“I am not his friend, and still less his accomplice; and if all my oaths fail to convince you, sir, let me implore you to observe that this monstrous sacrilege exposes me, twenty-four hours hence, when Gill Stadt’s body is to be removed, to the torture allotted to those guilty of profanation, and thus casts me into the most fearful state of anxiety ever endured by innocent man.”
These considerations of personal interest moved Ordener more than the suppliant voice of the poor keeper, much of whose pathetic though useless resistance to the little man’s sacrilegious act they had doubtless inspired. Ordener reflected a moment, while Spiagudry tried to read in his face whether this pause meant peace or boded a storm.
At last he said, in a severe though quiet tone: “Old man, speak the truth! Did you find any papers upon that officer?”
“None, upon my honor.”
“Do you know if Hans of Iceland found any?”
“I swear by Saint Hospitius that I do not know.”
“You do not know? Do you know where this Hans of Iceland hides?”
“He never hides; he roams about perpetually.”
“Perhaps; but where is his den?”
“That pagan,” whispered the old man, “has as many dens as the island of Hitteren has reefs, or the dog-star rays.”