"Hast thou a message to Rome? Hark! the bird sings right cunningly! Or farther yet, from my greenwood home? Speak! and I'll haste far o'er the sea. Then strive and toil, and toil and strive, That web thou'lt never leave alive." As he sang the last verse, he fell down flat beside the hole, above the archbishop's dungeon, and peeped through it. "The false knave mocks me," he heard the captive murmur with a deep sigh. "Then strive and toil, and toil and strive, Thou'lt never leave that web alive," sang Morten at the top of his lungs, while he reeled about, and continued to repeat the burden of the song, in which the turnkeys joined with loud laughter. "Thou art gloriously drunk, Morten!" said Niels the horseman, in an inarticulate voice, and fell under the table. "Thou shouldst bethink thee, we are on guard here, and not at an ale-house:" so saying, the man-at-arms rested his heavy head on a stone flagon, which lay on the floor, and fell asleep. "But what hath become of Niels the horseman?" said the old turnkey, who had in the meantime drained a large flagon of potent Saxon ale (noted for its intoxicating properties). "I'll be hanged if I can see him." "He is snoring under the table there, the guzzling hound!" answered Joergen; "ye are pretty fellows, truly, to keep a night watch: I shall have to watch and be sober for ye all. Come, Morten! let us two keep our wits about us, and mind our duty! There lie thy silver pieces swimming in ale and mead--let's clear the table--shall we venture a throw for them? he who gets the highest throw shall pocket them; thou mayest throw first, an thou likest." "Done!" said Morten; "but we must play fair." As he said this, he took the dice and threw. "If thou canst count, count, Joergen, he stuttered, without looking at the dice. "Two, three--seven thou hast only got," answered Joergen, hastily sweeping up the dice; "look, it is my turn now:" he threw the dice, which turned up a high number. "I've won! the money is mine! look thyself!"--he swept the money towards him. "I doubt thee not--thou art an honest fellow," answered Morten, reeling, as he filled his comrade's cup, "the money is thine, but, by my soul! thou shalt now drink to the health of my true love, and then I will lie down to sleep. If thou drink not that cup clean out, I shall hold thee for a rascally cheat." "Well, then, good Morten, here's to the health of the pretty Karen Jeppe of Gilleleie! see'st thou, I am a man of my word," said Joergen, and drank--"There is not a drop left in the can." "That's right! Thou art an honest soul after all," lisped the cook, tumbling on the floor, where he soon began to snore louder than any of the others.