He was silent, and every voice repeated his awful words.
The bishop said: “My son, what was your object in committing so many crimes?”
The brigand laughed: “I’ faith, I swear, reverend Bishop, it was not like your brother, the bishop of Borglum, with a view to enrich myself.[3] There was something in me which drove me to it.”
“God does not always dwell in his ministers,” meekly replied the saintly old man. “You would insult me, but I only wish I could defend you.”
“Your reverence wastes his breath. Go ask your other brother, the bishop of Scalholt, in Iceland, to defend me. By Ingulf! it is a strange thing that two bishops should protect me,—one in my cradle, the other at my tomb. Bishop, you are an old fool.”
“My son, do you believe in God?”
“Why not? There must be a God for us to blaspheme.”
“Cease, unhappy man! You are about to die, and you will not kiss the feet of Christ—”
Hans of Iceland shrugged his shoulders.
“If I did so, it would be after the fashion of the constable of Roll, who pulled the king over as he kissed his foot.”