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had now adulterously acquired three mistresses. Jón Hreggviðsson denied having said any such thing about his Beloved Hereditary King and Most Gracious Sire, His Highness and Majesty and Count in Holstein, and asked for witnesses. Sigurður Snorrason swore that these were Jón Hreggviðsson’s words. Jón Hreggviðsson requested that he be allowed to forswear the accusation, but counteroaths were not allowed at the same hearing. After the farmer’s request was rejected, he said that it was as a matter of fact true that he’d spoken the words—everyone in the Þrælakista at Bessastaðir was talking about it—but it was out of the question that he’d intended to insult his king with these words. Quite the contrary—he’d simply wanted to say how much he admired a king who was so excellent that he was able to have three mistresses at once, in addition to a queen; at the same time he’d been poking fun at his good friend Sigurður Snorrason, who’d never made the acquaintance of a woman as far as anyone knew. But even if he had spoken these words about his Most Gracious Hereditary Sire himself, he was sure that His Highness was so benevolent that he would willingly forgive one poor, stupid man and muddleheaded beggar of such ill-advised chatter. Court was then adjourned and the sentence handed down that Jón Hreggviðsson was to pay three rixdollars* to the king within a month, or his skin would be taken in place of the fee. The court’s verdict was worded along these lines: that the ruling “was determined not so much according to a large amount of testimony, but rather according to the sufficient amount of evidence that was implicit in the testimony.” With that, Jón Hreggviðsson rode home. Little else of interest occurred during haymaking, and the farmer gave hardly any thought to paying his fine to the king.
    In the fall an assembly was convened in Kjalardalur. Jón Hreggviðsson was summoned to the assembly and two farmers were sent by the bailiff to escort him there. The farmer’s mother mended his shoes before he left. The Rein farmer’s mare had a limp and they made the journey slowly, arriving in Kjalardalur late in the day, toward the end of the assembly. It turned out that Jón Hreggviðsson was to be flogged with twenty-four lash-strokes. Sigurður Snorrason had arrived on the scene with his leather straps and his hangman’s cloak. Many of the farmers had ridden home from the assembly, but a number of youngsters from the nearest farms had come to watch the flogging for fun. Floggings were carried out in a pen where the ewes were milked during the summer; the pen had a stone crib running through it, and the scoundrel was laid across this crib while justice was being done. The more important men stood in the meantime in the corners of the pen on either side of the crib, while children, dogs, and beggars stood on the walls.
    A small group of people had gathered by the time Jón Hreggviðsson was led into the pen. Sigurður Snorrason had buttoned up his hangman’s mantle and had finished reciting the Lord’s Prayer; he saved the Creed for beheadings. They had to wait for the bailiff and the official witnesses, so the hangman took his straps out of their sheath and stroked them respectfully and studiedly, then tested the handles gravely and earnestly—he had fat hands, blue and scaly, and hangnails. The two farmers held Jón Hreggviðsson between them while Sigurður Snorrason practiced aiming the straps. It was raining. The men looked distracted like they usually did when it rained, and the wet youngsters stared; the dogs acted like they were in heat. Finally Jón Hreggviðsson began to get bored, and said:
    “Those mistresses are giving me and Siggi Snorrason a lot of trouble.”
    A few faces slipped into sluggish, joyless smiles.
    “I’ve finished reciting the Lord’s Prayer,” said the hangman calmly.
    “Let’s hear the Creed, too, dear,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
    “Not today,” said