Hans of Iceland shook his head.
“What business is it of yours?” said Orugix, curtly; “do I interfere with your plunder,—with the clothes and jewels that you steal from the prisoners, and the dirty water which you pour into their thin soup, and the torture to which you put them, to extort money from them? No, I never will give two gold ducats.”
“No straw and no fire for less than two gold ducats,” replied the obstinate jailer.
“No corpse for less than two gold ducats,” repeated the unmoved brigand.
The hangman, after a brief pause, stamped his foot angrily, saying: “Well, I’ve no time to waste with you. I am wanted elsewhere.” He drew from his waistcoat a leather bag, which he opened slowly and reluctantly. “There, cursed demon of Iceland, there are your two ducats. Satan would never give you as much for your soul as I do for your body, I am sure.”
The brigand accepted the gold. The turnkey instantly held out his hand to take it.
“One instant, mate; first give me what I asked for.”
The jailer went out, and soon returned with a bundle of dry straw and a pan of live coals, which he placed beside the prisoner.
“That’s it,” said the brigand, giving him the two ducats; “I’ll make a warm night of it. One word more,” he added in an ominous tone. “Does not this prison adjoin the barracks of the Munkholm musketeers?”
“It does,” said the jailer.