“What is that?” said the hangman.
An infernal light gleamed in the prisoner’s haggard eyes. He muttered: “How could I forget that? Look here, brother Nychol,” he added in an almost friendly tone; “these papers belong to the lord chancellor. Promise to give them to him, and you may do what you will with me.”
“Since you are quiet now, I promise to grant your last wish, although you have been a bad brother to me. I will see that the chancellor has the papers, on the honor of an Orugix.”
“Ask leave to hand them to him yourself,” replied the prisoner, smiling at the executioner, who, from his nature, had little understanding of smiles. “The pleasure which they will afford his Grace may lead him to confer some favor on you.”
“Really, brother?” said Orugix. “Thank you! Perhaps he will make me executioner royal after all, eh? Well, let us part good friends! I forgive you all the scratches which you gave me; forgive me for the hempen collar which I must give you.”
“The chancellor promised me a very different sort of collar,” said Musdœmon.
Then the halberdiers led him, bound, into the middle of the cell; the hangman placed the fatal noose round his neck.
“Are you ready, Turiaf?”
“One moment! one moment!” said the prisoner, whose tenor had revived; “for mercy’s sake, brother, do not pull the rope until I tell you to do so!”
“I do not need to pull it,” answered the hangman.