“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.”