“Oh, why not, Father, when I see that to destroy my best founded hopes it only needs a Spiagudry, and a request to set a price upon a man’s head?”
“Ah!” repeated the hermit, in a peculiar tone; “so Spiagudry asked that a price be set!”
That voice was to the wretched keeper what the toad’s eye is to a bird.
“Gentlemen,” he urged, “why judge rashly? It is not at all sure; it may be a false report.”
“A false report!” cried Orugix; “the thing is but too certain. The petition of the city council, supported by the signature of the keeper of the Spladgest, is in Throndhjem at this very moment. It only waits the decision of his excellency the governor-general.”
The hangman was so well informed, that Spiagudry dared not continue his defence; he contented himself with swearing inwardly, for the hundredth time, at his youthful companion. But what was his horror when he heard the hermit, who for some moments had seemed lost in thought, suddenly exclaim in bantering tones: “Master Nychol, what is the penalty for sacrilege?”
These words produced the same effect on Spiagudry as if his periwig and plaster had been torn off. He anxiously awaited the reply of Orugix, who stopped to empty his glass.
“That depends on the nature of the sacrilege,” said the hangman.
“Suppose it was profaning the dead?”
Upon this the shivering Spiagudry expected every instant to hear his name issue from the lips of the unaccountable monk.