A very common belief in Norway, as in many other lands, is that the seventh child of the seventh child can heal the sick by the laying on of hands. Such a child is therefore called a wonder child. Little Carina Holt was the seventh in a family of eight brothers and sisters, but she grew to be six years old before it became generally known that she was a wonder child. Then people came from afar to see her, bringing their sick with them; and morning after morning, as Mrs. Holt rolled up the shades, she found invalids, seated or standing in the snow, gazing with devout faith and anxious longing toward Carina’s window.
It seemed a pity to send them away uncomforted, when the look and the touch cost Carina so little. But there was another fear that arose in the mother’s breast, and that was lest her child should be harmed by the veneration with which she was regarded, and perhaps come to believe that she was something more than a common mortal. What was more natural than that a child who was told by grown-up people that there was healing in her touch, should at last come to believe that she was something apart and extraordinary?
It would have been a marvel, indeed, if the constant attention she attracted, and the pilgrimages that were made to her, had failed to make any impression upon her sensitive mind. Vain she was not, and it would have been unjust to say that she was spoiled. She had a tender nature, full of sympathy for sorrow and suffering. She was constantly giving away her shoes, her stockings, nay, even her hood and cloak, to poor little invalids, whose misery appealed to her merciful heart. It was of no use to scold her; you could no more prevent a stream from flowing than Carina from giving. It was a spontaneous yielding to an impulse that was too strong to be resisted.
But to her father there was something unnatural in it; he would have preferred to have her frankly selfish, as most children are, not because he thought it lovely, but because it was childish and natural. Her unusual goodness gave him a pang more painful than ever the bad behavior of her brothers had occasioned. On the other hand, it delighted him to see her do anything that ordinary children did. He was charmed if she could be induced to take part in a noisy romp, play tag, or dress her dolls. But there followed usually after each outbreak of natural mirth a shy withdrawal into herself, a resolute and quiet retirement, as if she, were a trifle ashamed of her gayety. There was nothing morbid in these moods, no brooding sadness or repentance, but a touching solemnity, a serene, almost cheerful seriousness, which in one of her years seemed strange.
Mr. Holt had many a struggle with himself as to how he should treat Carina’s delusion; and he made up his mind, at last, that it was his duty to do everything in his power to dispel and counteract it. When he happened to overhear her talking to her dolls one day, laying her hands upon them, and curing them of imaginary diseases, he concluded it was high time for him to act.
He called Carina to him, remonstrated kindly with her, and forbade her henceforth to see the people who came to her for the purpose of being cured. But it distressed him greatly to see how reluctantly she consented to obey him.
When Carina awoke the morning after this promise had been extorted from her, she heard the dogs barking furiously in the yard below. Her elder sister, Agnes, was standing half dressed before the mirror, holding the end of one blond braid between her teeth, while tying the other with a pink ribbon. Seeing that Carina was awake, she gave her a nod in the glass, and, removing her braid, observed that there evidently were sick pilgrims under the window. She could sympathize with Sultan and Hector, she averred, in their dislike of pilgrims.
“Oh, I wish they would not come!” sighed Carina. “It will be so hard for me to send them away.”
“I thought you liked curing people,” exclaimed Agnes.
“I do, sister, but papa has made me promise never to do it again.”
She arose and began to dress, her sister assisting her, chatting all the while like a gay little chirruping bird that neither gets nor expects an answer. She was too accustomed to Carina’s moods to be either annoyed or astonished; but she loved her all the same, and knew that her little ears were wide open, even though she gave no sign of listening.
Carina had just completed her simple toilet when Guro, the chamber-maid, entered, and announced that there were some sick folk below who wished to see the wonder child.
“Tell them I cannot see them,” answered Carina, with a tremulous voice; “papa does not permit me.”
“But this man, Atle Pilot, has come from so far away in this dreadful cold,” pleaded Guro, “and his son is so very bad, poor thing; he’s lying down in the boat, and he sighs and groans fit to move a stone.”
“Don’t! Don’t tell her that,” interposed Agnes, motioning to the girl to begone. “Don’t you see it is hard enough for her already?”
There was something in the air, as the two sisters descended the stairs hand in hand, which foreboded calamity. The pastor had given out from the pulpit last Sunday that he would positively receive no invalids at his house; and he had solemnly charged every one to refrain from bringing their sick to his daughter. He had repeated this announcement again and again, and he was now very much annoyed at his apparent powerlessness to protect his child from further imposition. Loud and angry speech was heard in his office, and a noise as if the furniture were being knocked about. The two little girls remained standing on the stairs, each gazing at the other’s frightened face. Then there was a great bang, and a stalwart, elderly sailor came tumbling head foremost out into the hall. His cap was flung after him through the crack of the door. Agnes saw for an instant her father’s face, red and excited; and in his bearing there was something wild and strange, which was so different from his usual gentle and dignified appearance. The sailor stood for a while bewildered, leaning against the wall; then he stooped slowly and picked up his cap. But the moment he caught sight of Carina his embarrassment vanished, and his rough features were illuminated with an intense emotion.
