squashed

beggars who infested the place were struck dumb with terror. Two of them, an old man and a young lad with a withered leg, were crushed beneath the wheels. We leaned out the windows, peering back; my first thought, that they had both been killed, was proven false—the boy’s screams followed us as he writhed on the cobblestones, his good leg now matched to the other.
“ ‘Poor lad,’ said the cleric sadly, ‘to come so close to heaven, only to be thwarted at the pearly gates. But then,’ he continued more brightly, resuming his seat, ‘no doubt this added disfigurement will enhance his mendicant trade.’
“ ‘What think you, gentle folk?’ he went on, looking at us all with a benign gaze, ‘is this not further proof of God’s beneficence?’
“Suddenly the wizard spoke. ‘The parson has failed to grasp the historic significance of the occasion. The truth of the matter lies elsewhere, not readily apparent to the untutored intellect. For look you, sirrahs and madame, who was that septuagenarian thus timely squashed?’ He peered at the coach’s passengers most intently.
“ ‘Yes! It was none other than he!’ exclaimed the wizard. ‘Even in that brief glimpse I recognized him.’ ‘Who?’ demanded Sir Carayne. ‘ “Who?” you said,’ spoke the wizard. ‘And well might you ask, for I see by your thews you are an ignorant man. Well, let me tell you, sirrah, that now deceased deformity was none other than Stromo Sfondrati-Piccolomini.’
“ ‘Not really?’ gasped the cleric. ‘Yes, yes,’ continued the wizard. ‘Not—?’ exclaimed the cleric, half rising from his seat in excitement. ‘Yes, yes, I say—even he! The author of The Beggar’s Banquet!’
“ ‘Astonishing!’ cried the parson,