Meantime, the hangman, standing on tiptoe, passed his rope through the ring in the ceiling: he let it hang until it reached the floor, then secured it by a double turn, and made a slip-knot in the end.
“I am ready,” said he, when these ominous preparations were over; “are you ready to lay down your life?”
“No!” said Musdœmon, springing up; “no; it cannot be! There is some horrible mistake. Chancellor d’Ahlefeld is not so base; I am too necessary to him. It is impossible that it was for me he sent you. Let me escape; do not fear that the chancellor will be angry.”
“Did you not say,” replied the executioner, “that you were Turiaf Musdœmon?”
The prisoner hesitated for an instant, then said suddenly: “No, no! my name is not Musdœmon; my name is Turiaf Orugix.”
“Orugix!” cried the executioner, “Orugix!”
He snatched off the periwig which concealed the prisoner’s face, and uttered an exclamation of surprise: “My brother!”
“Your brother!” replied the prisoner, with a mixture of shame and pleasure; “can you be—”
“Nychol Orugix, hangman for the province of Throndhjem, at your service, brother Turiaf.”
The prisoner fell upon the executioner’s neck, calling him his brother, his beloved brother. This fraternal recognition would not have gratified any one who witnessed it. Turiaf lavished countless caresses upon Nychol with a forced and timid smile, while Nychol responded with a gloomy and embarrassed look. It was like a tiger fondling an elephant, while the monster’s ponderous foot is already planted upon its panting chest.