“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?”