The jailer reflected. “Two gold ducats.”
“Well,” said the brigand to the hangman, “you must give me two gold ducats for my corpse.”
“Two gold ducats!” cried the hangman. “It is horribly dear. Two gold ducats for a wretched corpse! No, indeed! I’ll give no such price.”
“Then,” quietly responded the monster, “you shall not have it.”
“Then you will be thrown into the common sewer, instead of adorning the Royal Museum at Copenhagen or the collection of curiosities at Bergen.”
“What do I care?”
“Long after your death, people will flock to look at your skeleton, saying, ‘Those are the remains of the famous Hans of Iceland!’ Your bones will be nicely polished, and strung on copper wire; you will be placed in a big glass case, and dusted carefully every day. Instead of these honors, consider what awaits you if you refuse to sell me your body; you will be left to rot in some charnel-house, where you will be the prey of worms and other vermin.”
“Well, I shall be like the living, who are perpetually preyed upon by their inferiors and devoured by their superiors.”
“Two gold ducats!” muttered the hangman; “what an exorbitant price! If you will not come down in your terms, my dear fellow, we can never make a trade.”
“It is my first and probably my last trade; I am bent on having it a good one.”