"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 Kysté and Olé 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."