Part 9

“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.