“I demand the assassin’s name!”
“The assassin—his name? My lord, have pity on me; have pity on yourself!”
“The second of those prayers would destroy the first, even if serious reasons did not compel me to tear that name from your lips. Abuse my patience no longer.”
“So be it, if you insist, young man,” said Spiagudry, raising himself, and in a loud voice. “The murderer, the profaner, is Hans of Iceland.”
This terrible name was not unknown to Ordener.
“What!” he cried, “Hans! that execrable bandit!”
“Do not call him a bandit, for he has no followers.”
“Then, wretch, how do you know him? What common crimes have brought you together?”
“Oh, noble master, do not stoop to believe in appearances. Is the oak-tree poisonous because the serpent finds shelter within its trunk?”
“No idle words! A scoundrel has no friend who is not an accomplice.”