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“Who are you?” she asked, “and were they true, the
words you spoke?”
Daniel grasped the wicket and could hardly stand for
trembling.
“Daniel Knopf, your ladyship, mad Daniel,” he replied.
“Pay no heed to his talk, it runs from his tongue, sense and
nonsense, as it happens, brain-chaff and tongue-threshing,
tongue-threshing and naught else.”
“You lie, Daniel.”
“Ay, ay, good Lord, I lie; I make no doubt I do; for
in here, your ladyship” — he pointed to his forehead —
“’t is like the destruction of Jerusalem. Courtesy,
Magnille, and tell her ladyship, Madam Gyldenlåve, how daft I
am. Don’t let that put you out of countenance. Speak up,
Magnille! After all we’re no more cracked than the Lord
made us.”
“Is he truly mad?” Marie asked Magnille.
Magnille, in her confusion, bent down, caught a fold
of Marie’s dress through the bars of the wicket, kissed it,
and looked quite frightened. “Oh, no, no, indeed he is not,
God be thanked.”
“She too”—said Daniel, waving his arm. “We take care
of each other, we two mad folks, as well as we can. ’T is
not the best of luck, but good Lord, though mad we be yet
still we see, we walk abroad and help each other get under
the sod. But no one rings over our graves; for that’s not
allowed. I thank you kindly for asking. Thank you, and
God be with you.”
“Stay,” said Marie Grubbe. “You are no more mad than
you make yourself. You must speak, Daniel. Would you
have me think so ill of you as to take you for a go-between
of my lord and her you mentioned? Would you?”
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