“Hans of Iceland,” said the man in red, “I am Nychol Orugix, executioner of the province of Throndhjem; to-morrow, at sunrise, I am to have the honor of hanging your Excellency upon a fine new gallows in Throndhjem market-place.”
“Are you very sure that you will hang me?” replied the brigand.
The executioner laughed. “I wish you were as sure to rise straight into heaven by Jacob’s ladder as you are to mount the scaffold by Nychol Orugix’s ladder.”
“Indeed?” said the monster, with a malicious grin.
“I tell you again, Sir Brigand, that I am hangman for the province.”
“If I were not myself I should like to be you,” replied the brigand.
“I can’t say the same for you,” rejoined the hangman; then rubbing his hands with a conceited and complacent smirk, he added: “My friend, you are right; ours is a fine trade. Ah! my hand knows the weight of a man’s head.”
“Have you often tasted blood?” asked the brigand.
“No; but I have often used the rack.”