"He may let that alone while he is here. Heard you not how deep he sighed? It was from rage and grief to think the least spring bird can fly to its castle and build its nest, while he can stir neither hand nor foot. I made that song on purpose to plague him." "Thou art right, Morten! it _did_ plague him," said the steward with a look of satisfaction. "Thou art an honest soul; I heard myself how deep he sighed: nevertheless, thou shalt not sing him any more such songs; they only serve to put fancies into his head. Thou art a good, well-meaning fellow, Morten! I know it well; but thou art somewhat simple. If the bishop knew the Black Art, he would not have been here so long. I rather incline to think his brain is cracked." "Have a care, master; that fellow hath all his wits about him; there is not a bishop in all the country can beat him at Latin." "It matters not to me whether he be mad or wise," muttered the steward, who mounted the stairs leading to the turnkey's room. He opened the door of this chamber, which was the uppermost in the tower, and directly above the archbishop's prison. Here two turnkeys were always on guard, and watched the prisoner through a chink in the floor. During the night two others were usually stationed in the captive's dungeon, and sat beside his couch, when it was their wont to plague him, and by their talk often to prevent his sleeping; but the report which had recently been spread abroad of the archbishop's sorceries, had so terrified the inmates of Sjoeberg, that none dared any longer remain at night in the captive's chamber. The two sentinels were seated before a backgammon board, and were throwing the dice when the steward entered. They hastily concealed them, and rose respectfully. "This is doing duty finely," muttered the steward: "while ye sit here and game, ye suffer him below there to play with Satan for his soul. Ye had best keep your eyes upon him, I counsel ye. If he gets loose, ye may make as sure of being hanged, as if ye had already the halter round your necks, and the clear air for a footstool. Now let's see what he is after." So saying the steward stooped down to the hole in the floor and peeped below. "He surely sleeps," he whispered; "he lies on his back without stirring." "That he is well nigh forced to do, because of his chains and the pestilent smell," said the cook. "Well," answered the steward, "one should not despise any means which might save an erring soul. It is for this reason, seest thou, I suffer the hardened sinner below there to lie in such swinish plight. _Ignorant_ folk would call it cruel; it is in truth pure compassion. How long thinkest thou the most hardened offender can hold out such captivity without repenting of his misdeeds and creeping to the cross?"