becky turns them into skeletons, which the Bergen anatomical museum buys. I laugh at everything, even at that poor woman who was a gypsy, and whom solitude has driven mad. My three heirs are growing up in the fear of the Devil and the gallows. My name is the terror of all the children in Throndhjem. The city council furnish me with a cart and red clothes. The Cursed Tower protects me from rain as well as the bishop’s palace could do. Old priests, driven hither by a storm, preach to me; learned men fawn upon me. In fine, I am as happy as most people; I drink, eat, hang, and sleep.”

The hangman did not close this long speech without frequent interludes of beer and noisy bursts of laughter.

“He kills, and he sleeps!” murmured the minister; “poor wretch!”

“What a lucky fellow the rascal is!” exclaimed the hermit.

“Yes, brother monk,” said the hangman; “just as much of a rascal as you are, but assuredly much luckier. You see, the business would be a capital one if people did not seem to take pleasure in cutting down my profits. Would you believe it, some great wedding has just afforded the chaplain newly appointed to Throndhjem a pretext for asking the pardon of twelve criminals who really belonged to me?”

“Belonged to you!” cried the minister.

“Yes, to be sure, Father. Seven of them were sentenced to be whipped, two to be branded on the left cheek, and three to be hanged, which makes twelve in all. Yes, I shall lose twelve crowns and thirteen escalins if the pardon is granted. What do you think, strangers, of such a chaplain, who disposes so easily of my property? That confounded priest’s name is Athanasius Munder. Oh, if I could only get hold of him!”

The minister rose, and said in a quiet voice, with a calm manner, “My son, I am Athanasius Munder.”

At these words Orugix’s face became inflamed with fury; he started from his seat. Then his angry eye met the friendly gaze of the chaplain, and he sat down again slowly, in mute confusion.

There was a momentary silence. Ordener, who had risen from the table ready to defend the priest, was first to break it.

“Nychol Orugix,” said he, “here are thirteen crowns to pay for the pardon of those prisoners.”

“Alas!” interrupted the minister, “who knows whether I can obtain their pardon? I must first manage to get a word with the viceroy’s son, for it all depends upon his marrying the chancellor’s daughter.”

“Sir chaplain,” answered the young man in a firm voice, “your wish shall be granted. Even if Ordener Guldenlew never wears the marriage ring, the chains of your protégés shall be loosed.”

“Young stranger, you can do nothing in the matter; but God hears, and will reward you!”

Meantime, Ordener’s thirteen crowns had finished the work which the priest’s mild gaze began. Nychol’s anger being allayed, he recovered his good-humor.

“Come, reverend sir, you are a good man, worthy to serve in St. Hilary’s chapel; I spoke more harshly than I intended. You do but follow your own path; it is not your fault if it crosses mine. But there is one man to whom I do bear a grudge, and that’s the guardian of the dead at Throndhjem,—that old sorcerer, the keeper of the Spladgest. What’s his name now,—Spliugry? Spadugry? Tell me, you old philosopher, who seem to be a perfect Babel of learning,—you who know everything, can’t you help me to remember the name of that magician, your brother? You must have met him sometimes of a Sabbath, riding through the air on a broomstick, eh?”

Certainly, if poor Benignus could have escaped at that moment upon some such aerial steed, the narrator of this story doubts not that he would most gladly have trusted his frail and terrified body to its tender mercies. Never before was his love of life so strong as now that he clearly perceived the extreme imminence of his danger. Everything that he saw frightened him,—the legends of the Cursed Tower, the wild eyes of the red woman, the voice, gloves, and beverage of the mysterious monk, the rash courage of his young companion, and especially the hangman,—the hangman, into whose abode he had fallen in his effort to escape from the charge of crime. He trembled so violently that he could scarcely move, particularly when the conversation turned upon himself, and he heard the dreadful Orugix’s question. As he had no desire to imitate the heroism of the priest, his faltering tongue found great difficulty in framing a reply.

“Well!” repeated the hangman, “don’t you know the name of the keeper of the Spladgest? Does your wig make you deaf?”

“Somewhat, sir; but,” he finally stammered out, “I don’t know his name, I swear I don’t.”

“He don’t know?” said the hermit’s terrible voice. “He does wrong to take oath to it. That man’s name is Benignus Spiagudry.”

“My name! my name! Great heavens!” exclaimed the affrighted old man.

The hangman burst out laughing.

“And who said that it was your name? We are talking of that dog of a keeper. In good sooth, this learned fellow is scared at nothing. How would it be if his ridiculous grimaces had a genuine cause? It would be fun to hang the old fool. So then, venerable doctor,” added the hangman, whom Spiagudry’s fears entertained, “you do not know this Benignus Spiagudry?”

“No, master,” said the keeper, somewhat reassured by his disguise; “I assure you I don’t know him. And since he is so unfortunate as to displease you, I should be very sorry, master, indeed I should, if I did know the fellow.”

“And you, hermit,” said Orugix,—“you seem to know him?”

“Yes, truly,” replied the hermit; “he is a tall, dried-up, bald old fellow—”

Spiagudry, justly alarmed at this minute description, hastily adjusted his wig.

“He has,” added the hermit, “long hands like those of a thief who has not seen a traveller for a week, a bent back—”

Spiagudry sat up as straight as he could.

“Moreover, he might easily be taken for one of the corpses in his charge if he had not such sharp eyes.”

Spiagudry clapped his hand to his plaster.

“Many thanks, Father,” said the hangman; “I shall know the old Jew now, wherever I may run across him.”

Spiagudry, who was an excellent Christian, indignant at this intolerable insult, could not help exclaiming, “Jew, master!”

Then he stopped short, trembling lest he had said too much.

“Well, Jew or Pagan, what does it matter which, if he have dealings with the Devil, as they say he has?”

“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.”

“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.

“Nychol,” said his wife, “they are in search of some malefactor; that’s the horn of the bowmen.”

“The horn of the bowmen!” repeated each of the company, in different accents, but Spiagudry in tones of unmistakable terror.

They had scarcely uttered the words when there was a knock at the door.

XIII.