Nobody knew why the old pauper had been hung, or who he had offended with his oratory. Why, but yesterday his cheeks were full of colour as he blustered with his usual vigour, just as he had every week in recent memory.
He would stand upon a crate in Beggar’s Square and decry the city’s rulers, claiming that the end was nigh and that there was a conspiracy to keep this from the populace. Rarely did he fail to miss an opportunity to vent his spleen, and folk were accustomed to hearing his diatribe as they went about their business.
So it was that many questioned who would want to hang him, and what he had said to incur their wrath. Had the city’s rulers finally had enough of his nonsense? Did he owe money to debtors? What was his secret?
As his body swung on the rope strung over the rafters of a merchant’s house, numerous people crowded in and about to peer up at the corpse. One old woman cackled with glee as she pointed up and screeched for people to look under his robes; he couldn’t have been long gone, for it was plain for all to see that he had blood in his pestle yet!