then began his song again: —
“Men defile us and kill us while loving us,
We hang to the earth by a thread;
This thread is our root, that is to say, our life,
But we raise on high our arms towards heaven.”
“Ah, you accursed sorcerer! you are making game of me, I
believe,” roared Gryphus.
Cornelius continued: —
“For heaven is our home,
Our true home, as from thence comes our soul,
As thither our soul returns, —
Our soul, that is to say, our perfume.”
Gryphus went up to the prisoner and said, —
“But you don’t see that I have taken means to get you under,
and to force you to confess your crimes.”
“Are you mad, my dear Master Gryphus?” asked Cornelius.
And, as he now for the first time observed the frenzied
features, the flashing eyes, and foaming mouth of the old
jailer, he said, —
“Bless the man, he is more than mad, he is furious.”
Gryphus flourished his stick above his head, but Van Baerle
moved not, and remained standing with his arms akimbo.
“It seems your intention to threaten me, Master Gryphus.”
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“Yes, indeed, I threaten you,” cried the jailer.
“And with what?”
“First of all, look at what I have in my hand.”
“I think that’s a stick,” said Cornelius calmly, “but I
don’t suppose you will threaten me with that.”
“Oh, you don’t suppose! why not?”
“Because any jailer who strikes a prisoner is liable to two
penalties, — the first laid down in Article 9 of the
regulations at Loewestein: —
“‘Any jailer, inspector, or turnkey who lays hands upon any
prisoner of State will be dismissed.'”
“Yes, who lays hands,” said Gryphus, mad with rage, “but
there is not a word about a stick in the regulation.”
“And the second,” continued Cornelius, “which is not written
in the regulation, but which is to be found elsewhere: —
“‘Whosoever takes up the stick will be thrashed by the
stick.'”
Gryphus, growing more and more exasperated by the calm and
sententious tone of Cornelius, brandished his cudgel, but at
the moment when he raised it Cornelius rushed at him,
snatched it from his hands, and put it under his own arm.
Gryphus fairly bellowed with rage.
“Hush, hush, my good man,” said Cornelius, “don’t do
anything to lose your place.”
“Ah, you sorcerer! I’ll pinch you worse,” roared Gryphus.
“I wish you may.”
“Don’t you see my hand is empty?”
“Yes, I see it, and I am glad of it.”
“You know that it is not generally so when I come upstairs
in the morning.”
“It’s true, you generally bring me the worst soup, and the
most miserable rations one can imagine. But that’s not a
punishment to me; I eat only bread, and the worse the bread
is to your taste, the better it is to mine.”
“How so?”
“Oh, it’s a very simple thing.”
“Well, tell it me,” said Gryphus.
“Very willingly. I know that in giving me bad bread you
think you do me harm.”
“Certainly; I don’t give it you to please you, you brigand.”
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“Well, then, I, who am a sorcerer, as you know, change your
bad into excellent bread, which I relish more than the best
cake; and then I have the double pleasure of eating
something that gratifies my palate, and of doing something
that puts you in a rage.
Gryphus answered with a growl.
“Oh! you confess, then, that you are a sorcerer.”
“Indeed, I am one. I don’t say it before all the world,
because they might burn me for it, but as we are alone, I
don’t mind telling you.”
“Well, well, well,” answered Gryphus. “But if a sorcerer can
change black bread into white, won’t he die of hunger if he
has no bread at all?”
“What’s that?” said Cornelius.
“Consequently, I shall not bring you any bread at all, and
we shall see how it will be after eight days.”
Cornelius grew pale.
“And,” continued Gryphus, “we’ll begin this very day. As you
are such a clever sorcerer, why, you had better change the