The headsman! He had not thought of that on the day of his triumph, when he had visited every church, and prayed before every altar, "God preserve this noble city from the misfortune of requiring the headsman to come hither to execute justice before the year is out!"
That will, indeed, be a painful meeting when Valentine Kalondai and Henry Catsrider meet each other in the narrow path leading to the scaffold, the one as the judge of wretched criminals, the other as the torturer, the executioner of the condemned felons!
How will he be able to look that man in the face?
He would not submit to the inevitable. He requested that the charge brought against the accused should be laid before him. A sheriff cannot sign a death-warrant before he has heard the defense of the accused.
The conrector, acting as secretary, then recited to him both the accusation and the defense. A militiaman—Valentine knew him very well, for he was a butcher's apprentice—came home drunk one night from patrolling. His wife began scolding him, and he furiously drew his sword and aimed a blow at her. He only meant to hit her with the flat of the blade, but the devil jogged his hand, and the point went right through her heart. She died. The murderer gave himself up immediately the deed was done. He repented of his crime, and himself demanded death as his punishment.
"Then he did this dreadful deed when he was in liquor and is now sorry for it?" said Valentine, by way of extenuation.
"Yes, and that is certainly a reason for mitigating the punishment," replied the superrector. "Just for that very reason he has only been condemned to be beheaded, otherwise he would have been quartered alive for his bloody deed."
"Has he any children?" asked the sheriff.
"Seven," replied the conrector.
"He leaves behind him seven orphans," sighed Valentine, "seven innocent orphans, who will be forever branded as the children of the man who died beneath the hand of the headsman!"