"Gracious Heaven! He is surely giving them the sacrament!" whispered Pallé to himself, "what can all this mean?" The abbot now stepped back, and appeared to be speaking with great emphasis and energetic enthusiasm. At last the knights arose and kissed the bishop's hand, and the dismayed spy recognised the powerful tones of Niels Brock, who clapped the steel clad warrior on the shoulder and said, in a loud tone, "Now, then! in the name of all the saints, have you courage, Kaggé! The devil himself could not know ye now, or injure a hair of your consecrated head." On hearing the name of Kaggé, Sir Pallé became so alarmed, that he lost his balance. The branch broke on which he had placed his foot, and he was forced to let himself slide down the trunk of the lime-tree without being able to save the skin of his hands or his rich attire, in which great rents were torn. He fell with violence to the ground, and stunned by fear and pain, stole back again in this pitiable plight to his chamber. Abbot Johan did not appear to his guests on the following morning, and when Brock and Papæ, during mattins, rode forth from the monastery with the worn-out and hapless Sir Pallé, the party had received an addition in the person of a stranger, mounted on a large well-fed horse from the abbot's stable, and clad in an old-fashioned suit of armour. His hair and brow were hidden by an ample helmet, fastened under the chin with a silver clasp. His meeting eye-brows and broad beard were shining, and coal-black; over his coat of mail he wore a large silver chain, in token of a knight's sacred vow. Sir Pallé hardly dared to turn his eyes on him. It was, indeed, impossible for him to recognize in this figure the fugitive guest at the monastery; but he was nevertheless convinced it was he, whom he now knew to be the outlawed regicide, Kaggé himself. Pallé looked as though he already felt the rope round his neck, at the thought of the dangerous company into which he was thrown. This new and mysterious travelling companion rode in silence between his two powerful friends. His glance was wild and restless; at first setting out he often looked behind on all sides, as if he feared to be recognised and pursued; but he soon, however, nodded confidentially to his companions, and presently fell into a deep reverie. His dark imaginings were occasionally interrupted by a wild and half-smothered laugh. "I have met with a good friend and kinsman here in the monastery," said Brock, in a careless tone, to Pallé. "He is a merry fellow, as you doubtless perceive; and laughs at his own thoughts when there is a lack of mirth and wit in his companions. He hath a true love at Wordingborg whom he would surprise; but therefore he would rather be unknown, and you can surely be silent where one ill-timed word might prove dangerous to yourself."