"Tail!" repeated Larsson monotonously. "Dash it, what ill luck I have; this damned Limingo peasant will win my horse, my saddle, and my stirrups."
"The first morning after we were taken prisoners, I heard something about an auto-de-fé, to celebrate the battle of Lützen. What do you think of it?"
"I? What should I care; they might burn a dozen witches for our amusement."
"But if we are concerned in it? If they are waiting for the bishop's arrival?"
Larsson dilated his small grey eyes, and took hold of his goatee.
"Blitz-donner-kreutz ... the wretched Jesuits! They would cook us like turnips ... we ... the conquerors of the Holy Roman Empire ... I mean, my friend Bertel, that in such desperate straits, an honest soldier would not be to blame if he tried to escape in silence—for example, through the window..."
"There is a fall of seventy feet to the Main underneath."
"The door," said the thoughtful captain.
"Is guarded night and day by two armed men."
The captain fell into some melancholy reflections. Time passed on; it was evening; it became night. The nun with their suppers did not appear.