The executioners did their work, and the young man was hanged by the neck until he was dead. Then the steward and his men turned to depart.
But the widow stood before him, and laughed in his face.
“Wise man—madman, rather,” said she. “Whom, thinkest thou, is that dead man on the gallows?”
“Thy son, witch, thy son,” said the steward, stepping back before the wild appearance of the woman.
“My son, fool! Nay, ’tis thy son, steward. The child who disappeared from his nurse’s room was brought to me, was reared by me, was trained for the gallows, and hangs there dead. My son died the same day that his father was hanged—murdered by thee—and his mangled and disfigured body was found by thy servants and buried as thy son. Dost understand me now?”
The steward reeled, but recovered himself with an effort.
“’Tis false,” said he, in a choking voice.
“’Tis true,” screamed the woman; “was not there a birthmark upon thy child’s shoulder? Ah, thou rememberest it, I see. Look at the dead man on the gallows, and thou wilt find the birthmark there.”
With a wild cry the steward stripped the clothing from the dangling corpse, and there upon the lifeless shoulder, he found the mark which branded the criminal as his child. He had hanged his own son.
Before his men could lend a hand to stay him he had fallen senseless to the ground.