"Fie, sir!" cried the knight, springing back. "It is the dismal screech-owl, which people call the dead man's bird. What do you with it? It is not worth having for a guest, and the devil may have touched it. Have you never heard that there is always sure to be a death in the house where it perches?" "The pest may come to Sjöborg for me, as soon as we are well out of it," said the duke; "but, as you perceive, the dead man's bird and I are at present good friends. One night, as I lay awake with troubled thoughts, I saw these eyes glaring upon me from the ledge on the wall. I started, and it seemed to me as if the fiend were standing, staring me through the soul with glowing eyes, in the silent, mysterious night. I sprang up, and discovered my mistake. But while I approached to seize my unbidden night-guest, he turned his shining eyes towards the wall: a gleam of moonshine entered at the same instant; and, whether it was the light of the bird's eyes, or the moonshine, that illumined the wall, I know not, but I perceived there a dim inscription, which I could not then read. I took care to mark the spot; and, having placed my prisoner in the box here, I went to sleep. Next morning, however, betimes I examined the wall and the writing. When the morning sun shines in, it can be easily read. It is in Latin, and it cost me much trouble to understand it. You know we did not make great progress with the complaisant clerk who was to make us book-learned." "What made you of the characters, then, illustrious sir?" inquired Tuko. "But do throw that hideous death-bird out of the grating. It glares upon us, as if it would burn our eyes out, in exchange for the wisdom it has taught you." "Nay: this wise bird shall now be my companion in weal or woe," said the duke, patting the bird kindly, and replacing it in the box. "If it forebodes death, it must be the death of our enemies." "But what did you read, sir?" inquired Sir Abildgaard, eagerly. "I read many horrible words I shall not repeat, but which have often made my hair stand on end. A sentence, however, stood there, which has told me why I am come hither, and what I have to do in this miserable world. '_Thou who dreamedst of a crown and awokest in chains_,' it runs, '_lay hold of that sceptre which constrains spirits, and thy crown shall be bright as the sun!_" "This is the nimbus which already played in the brain of the crazy bishop," observed Sir Abildgaard; "or it is the black art and magical incantations he brooded over. Be not thus disquieted, noble sir, and suffer not the madness of becoming a saint to infect you. I dare be sworn that neither you nor I carry it to this extremity."