ioner
with the same expression.

The judge frowned.

"He is a hard Christian," he murmured; "has the wedge entered?"

Caboche bent down to look, and in doing so said to Coconnas:

"Cry out, you poor fellow!"

Then rising:

"Up to the head, monsieur," said he.

"Second wedge," said the judge, coldly.

The words of Caboche explained all to Coconnas. The worthy executioner
had rendered his friend the greatest service in his power: he was
sparing him not only pain, but more, the shame of confession, by driving
in wedges of leather, the upper part of which was covered with wood,
instead of oak wedges. In this way he was leaving him all his strength
to face the scaffold.

"Ah! kind, kind Caboche," murmured Coconnas, "fear nothing; I will cry
out since you ask me to, and if you are not satisfied it will be because
you are hard to please."

Meanwhile Caboche had introduced between the planks the end of a wedge
larger than the first.

"Strike," cried the judge.

At this word Caboche struck as if with a single blow he would demolish
the entire prison of Vincennes.

"Ah! ah! Stop! stop!" cried Coconnas; "a thousand devils! you are
breaking my bones! Take care!"

"Ah!" said the judge, smiling, "the second seems to take effect; that
surprises me."

Coconnas panted like a pair of bellows.

"What were you doing in the forest?" asked the judge.

"By Heaven! I have already told you. I was enjoying the fresh air."

"Proceed," said the judge.

"Confess," whispered Caboche.

"What?"

"Anything you wish, but something."

And he dealt a second blow no less light than the former.

Coconnas thought he would strangle himself in his efforts to cry out.

"Oh! oh!" said he; "what is it you want to know, monsieur? By whose
order I was in the forest?"

"Yes."

"I was there by order of Monsieur d'Alencon."

"Write," said the judge.

"If I committed a crime in setting a trap for the King of Navarre,"
continued Coconnas, "I was only an instrument, monsieur, and I was
obeying my master."

The clerk began to write.

"Oh! you denounced me, pale-face!" murmured the victim; "but just wait!"

And he related the visit of Francois to the King of Navarre, the
interviews between De Mouy and Monsieur d'Alencon, the story of the red
cloak, all as though he were just remembering them between the blows of
the hammer.

At length he had given such precise, terrible, uncontestable evidence
against D'Alencon, making it seem