“It was you who took Hans of Iceland prisoner?”
“Yes, by the aid of Saint Beelzebub, I did, please your worship.”
A heavy bag of money was placed before the bench.
“Do you recognize this man as the famous Hans of Iceland?” added the president, pointing to the fettered giant.
“I am better acquainted with my Kitty’s pretty face than with that of Hans of Iceland; but I declare, by the halo of Saint Belphegor, that if Hans of Iceland be anywhere, it is in the shape of that big devil.”
“Advance, Toric-Belfast,” said the president. “Here are the thousand crowns offered by the lord mayor.”
The soldier hurried toward the bench, when a voice rose from the crowd: “Munkholm musketeer, you never captured Hans of Iceland.”
“By all the blessed devils!” cried the soldier, turning around, “I own nothing but my pipe and the moment of time in which I speak; but still I promise to give ten thousand gold crowns to the man who says that, if he can prove his words.”
And folding his arms, he cast an assured glance over the audience: “Well! let the man who spoke, show himself.”
“It is I!” said a small man, elbowing his way through the crowd.