The fellow that sits next him now, parts bread with him, and
pledges the breath of him in a divided draught, is the readiest man
to kill him.--SHAKESPEARE: _Timon of Athens_.
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.