“No, master,” said the keeper, somewhat reassured by his disguise; “I assure you I don’t know him. And since he is so unfortunate as to displease you, I should be very sorry, master, indeed I should, if I did know the fellow.”
“And you, hermit,” said Orugix,—“you seem to know him?”
“Yes, truly,” replied the hermit; “he is a tall, dried-up, bald old fellow—”
Spiagudry, justly alarmed at this minute description, hastily adjusted his wig.
“He has,” added the hermit, “long hands like those of a thief who has not seen a traveller for a week, a bent back—”
Spiagudry sat up as straight as he could.
“Moreover, he might easily be taken for one of the corpses in his charge if he had not such sharp eyes.”
Spiagudry clapped his hand to his plaster.
“Many thanks, Father,” said the hangman; “I shall know the old Jew now, wherever I may run across him.”
Spiagudry, who was an excellent Christian, indignant at this intolerable insult, could not help exclaiming, “Jew, master!”