"It is possible that he became crazy at last," replied the duke; "but what made others crazy, may perhaps make us wise. You have guessed aright, Tuko. I have my sleeping-chamber in the prison-cell where that unfortunate bishop, of royal descent and royal mind, sat chained to a block, and gave vent to his indignation by cursing the world and mankind. But that he also had his lucid moments, and saw clearer into the world and its blind rulers than perhaps any one dreamt of, I shall show you memorials that perhaps no human eye save mine has before seen."
They had now entered the duke's narrow prison-cell, which looked upon the castle-yard by a grated window, eighteen ells from the ground. Here was still a block, with a rusty iron ring and a heavy chain, made fast to the wall. By the side of the chain lay a large, torn-up paving stone, which appeared to have been used for barricading the door from within. The castellan would have removed these painful relics of former occupants of the cell; but the duke had expressly desired to retain them, when he heard of what powerful kinsman they were memorials.
On the dingy walls were many scratches, like runes and oriental characters. To these the duke pointed; but it was beginning to grow dark, and it was impossible to discern any of the words distinctly: the interpretation of the inscriptions appeared also to demand a degree of learning which neither Sir Abildgaard nor his princely master was possessed of.
"If this is the book of wisdom you have read in of a night, noble sir," said the gay young knight, "you must have become profoundly learned in a hurry, and must certainly have borrowed a pair of eyes from some of the friendly owls or cats that now and then pay you their dutiful respects through the grating. In this nook, even in broad daylight, I should not be able to tell an X from a U, were I ever so clear-eyed."
"You have guessed better than you imagine, Tuko. The bird of wisdom himself has, with his fire-eyes, been a light to my bewildered path." So saying, the duke opened a chest, which, otherwise, served him to keep shoes in. "Look here," he said, taking out a large tame owl, with beautiful flaxen-coloured feathers, and a pair of uncommonly bright eyes.
"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.