"Hold thy tongue, Morten," interrupted the steward; "thou must never use such words in speaking of thy master, however well and honestly thou meanst it. But hark! he speaks below there: canst hear what he says? It seems to me it is Latin or Greek." The cook threw himself on his stomach and laid his ear close to the hole in the floor. "Our Lady preserve us!" he whispered with a look of affright, "he is calling on Aristoteles, the devil's schoolmaster, and is giving him directions about you; he swears that you are right ready to enter his school." "Ay, indeed, it is just like the ungodly scoundrel! but I thought I heard another voice--there is surely no one with him?" Morten listened again. "Master! heard you _that_?" he exclaimed, springing up with a look of terror, and looking towards the door as if he meant to escape. "How now? What's that? What hath possessed thee, Morten? What heardest thou?" "Stoop down your ear to the hole, master, and you shall hear. Our Lady graciously preserve us! The Evil One is manifestly with him. He is to fetch you at midnight if you do not presently give his good friend, the archbishop, meat and wine and clean garments. Only listen yourself!" The steward cast a suspicious look at the cook, yet stooped to listen at the hole, keeping his eye all the while on Morten and the terrified turnkeys. He had not remained long in this position, ere he rose up deadly pale, and the name of Jesper Mogensen, accompanied by the sound of smothered and unnatural laughter, rung hollow as from an abyss, and in a voice wholly unlike the archbishop's. "Heard ye it not yourself, master?" said Morten; "he who now calls on _you_ I desire not to see near _me_." "Silence!" whispered the steward, stooping again with a look of alarm towards the crevice in the floor. "Jesper Mogensen!" said the same terrific voice as if directly under his feet, "cherish my learned master and customer, or I will break thy neck, and turn inside out thy hypocritical soul." While this voice rang through the chamber the turnkeys lay flat on their faces on the floor, and repeated their Avemaria. The steward trembled and shook; but Morten's cheeks now glowed crimson, and his eyes watered, as if affected by some secret exertion, while his lips were firmly compressed, and he stood apparently speechless with terror. "Then let him have what he wants," stammered forth the steward. "If there are _such_ tricks in the game, neither Junker Christopher, nor any one else, can require me to peril my life and soul any longer. Set thee to roast for the bishop in Satan's name, Morten! Let him eat and drink himself to death if he pleases! but escape he shall not, let him have ever so many devils for his friends." "You will find it hard to hinder him, master," said Morten in a timid tone; "he who so can roar would deem it a small matter to fly through the key-hole with a bishop."