“Come, little miss, and help me,” he cried, in a hoarse, imploring whisper. “Halvor, my son—he is the only one God gave me—he is sick; he is going to die, miss, unless you take pity on him.”
“Where is he?” asked Carina.
“He’s down in the boat, miss, at the pier. But I’ll carry him up to you, if you like. We have been rowing half the night in the cold, and he is very low.”
“No, no; you mustn’t bring him here,” said Agnes, seeing by Carina’s face that she was on the point of yielding. “Father would be so angry.”
“He may kill me if he likes,” exclaimed the sailor, wildly. “It doesn’t matter to me. But Halvor he’s the only one I have, miss, and his mother died when he was born, and he is young, miss, and he will have many years to live, if you’ll only have mercy on him.”
“But, you know, I shouldn’t dare, on papa’s account, to have you bring him here,” began Carina, struggling with her tears.
“Ah, yes! Then you will go to him. God bless you for that!” cried the poor man, with agonized eagerness. And interpreting the assent he read in Carina’s eye, he caught her up in his arms, snatched a coat from a peg in the wall, and wrapping her in it, tore open the door. Carina made no outcry, and was not in the least afraid. She felt herself resting in two strong arms, warmly wrapped and borne away at a great speed over the snow. But Agnes, seeing her sister vanish in that sudden fashion, gave a scream which called her father to the door.
“What has happened?” he asked. “Where is Carina?”
“That dreadful Atle Pilot took her and ran away with her.”
“Ran away with her?” cried the pastor in alarm. “How? Where?”
“Down to the pier.”
It was a few moments’ work for the terrified father to burst open the door, and with his velvet skull-cap on his head, and the skirts of his dressing-gown flying wildly about him, rush down toward the beach. He saw Atle Pilot scarcely fifty feet in advance of him, and shouted to him at the top of his voice. But the sailor only redoubled his speed, and darted out upon the pier, hugging tightly to his breast the precious burden he carried. So blindly did he rush ahead that the pastor expected to see him plunge headlong into the icy waves. But, as by a miracle, he suddenly checked himself, and grasping with one hand the flag-pole, swung around it, a foot or two above the black water, and regained his foothold upon the planks. He stood for an instant irresolute, staring down into a boat which lay moored to the end of the pier. What he saw resembled a big bundle, consisting of a sheepskin coat and a couple of horse blankets.
“Halvor,” he cried, with a voice that shook with emotion, “I have brought her.”
There was presently a vague movement under the horse-blankets, and after a minute’s struggle a pale yellowish face became visible. It was a young face—the face of a boy of fifteen or sixteen. But, oh, what suffering was depicted in those sunken eyes, those bloodless, cracked lips, and the shrunken yellow skin which clung in premature wrinkles about the emaciated features! An old and worn fur cap was pulled down over his ears, but from under its rim a few strands of blond hair were hanging upon his forehead.
Atle had just disentangled Carina from her wrappings, and was about to descend the stairs to the water when a heavy hand seized him by the shoulder, and a panting voice shouted in his ear:
“Give me back my child.”
He paused, and turned his pathetically bewildered face toward the pastor. “You wouldn’t take him from me, parson,” he stammered, helplessly; “no, you wouldn’t. He’s the only one I’ve got.”
“I don’t take him from you,” the parson thundered, wrathfully. “But what right have you to come and steal my child, because yours is ill?”
“When life is at stake, parson,” said the pilot, imploringly, “one gets muddled about right and wrong. I’ll do your little girl no harm. Only let her lay her blessed hands upon my poor boy’s head, and he will be well.”
“I have told you no, man, and I must put a stop to this stupid idolatry, which will ruin my child, and do you no good. Give her back to me, I say, at once.”
The pastor held out his hand to receive Carina, who stared at him with large pleading eyes out of the grizzly wolf-skin coat.
“Be good to him, papa,” she begged. “Only this once.”
“No, child; no parleying now; come instantly.”
And he seized her by main force, and tore her out of the pilot’s arms. But to his dying day he remembered the figure of the heart-broken man, as he stood outlined against the dark horizon, shaking his clinched fists against the sky, and crying out, in a voice of despair:
“May God show you the same mercy on the Judgment Day as you have shown to me!”
