“Master, what fault have you to find with him? For I do not doubt that your dislike is just.”
“You are right, old man, not to doubt it. As his trade resembles mine, Spiagudry does all he can to injure me.”
“Oh, master, never believe it! Or, if it be so, it is because he never saw you, as I have, surrounded by your good wife and lovely children, admitting strangers to the delights of your domestic circle. Had he enjoyed your kind hospitality as I have, sir, the unfortunate man could never be your enemy.”
Spiagudry had scarcely ended this wily speech, when the tall woman, who had been silent until then, rose, and said in a sharp, stern voice, “The viper’s tongue is never more venomous than when it is smeared with honey.” Then she sat down again, and went on polishing her pincers,—a task whose hoarse, grating sound, filling up the spaces in the conversation, performed the office of the chorus in a Greek tragedy, at the expense of the ears of the four travellers.
“That woman is crazy indeed!” thought the keeper, unable otherwise to explain the ill effect of his flattery.
“Becky is right, my fair-haired sage,” exclaimed the hangman. “I shall think you have a viper’s tongue, if you defend that Spiagudry much longer.”
“God forbid, master!” exclaimed the latter; “I would not defend him for the world.”
“Very good. You do not know how far he carries his insolence. Would you believe that the impudent scamp is bold enough to dispute my right to the possession of Hans of Iceland?”
“Hans of Iceland!” exclaimed the hermit.