“Daniel Knopf, your ladyship, mad Daniel,” he replied. “Pay no heed to his talk, it runs from his tongue, sense and nonsense, as it happens, brain-chaff and tongue-threshing, tongue-threshing and naught else.”
“You lie, Daniel.”
“Ay, ay, good Lord, I lie; I make no doubt I do; for in here, your ladyship”—he pointed to his forehead—“’tis like the destruction of Jerusalem. Courtesy, Magnille, and tell her ladyship, Madam Gyldenlöve, how daft I am. Don’t let that put you out of countenance. Speak up, Magnille! After all we’re no more cracked than the Lord made us.”
“Is he truly mad?” Marie asked Magnille.
Magnille, in her confusion, bent down, caught a fold of Marie’s dress through the bars of the wicket, kissed it, and looked quite frightened. “Oh, no, no, indeed he is not, God be thanked.”
“She too”—said Daniel, waving his arm. “We take care of each other, we two mad folks, as well as we can. ’Tis not the best of luck, but good Lord, though mad we be yet still we see, we walk abroad and help each other get under the sod. But no one rings over our graves; for that’s not allowed. I thank you kindly for asking. Thank you, and God be with you.”
“Stay,” said Marie Grubbe. “You are no more mad than you make yourself. You must speak, Daniel. Would you have me think so ill of you as to take you for a go-between of my lord and her you mentioned? Would you?”
“A poor addle-pated fellow!” whimpered Daniel, waving his arm apologetically.
“God forgive you, Daniel! ’Tis a shameful game you are playing; and I believed so much better of you—so very much better.”