ssure himself of the identity.

When the executioners informed him that all was ready, Hayraddin, with
much calmness, asked a single boon at their hands.

"Anything, my son, consistent with our office," said Trois Eschelles.

"That is," said Hayraddin, "anything but my life."

"Even so," said Trois Eschelles, "and something more, for you seem
resolved to do credit to our mystery, and die like a man, without making
wry mouths--why, though our orders are to be prompt, I care not if I
indulge you ten minutes longer."

"You are even too generous," said Hayraddin.

"Truly we may be blamed for it," said Petit Andre, "but what of that?--I
could consent almost to give my life for such a jerry come tumble, such
a smart, tight, firm lad, who proposes to come from aloft with a grace,
as an honest fellow should."

"So that if you want a confessor--" said Trois Eschelles.

"Or a lire of wine--" said his facetious companion.

"Or a psalm--" said Tragedy.

"Or a song--" said Comedy.

"Neither, my good, kind, and most expeditious friends," said the
Bohemian. "I only pray to speak a few minutes with yonder Archer of the
Scottish Guard."

The executioners hesitated a moment; but Trois Eschelles, recollecting
that Quentin Durward was believed, from various circumstances, to stand
high in the favour of their master, King Louis, they resolved to permit
the interview.

When Quentin, at their summons, approached the condemned criminal, he
could not but be shocked at his appearance, however justly his doom
might have been deserved. The remnants of his heraldic finery, rent to
tatters by the fangs of the dogs, and the clutches of the bipeds who had
rescued him from their fury to lead him to the gallows, gave him at once
a ludicrous and a wretched appearance. His face was discoloured with
paint and with some remnants of a fictitious beard, assumed for the
purpose of disguise, and there was the paleness of death upon his cheek
and upon his lip; yet, strong in passive courage, like most of his
tribe, his eye, while it glistened and wandered, as well as the
contorted smile of his mouth, seemed to bid defiance to the death he was
about to die.

Quentin was struck, partly with horror, partly with compassion, as
he approached the miserable man; and these feelings probably betrayed
themselves in his manner, for Petit Andre called out, "Trip it more
smartly, jolly Archer.--This gentleman's leisure cannot wait for you, if
you walk as if