A doleful signal was given, an abject minister of justice knocked
at his door and informed him that he was wanted.--JOSEPH DE
MAISTRE.
Night had fallen; a cold wind whistled around the Cursed Tower, and the
doors of Vygla ruin rattled on their hinges, as if the same hand had
shaken all of them at once.
The wild inhabitants of the tower, the hangman and his family, had
gathered about the fire lighted in the middle of the room on the first
floor, which cast a fitful glow upon their dark faces and scarlet
garments. The children’s features were fierce as their father’s laughter
and haggard as their mother’s gaze. Their eyes, as well as those of
Becky were fixed on Orugix, who, seated on a wooden stool, seemed to be
recovering his breath, his feet covered with dust, showing that he had
but just returned from some distant trip.
“Wife, listen; listen, children. I’ve not been gone two whole days
merely to bring back bad news. If I am not made executioner to the king
before another month is out, I wish I may never tie another slip-noose
or handle an axe again. Rejoice, my little wolf-cubs; your father may
leave you the Copenhagen scaffold by way of an inheritance, after all.”
“Nychol,” asked Becky, “what has happened?”
“And you, my old gypsy,” rejoined Nychol, with his boisterous laugh,
“rejoice too! You can buy any number of blue glass necklaces to adorn
your long, skinny neck. Our agreement will soon be up; but never fear,
in a month, when you see me chief hangman of both kingdoms, you will not
refuse to break another jug with me.”[1]
“What is it, what is it, father?” asked the children, the older of whom
was playing with a bloody rack, while the little one amused himself by
plucking alive a young bird which he had stolen from the nest.
“What is it, children?--Kill that bird, Haspar; it makes as much noise
as a rusty saw; and besides, you should never be cruel. Kill it.--What
is it, you say? Nothing,--a trifle, truly; nothing, dame Becky, save
that within a week from this time ex-chancellor Schumacker, who is a
prisoner at Munkholm, after looking me so closely in the face at
Copenhagen, and the famous brigand of Iceland, Hans of Klipstadur, may
perhaps both pass through my hands at once.”
The red woman’s wandering eye assumed an expression of surprised
curiosity.
“Schumacker! Hans of Iceland! How is that, Nychol?”
“I’ll tell you all about it. Yesterday morning, on the road to Skongen,
at Ordals bridge, I met the whole regiment of musketeers from Munkholm
marching back to Throndhjem with a very victorious air. I questioned one
of the soldiers, who condescended to answer, probably because he did not
know why my jerkin and my cart were red. I learned that the musketeers
were returning from Black Pillar Pass, where they had cut to pieces
various bands of brigands,--that is to say, insurgent miners. Now, you
must know, gypsy Becky, that these rebels revolted in Schumacker’s name,
and were commanded by Hans of Iceland. You must know that his uprising
renders Hans of Iceland guilty of the crime of insurrection against
royal authority, and Schumacker guilty of high treason, which will
naturally lead those two honorable gentlemen to the scaffold or the
block. Add to these two superb executions, which cannot fail to bring me
in at least fifteen gold ducats each, and to entitle me to the greatest
honor in both kingdoms, several other though less important ones--”
“But do tell me,” interrupted Becky, “has Hans of Iceland been
captured?”
“Why do you interrupt your lord and master, miserable woman?” said the
hangman. “Yes, to be sure, the famous, the impregnable Hans of Iceland
is a prisoner, together with several other leaders of the brigands, his
lieutenants, who will also bring me in twelve crowns apiece, to say
nothing of the sale of their bodies. He was captured, I tell you; and I
saw him, if you must know all the particulars, march by between a double
file of soldiers.”
The woman and children crowded eagerly about Orugix.
“What! did you really see him, father?” asked the children.
