"There is something in it," answered the cook. "No one knows the Black Art out and out as he does. You know yourself that Junker Christopher's folk found the book on the Black Art among the letters from the outlaws, when they ferreted the bishop's secrets out of the chest in Lund sacristy. The book burned their fingers, and vanished instantly out of their hands. Such a devil's book always comes back to its master. That he hath not got it as yet, I am certain; but I fear he has it all at his fingers' ends. They said he never wearied of studying it at Lund, and he knows all the heathen and Greek books better by heart than his Paternoster, the ungodly hound!" "Thou art right, Morten! He _is_ a limb of Satan, and one cannot watch him too narrowly. His confounded learning never hit my fancy." Here the steward paused thoughtfully near the door of the archbishop's prison. "Yes, take care, master!" resumed the cook; "he will soon fill the house with his devilries, and set all the imps in hell to plague us, if he doth not get his prison cleaned, and better meat and drink. It would please me right well were he to die of hunger and be eaten up of vermin. Such end would still be a thousand times too good for such an accursed traitor and wizard; but when the Evil One is in the house, it is wisest to remember one's own little transgressions, and not use a captive devil worse than we would he should use us." "Pshaw, Morten! the devil is not our neighbour," interrupted the steward with a suspicious look. "Had I not myself heard thee curse and mock the archbishop, I should almost suspect thou wert in league with him." "Nay, master! I can soon clear myself of that; I would sooner league with Beelzebub himself. The turnkeys can bear witness there is not one among them all that takes such delight in plaguing and vexing him as I do. When he is forced to drink muddy water, and eat mouldy bread like a swine yonder, I sing drinking songs below in the kitchen, and throw open the window that he may snuff up the scent of the roasting; and I never come nigh his door without singing one thing or another, which I know will make him turn yellow, black, and green with rage. I made a song last spring, all about freedom and fair green woods, that always enrages him. Now you shall hear, master:" and he sang loudly before the prison door,-- "A blithe bird flits round Sjoeberg's tower, Right merrily sings he, Rise, captive, if thou hast the power, Rise up and flee with me; And then thou'lt breathe the fresh spring air, And roam in greenwood gay; Then speed we to thy castle fair, To Hammershuus away." "Hast thou lost thy wits, Morten?" interrupted the steward. "Wouldst thou stir him up to flee to his castle at Bornholm?"