This question was asked at one and the same time by Ordener, who listened to this scene with an interest easily understood by any one but Spiagudry, and by another short and tolerably stout man, dressed in black, with a merry countenance, who had issued from the only inn which the village contained, at the first sound of the crier’s horn.
The little man with the broad-brimmed hat seemed to be studying them both for a moment, and then answered in hollow tones: “Yes.”
“And how can you be so certain?” asked Ordener.
“I know where Hans of Iceland is, just as well as I know where Benignus Spiagudry is; neither of them is far off at this instant.”
All the poor keeper’s terrors were revived, and he scarcely dared look at the mysterious little man. Fancying that his French periwig had failed to disguise him, he began to pluck at Ordener’s cloak and to whisper: “Master, sir, in Heaven’s name, have mercy! have pity let us be off! let us leave this accursed suburb of hell!”
Ordener, although equally surprised, carefully examined the little man, who, turning his back to the light, seemed anxious to conceal his face.
“I’ve seen that Benignus Spiagudry,” cried the fisherman, “at Throndhjem Spladgest. He’s a tall fellow. They offer four crowns for him.”
The hunter burst out laughing.
“Four crowns! I shan’t go a-hunting for him. I can get more for the skin of a blue fox.”
This comparison, which at any other time would have greatly offended the learned keeper, now comforted him. Still, he was about to address another prayer to Ordener to persuade him to continue his journey, when the latter, having learned all that he wished to know forestalled him by making his way out of the crowd, which was beginning to disperse.