“This skull,” said Spiagudry, bending to whisper in the young man’s ear, “you must try to obtain. The monster attaches a certain superstitious importance to its possession. His son’s skull once yours, you can do what you will with him.”
“That is all very well, my good fellow; but how am I to get this skull?”
“By some stratagem, sir. While the monster sleeps, perhaps.”
Ordener interrupted him: “Enough. Your good advice is useless. I cannot be supposed to know when my enemy is asleep. My sword is the only weapon which I recognize.”
“Sir, sir! it has never been proved that the archangel Michael did not resort to stratagem to vanquish Satan.”
Here Spiagudry stopped short, and stretching out his hands, exclaimed in scarcely audible tones, “Oh, heavens! Oh, heavens! What do I see? Look, master; is not that a short man walking before us in the path?”
“Faith,” said Ordener, raising his eyes, “I see nothing.”
“Nothing, sir? To be sure, the path bends, and he has disappeared behind that rock. Go no farther, sir, I entreat you.”
“Surely, if the person whom you imagine that you saw disappeared so quickly, it shows that he has no idea of waiting for us; and if he chooses to run away, that is no reason why we should do the same.”
“Watch over us, holy Hospitius!” ejaculated Spiagudry, who in all moments of danger remembered his favorite saint.