“Because any jailer who strikes a prisoner is liable to two penalties,--the first laid down in Article 9 of the regulations at Loewestein:-- “‘Any jailer, inspector, or turnkey who lays hands upon any prisoner of State will be dismissed.’” “Yes, who lays hands,” said Gryphus, mad with rage, “but there is not a word about a stick in the regulation.” “And the second,” continued Cornelius, “which is not written in the regulation, but which is to be found elsewhere:-- “‘Whosoever takes up the stick will be thrashed by the stick.’” Gryphus, growing more and more exasperated by the calm and sententious tone of Cornelius, brandished his cudgel, but at the moment when he raised it Cornelius rushed at him, snatched it from his hands, and put it under his own arm. Gryphus fairly bellowed with rage. “Hush, hush, my good man,” said Cornelius, “don’t do anything to lose your place.” “Ah, you sorcerer! I’ll pinch you worse,” roared Gryphus. “I wish you may.” “Don’t you see my hand is empty?” “Yes, I see it, and I am glad of it.” “You know that it is not generally so when I come upstairs in the morning.” “It’s true, you generally bring me the worst soup, and the most miserable rations one can imagine. But that’s not a punishment to me; I eat only bread, and the worse the bread is to your taste, the better it is to mine.” “How so?” “Oh, it’s a very simple thing.” “Well, tell it me,” said Gryphus. “Very willingly. I know that in giving me bad bread you think you do me harm.” “Certainly; I don’t give it you to please you, you brigand.” “Well, then, I, who am a sorcerer, as you know, change your bad into excellent bread, which I relish more than the best cake; and then I have the double pleasure of eating something that gratifies my palate, and of doing something that puts you in a rage.” Gryphus answered with a growl. “Oh! you confess, then, that you are a sorcerer.” “Indeed, I am one. I don’t say it before all the world, because they might burn me for it, but as we are alone, I don’t mind telling you.” “Well, well, well,” answered Gryphus. “But if a sorcerer can change black bread into white, won’t he die of hunger if he has no bread at all?” “What’s that?” said Cornelius. “Consequently, I shall not bring you any bread at all, and we shall see how it will be after eight days.” Cornelius grew pale. “And,” continued Gryphus, “we’ll begin this very day. As you are such a clever sorcerer, why, you had better change the furniture of your room into bread; as to myself, I shall pocket the eighteen sous which are paid to me for your board.” “But that’s murder,” cried Cornelius, carried away by the first impulse of the very natural terror with which this horrible mode of death inspired him. “Well,” Gryphus went on, in his jeering way, “as you are a sorcerer, you will live, notwithstanding.” Cornelius put on a smiling face again, and said,-- “Have you not seen me make the pigeons come here from Dort?” “Well?” said Gryphus.