“No,” replied the brigand.
“What! you, the most famous robber in Norway, and you have not a few scurvy gold ducats in your pouch?”
“No,” repeated the brigand.
“A few little crowns?”
“I tell you, no!”
“Not even a few paltry escalins?”
“No, no, nothing; not enough to buy a rat’s skin or a man’s soul.”
The turnkey shook his head: “That’s a different matter; you have no right to complain. Your cell is not so cold as the one you will have to sleep in to-morrow, and yet I’ll be bound you won’t notice the hardness of that bed.”
So saying, the jailer withdrew, followed by the curses of the monster, who continued to rattle his chains, which gave forth a hollow clang as if they were breaking slowly under repeated and violent jerks and pulls.
The door opened. A tall man, dressed in red serge, carrying a dark lantern, entered the cell, accompanied by the jailer who had refused the prisoner’s request. The latter at once became perfectly quiet.