“Oh, God!” said Musdœmon, turning pale, “who are you?”
“I am the hangman.”
The poor wretch trembled like a dry leaf blown by the wind.
“Did you not come to help me to escape?” he feebly muttered.
The hangman laughed. “Yes, truly! to help you to escape into the spirit-land, whence I warrant you will not be brought back.”
Musdœmon grovelled on the floor. “Mercy! Have pity on me! Mercy!”
“I’ faith,” coldly observed the hangman, “’tis the first time I was ever asked such a thing. Do you take me for the king?”
The unfortunate man dragged himself on his knees, trailing his gown in the dust, beating his head against the floor, and clasping the hangman’s feet with muffled groans and broken sobs.
“Come, be quiet!” said the hangman. “I never before saw a black gown kneel to a red jerkin.” He kicked the suppliant aside, adding: “Pray to God and the saints, fellow; they will be more apt to hear you than I.”
Musdœmon still knelt, his face buried in his hands, weeping bitterly.