“Be quiet, boys. You shriek like a rogue protesting his innocence. I saw
him; he is a giant. His hands were tied behind his back, and his
forehead was bandaged. I suppose he was wounded in the head. But never
fear, I will soon heal his hurt for him.” Accompanying these brutal
words with a brutal gesture, the hangman added: “There were four of his
comrades behind him, prisoners too and wounded, like him, who were being
taken, like him, to Throndhjem, where they are to be tried with
ex-chancellor Schumacker by a court of justice presided over by the lord
mayor and the present chancellor.”
“Father, what did the other prisoners look like?”
“The first two were a couple of old men, one of whom wore a miner’s
broad felt hat, and the other a mountaineer’s cap; both seemed utterly
disheartened. Of the other two, one was a young miner, who marched along
with head up, whistling; the other,--do you remember, Becky, those
travellers who came to this tower some ten days ago, on the night of
that terrible storm?”
“As Satan remembers the day of his fall,” replied the woman.
“Did you notice a young man in company with that crazy old doctor with
the big periwig,--a young fellow, I say, who wore a great green cloak,
and a cap with a black feather?”
“Yes, indeed; I can see him now, saying: ‘Woman, we have plenty of
gold!’”
“Well, old woman, I hope I may never wring the neck of anything worse
than a grouse, if the fourth prisoner was not that young man. His face,
to be sure, was entirely hidden by his feather, his cap, his hair, and
his cloak; besides, he hung his head. But it was the very same dress,
the same boots, the same manner. I’ll swallow the stone gallows at
Skongen at a single mouthful if it be not the same man! What do you say
to that, Becky? Wouldn’t it be a joke if after I had given him something
to sustain life he should also receive from me something to cut it
short, and should exercise my skill after having tasted my hospitality?”
The hangman’s coarse laughter was loud and long; then he resumed: “Come,
make merry, all of you, and let us drink. Yes, Becky, give me a glass of
that beer which scrapes a man’s throat as if he were drinking files, and
let me drain it to my future advancement. Come, here’s to the health and
prosperity of Nychol Orugix, executioner royal that is to be! I will
confess, you old sinner, that I found it hard work to go to Nœs village
to hang a contemptible clown for stealing cabbage and chicory. Still,
when I thought it over, I felt that thirty-two escalins were not to be
sneezed at, and that my hands would not be degraded by turning off mere
thieves and riff-raff of that kind until after they had actually
beheaded the noble count and ex-chancellor, and the famous demon of
Iceland. I therefore resigned myself, while waiting for my certificate
as hangman to the king, to despatch the poor wretch at Nœs village. And
here,” he added, drawing a leather purse from his wallet, “are the
thirty-two escalins for you, old girl.”
At this moment three blasts from a horn were heard outside.
“Woman,” cried Orugix, “those are the bowmen of the lord mayor.”
With these words he hurried downstairs.
An instant later he reappeared, carrying a large parchment, of which he
had broken the seal.
“There,” said he to his wife, “there’s what the lord mayor has sent me.
Do you decipher it; for you can read Satan’s scrawl. Perhaps it is my
promotion already; for since the court is to have a chancellor to
preside over it and a chancellor as prisoner at the bar, it is only
proper that the man who carries out the sentence should be an
executioner royal.”
The woman took the parchment, and after studying it for some time, read
aloud, while the children stared at her in stupid wonder: “In the name
of the Council of the province of Throndhjem, Nychol Orugix, hangman for
the province, is hereby ordered to repair at once to Throndhjem, and to
carry with him his best axe, block, and black hangings.”
“Is that all?” asked the hangman, in a dissatisfied tone.
“That is all,” replied Becky.
“Hangman for the province!” muttered Orugix.
He cast an angry glance at the official document, but at last exclaimed:
“Well, I must obey and be off. After all, they tell me to bring my best
axe and the black hangings. Take care, Becky, that you rub off the spots
of rust which have dimmed my axe, and see that the hangings are not
stained with blood. We must not be discouraged; perhaps they mean to
promote me in payment for this fine execution. So much the worse for the
prisoners; they will not have the satisfaction of dying by the hand of
an executioner royal.”