"In Sjoborg tower a spider's web Holds sure a struggling fly; He once was king and country's dread, And held his head full high.

Then strive and toil, and toil and strive, That web thou'lt never leave alive."

"What song is that?" asked Niels the horseman; "I never heard it before."

"It was made to mock the bishop below," said Morten; "and _I_ it was who made it. Now ye shall hear; for to plague him properly, and mock his useless learning, I have managed to cram a little Latin into it that I learned of Father Gregory:" and Morten continued,--

"For Crimen laesae majestatis, The spider's web doth prison thee.

Custodibus inebriatis, A thief shall catch a thief, thou'lt see.

Then strive and toil, and toil and strive, That web thou'lt never leave alive."

While the cook thus sang in a loud voice, the clanking of chains was heard below in the archbishop's dungeon, and the two half-drunken turnkeys started from their seats, while Jorgen, who was still sober, took the opportunity of conveying a couple of the cook's silver pieces into his own pocket. "Let him writhe in his chains, the hound!" said Morten, remaining quietly seated; "he hears well enough how I mock him in the song, and that enrages him; but it does him good."

"Right, Morten!" said Niels the horseman, as he peeped through the c.h.i.n.k in the floor. "He twists in his chains, as though he were possessed--thou may'st be sure it is the Latin that vexes him--but no matter for that. I would have him hear, that we lay folk know a thing or two as well as himself."

"Come, let's drink, comrades!" called the cook, and continued to sing, as he rose from the bench, and staggered, as if half-intoxicated, about the chamber:--

"Thy Latin hast thou clean forgot?

And canst not catch the blithe bird's lay?

Then dark and dreary be thy lot, Within these walls thou'lt pine away.

Then strive and toil, and toil and strive, That web thou'lt never leave alive.

"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 Jorgen; "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, Jorgen, he stuttered, without looking at the dice.

"Two, three--seven thou hast only got," answered Jorgen, 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 Jorgen, 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.

"The dull brute!" muttered Jorgen, who began to feel somewhat muddled; "one may lead him by the nose as much as one likes." It was not long, however, before he leaned his head on his arms upon the table, and slept soundly. Hardly had he begun to snore, ere the cook rose, perfectly sober, and narrowly scrutinised the faces of the three sleeping turnkeys by the dim light of the lamp. As soon as he was satisfied that they slept soundly, Morten crept softly to the hole in the floor, and looked down on the prisoner.

"Venerable sir!" he whispered, "I have managed to drink them all three dead drunk; they are sleeping like logs--you need not doubt me. I have always been true and devoted to you. I was forced to plague and vex you, to throw dust in the eyes of others. I will do your bidding, wherever you please to send me."

"Is this earnest, Morten?" whispered the captive archbishop.

"It is, by my soul and honour!" answered the cook; "you saved my life, and concealed what you well wot of; therefore have I vowed to Saint Martin to save your life--at whatever cost."

"In the Lord's name, then, I will believe thee," said the prisoner. "If thou wouldst save my life, hie thee to Copenhagen, to my canon Hans Rodis, and consult with him! Bid him send me pen and ink--a file--and a ladder of ropes."

"Hans Rodis is at Esrom, my lord," answered the cook; "he bade me put this little sausage into your pious hands. If the chains will let you, hold up your hands, just as you lie there! Look, now! see how well we have hit the mark!" In saying this, the cook pushed through the aperture a thin rolled-up packet, concealed in a sausage; it was fastened to a string, by which he lowered it, holding the end fast in his hand. "I have it," said the captive, "praised be the King of kings!

My faithful servant hath sent me what I need--let not go the string," he continued, after a pause; "bring the lamp to the hole--but one single ray of light!" The cook obeyed in silence.

"I am writing a word of moment to my commandant at Hammershuus; wilt thou put it faithfully into his own hands?"

"I will, by my soul! only make haste."

"Thy reward will be great in Heaven, as on earth; but give me light, light!"

"All is arranged," whispered the cook, holding the lamp closer to the hole; "let us but make sure of Hammershuus, and all will be well! The fitting time will be when ye see me again; meanwhile use the file with caution. I and the canon will care for the rest; Niels Brock and his friends will help us. Johan Kyste and Ole Ark are here. Be of good courage, venerable sir! you may depend on me. But haste! those drunken dogs are stirring--I fear they will awake."

"One moment more!" whispered the captive. "Pull up--all is ready," he continued, after a short pause. Morten hastily drew up the string, and found a sheet of parchment rolled up in the skin of the sausage, which was fastened to it: he carefully concealed it. "Hush! they wake!" he whispered. "I must set to work again." So saying, the portly cook rolled himself on the floor among the intoxicated and half-awakened turnkeys, and began to belabour them with all his might. "Hollo, there!

now for a beating of meat!" he shouted, "now for a pounding of pepper!

How come we by this lump in the porridge? It must be well beaten out."

"Oh, oh! Art thou mad, Morten!" cried Niels the horseman.

"Have done with thy chatter, I know what I am about," continued Morten, still laying about him. "I am neither mad nor drunk; but the devil take me if I stay longer here!--must you, clod-pates, have your say too, and fancy yourselves wiser than the cook? Would you make me believe I have hors.e.m.e.n in the pot?"

While Morten thus shouted and talked, as though intoxicated to an excess he overturned the lamp, reeled in the dark out of the chamber, and rolled himself down the stairs. When the keepers, on the following morning, had recovered the full use of their senses the cook had disappeared, and was nowhere to be found in the castle.

CHAP. II.

At sunrise next morning, the brisk broad-shouldered cook, with a large club in his hand, took his way through the wood skirting Esrom Lake[7], accompanied by two other wanderers. It was a foggy morning; large flocks of wild geese flew with shrill cries over the lake, and the fallen leaves of the forest were swept along the path by the sharp morning breeze. The cook and his companions proceeded in silence and with hasty steps; and it was not until the sun began to disperse the cold mists of morning, that Morten cleared his throat, and sang a merry ballad. His companions were two strong broad-shouldered fellows, with red wadmal cloaks, over dirty leathern breeches, and with broad swords and daggers in their thickly padded belts, which also appeared to serve them as purses. They had the appearance of deserters or dismissed men-at-arms; they both wore beards in the fashion of king's hors.e.m.e.n, but seemed to have long neglected all attention to cleanliness and personal neatness. Their unwashed faces betokened want of sleep and fitting rest. The heads of a couple of flails served them as walking staves. They bore on their backs large bundles of rich attire, from which pieces of smoked meat and other provisions protruded. Their long uncombed hair hung about their shoulders; the skin and hair of both were so dark, and their countenances had so little of a Danish cast, that they would have pa.s.sed for foreigners, had not their dialect proclaimed them to be peasants from Lolland; who, at any rate, could not prove their evidently Vandal extraction in the first generation.