"Treason, friend, if Tristan heard you."
Petit-Jean's eyes twinkled.
"Well, let's say an archbishop," he said.
Trois-Echelles nodded approvingly.
"An archbishop ought to make a good end."
His mind pleased itself with the picture of so high a dignitary of
the church in his full canonicals coming under his tender care and
being exhorted by his pious counsels.
The two hangmen climbed on the platform of the grisly erection, and,
calmly indifferent to the nature of their bed, were in a few moments
fast asleep and snoring as merrily as if every man in the world had
been hung and there was nothing else for them to do but to take it
easy for the rest of their days.
The hard weariness of work and the easy weariness of wine had made
them so heavy-headed that their slumbers were not disturbed by the
sound of footfalls, though the footfalls echoed strangely loud in
the lonely deserted place-the footfalls of a woman, swift and
impatient, the footfalls of a man swiftly pursuing. In another
moment the woman and the man came into the open space, now bright
and shining with the risen sun. The woman was Katherine de
Vaucelles; the man was Noel le Jolys.
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