"Poor Ingé!" sighed Drost Peter. "Where is she? What have you done with her? She referred me to you, who have coldly and sternly avoided every question on the subject. But I can no longer refrain. What does she in Sweden, while we imprison and condemn her father here?"
"You shall know all, and will approve of it," replied Sir John, as he seized his hand. "Follow me to the chancellor. For the sake of Ingé, I could wish that Sir Lavé might, to-morrow, frustrate us all; although, were I his judge, there were small hopes of his deliverance. But that office lies with the duke, and one raven does not pick out the eye of another. As far as this goes, we may rejoice at the miscarriage of justice, and that we have a traitor for the kingdom's protector." So saying, he passed his hand over his eyes with much emotion, and drew Drost Peter along with him.
In the middle of the castle-yard stood a small gloomy tower, the stone vaults of which served as a prison. In one of these subterranean dungeons lay Sir Lavé. He stirred not but with dreadful apprehension, and seemed terrified at the clank of his own chains. At every sound he huddled himself up, and gazed earnestly on the securely bolted iron door; but it opened not. A small grating, looking forth upon the castle-yard, was situated high in the wall. This, with the aid of an old block of wood, which some wretched captive had formerly dragged after him, and a few loose stones, he succeeded, after considerable labour, in reaching. Here he saw Sir John and Drost Peter pass by; but he was afraid to meet his kinsman's look, and indignation choked his voice as he was about to call on Drost Peter to save him. He wept and wrung his hands, but regained courage when he perceived several of the duke's people passing to and fro. He then drew out a little note, which he had concealed in his sleeve, anxiously hiding it at every suspicious noise, and pulling it forth again when a follower of the duke appeared.
The young king showed himself for a moment on the balcony and was received by the curious spectators in the court below with shouts and waving of caps. This spectacle greatly agitated the captive, who, again concealing the letter, shortly afterwards became absorbed in deep and gloomy thought, in which he remained until the moonbeams, penetrating his cell, announced to him the approach of night. At that moment he perceived the duke descend the castle-stairs, and proceed to that wing of the castle appropriated to him. Preceding him was a royal page, bearing a torch, and six of his knights attended him at a little distance. His air was thoughtful; and, as he approached the grating of the dungeon, a gleam of hope inspired with courage the despairing prisoner. He coughed. The duke heard it, and looked towards the grating.
"Drop your glove, Duke Waldemar," whispered the captive knight, as he rolled the letter up, and threw it forth.
The duke dropped his glove as desired, and, in picking it up again, also secured the letter.
"There lies one of the traitors from Norway, awaiting the gallows," he exclaimed aloud, as he threw an indignant glance towards the dungeon, and passed on, regardless of the deep sigh that burst from the heart of the despairing prisoner.
Skirmen, who, by his master's orders, was observing every motion of the duke, was at this instant concealed in the deep shadow of a corner, near the tower. The moment the duke had disappeared, the trusty squire came forth, and was hastening to his master, when he was arrested by a voice from the grating.
"In the name of the merciful God, listen to me, young man!" exclaimed the captive knight. "Art not thou Drost Hessel's squire?"
"At your service," answered Skirmen, as he stopped.