“Great Saint Hospitius, pity me!” sighed the poor keeper.
“Old man,” continued Ordener, in threatening tones, “are you so remote from the tomb that you can safely violate the respect which is its due? And do you not fear, wretched fellow, that the living will teach you what you owe to the dead?”
“Oh,” cried the poor keeper, “mercy! It was not I! If you only knew—” And he stopped; for he remembered the little man’s words: “Be faithful, be dumb.” “Did you see any one escape through that aperture?” he asked faintly.
“Yes; was it your accomplice?”
“No; it was the guilty man, the only guilty man! I swear it by all the torments of hell, by all the blessings of heaven, by this same body so infamously profaned!” and he fell upon the pavement before Ordener.
Hideous as Spiagudry was, there was yet an accent of truth in his despair and protestations, which convinced the young man.
“Old man,” said he, “rise; and if you did not outrage death, do not degrade age.”
The keeper rose. Ordener continued: “Who is the culprit?”
“Oh, silence, noble youth! You know not of whom you speak. Silence!”
And Spiagudry mentally repeated: “Be faithful, be dumb.”