“In the name of the saint on whom your mother called when she gave you birth, do not seek to know his name, young master; do not force me to reveal it.”
“If my desire to know it required any spur, you would add it, old man, in the shape of curiosity. I command you to name the murderer.”
“Well, then,” said Spiagudry, “see these deep wounds, made by long, sharp nails on the body of this unfortunate man. They will name the assassin.”
And the old man showed Ordener a number of ugly scratches on the naked, freshly washed corpse.
“What!” said Ordener, “was it some wild beast?”
“No, my young lord.”
“But unless it was the Devil—”
“Hush! Beware, lest your guesses come too close to the mark. Did you never hear,” added the keeper in a low voice, “of a man or a monster with human face, whose nails are as long as those of Ashtaroth who ruined us all, or of Antichrist who will yet destroy us?”
“Speak more plainly.”
“‘Woe unto you!’ says the Apocalypse—”