"Not so much as yon stone flask, comrade! The hound would sooner let himself be spitted than speak a fair word to any man: perhaps, too, he thought it was poison I brought him,--but, death and pestilence!"--here he paused and spit again--"I can never believe"---- "Make thyself easy, Mads! thou knowest thou hast not tasted a drop; at any rate here is something to rince thy throat with, which I warrant thee is good and wholesome. I will sing thee a merry song the while; which will do the bishop good as well." While Morten again replenished his comrades' cups, he cleared his throat and sang: "In Sjoeborg tower a spider's web Holds sure a struggling fly; He once was king and country's dread, And held his head full high. Then strive and toil, and toil and strive, That web thou'lt never leave alive." "What song is that?" asked Niels the horseman; "I never heard it before." "It was made to mock the bishop below," said Morten; "and _I_ it was who made it. Now ye shall hear; for to plague him properly, and mock his useless learning, I have managed to cram a little Latin into it that I learned of Father Gregory:" and Morten continued,-- "For Crimen laesae majestatis, The spider's web doth prison thee. Custodibus inebriatis, A thief shall catch a thief, thou'lt see. Then strive and toil, and toil and strive, That web thou'lt never leave alive." While the cook thus sang in a loud voice, the clanking of chains was heard below in the archbishop's dungeon, and the two half-drunken turnkeys started from their seats, while Joergen, who was still sober, took the opportunity of conveying a couple of the cook's silver pieces into his own pocket. "Let him writhe in his chains, the hound!" said Morten, remaining quietly seated; "he hears well enough how I mock him in the song, and that enrages him; but it does him good." "Right, Morten!" said Niels the horseman, as he peeped through the chink in the floor. "He twists in his chains, as though he were possessed--thou may'st be sure it is the Latin that vexes him--but no matter for that. I would have him hear, that we lay folk know a thing or two as well as himself." "Come, let's drink, comrades!" called the cook, and continued to sing, as he rose from the bench, and staggered, as if half-intoxicated, about the chamber:-- "Thy Latin hast thou clean forgot? And canst not catch the blithe bird's lay? Then dark and dreary be thy lot, Within these walls thou'lt pine away. Then strive and toil, and toil and strive, That web thou'lt never leave alive.