"I put a price on his head," he cried. "Two thousand kroner to anyone who takes him, alive or dead. Who will earn it?"
"No Icelander earns money with blood," said the Bishop. "If this thing is our duty, we will do it without pay. If not, no bribe will tempt us."
"Ay, ay," shouted a hundred voices.
Jorgen Jorgensen flinched again, and his face whitened as he grew darker within.
"So, I see how it is," he said, looking steadfastly at the Bishop, the Judge, and the Thing-men. "You are aiding this traitor's escape. You are his allies, every man of you. And you are seducing and deceiving the people."
Then he faced about towards the crowd more and more, and cried in a loud voice:
"Men of Iceland, you know the man who has escaped. You know what he is, and where he came from; you know he is not one of yourselves, but a bastard Englishman. Then drive him back home. Listen to me. What price did I put on his head? Two thousand kroner! I will give ten thousand! Ten thousand kroner for the man who takes him alive, and twenty thousand kroner—do you hear me?—twenty thousand for the man who takes him dead."
"Silence!" cried the Bishop. "Who are you, sir, that you dare tempt men to murder?"
"Murder!" cried Jorgen Jorgensen. "See how simple are the wise? Men of Iceland, listen to me again. The traitor is an outlaw. You know what that means. His blood is on his own head. Any man may shoot him down. No man may be called to account for doing so. Do you hear me? It is the law of Iceland, the law of Denmark, the law of the world. He is an outlaw, and killing him is no murder. Follow him up! Twenty thousand kroner to the man who lays him at my feet."
He would have said more, for he was heaving with passion, and his white face had grown purple, but his tongue seemed suddenly paralyzed, and his wide eyes fixed themselves on something at the outskirts of the crowd. One thin and wrinkled hand he lifted up and pointed tremblingly over the heads of the people. "There!" he said in a smothered cry, and after that he was silent.