He struck his stick on the stone pavement of the cell, and called out,—
“Halloa! my warbling gentleman, don’t you hear me?”
Cornelius turned round, merely saying, “Good morning,” and then began his song again:—
“Men defile us and kill us while loving us, We hang to the earth by a thread; This thread is our root, that is to say, our life, But we raise on high our arms towards heaven.”
“Ah, you accursed sorcerer! you are making game of me, I believe,” roared Gryphus.
Cornelius continued:—
“For heaven is our home, Our true home, as from thence comes our soul, As thither our soul returns,—Our soul, that is to say, our perfume.”
Gryphus went up to the prisoner and said,—
“But you don’t see that I have taken means to get you under, and to force you to confess your crimes.”
“Are you mad, my dear Master Gryphus?” asked Cornelius.