Six miserable days passed. The weather was stormy, and tidings of shipwreck and calamity filled the air. Scarcely a visitor came to the parsonage who had not some tale of woe to relate. The pastor, who was usually so gentle and cheerful, wore a dismal face, and it was easy to see that something was weighing on his mind.
“May God show you the same mercy on the Judgment Day as you have shown to me!”
These words rang constantly in his ears by night and by day. Had he not been right, according to the laws of God and man, in defending his household against the assaults of ignorance and superstition? Would he have been justified in sacrificing his own child, even if he could thereby save another’s? And, moreover, was it not all a wild, heathenish delusion, which it was his duty as a servant of God to stamp out and root out at all hazards? Yes, there could be no doubt of it; he had but exercised his legal right. He had done what was demanded of him by laws human and divine. He had nothing to reproach himself for. And yet, with a haunting persistency, the image of the despairing pilot praying God for vengeance stared at him from every dark corner, and in the very church bells, as they rang out their solemn invitation to the house of God, he seemed to hear the rhythm and cadence of the heart-broken father’s imprecation. In the depth of his heart there was a still small voice which told him that, say what he might, he had acted cruelly. If he put himself in Atle Pilot’s place, bound as he was in the iron bonds of superstition, how different the case would look? He saw himself, in spirit, rowing in a lonely boat through the stormy winter night to his pastor, bringing his only son, who was at the point of death, and praying that the pastor’s daughter might lay her hands upon him, as Christ had done to the blind, the halt, and the maimed. And his pastor received him with wrath, nay, with blows, and sent him away uncomforted. It was a hideous picture indeed, and Mr. Holt would have given years of his life to be rid of it.
It was on the sixth day after Atle’s visit that the pastor, sitting alone in his study, called Carina to him. He had scarcely seen her during the last six days, or at least talked with her. Her sweet innocent spirit would banish the shadows that darkened his soul.
“Carina,” he said, in his old affectionate way, “papa wants to see you. Come here and let me talk a little with you.”
But could he trust his eyes? Carina, who formerly had run so eagerly into his arms, stood hesitating, as if she hoped to be excused.
“Well, my little girl,” he asked, in a tone of apprehension, “don’t you want to talk with papa?”
“I would rather wait till some other time, papa,” she managed to stammer, while her little face flushed with embarrassment.
Mr. Holt closed the door silently, flung himself into a chair, and groaned. That was a blow from where he had least expected it. The child had judged him and found him wanting. His Carina, his darling, who had always been closest to his heart, no longer responded to his affection! Was the pilot’s prayer being fulfilled? Was he losing his own child in return for the one he had refused to save? With a pang in his breast, which was like an aching wound, he walked up and down on the floor and marvelled at his own blindness. He had erred indeed; and there was no hope that any chance would come to him to remedy the wrong.
The twilight had deepened into darkness while he revolved this trouble in his mind. The night was stormy, and the limbs of the trees without were continually knocking and bumping against the walls of the house. The rusty weather-vane on the roof whined and screamed, and every now and then the sleet dashed against the window-panes like a handful of shot. The wind hurled itself against the walls, so that the timbers creaked and pulled at the shutters, banged stray doors in out-of-the-way garrets, and then, having accomplished its work, whirled away over the fields with a wild and dismal howl. The pastor sat listening mournfully to this tempestuous commotion. Once he thought he heard a noise as of a door opening near by him, and softly closing; but as he saw no one, he concluded it was his overwrought fancy that had played him a trick. He seated himself again in his easy-chair before the stove, which spread a dim light from its draught-hole into the surrounding gloom.
While he sat thus absorbed in his meditations, he was startled at the sound of something resembling a sob. He arose to strike a light, but found that his match-safe was empty. But what was that? A step without, surely, and the groping of hands for the door-knob.
“Who is there?” cried the pastor, with a shivering uneasiness.
He sprang forward and opened the door. A broad figure, surmounted by a sou’wester, loomed up in the dark.
“What do you want?” asked Mr. Holt, with forced calmness.
“I want to know,” answered a gruff, hoarse voice, “if you’ll come to my son now, and help him into eternity?”
The pastor recognized Atle Pilot’s voice, though it seemed harsher and hoarser than usual.
“Sail across the fjord on a night like this?” he exclaimed.
“That’s what I ask you.”
“And the boy is dying, you say?”
“Can’t last till morning.”
“And has he asked for the sacrament?”
The pilot stepped across the threshold and entered the room. He proceeded slowly to pull off his mittens; then looking up at the pastor’s face, upon which a vague sheen fell from the stove, he broke out:
“Will you come or will you not? You wouldn’t help him to live; now will you help him to die?”
The words, thrust forth with a slow, panting emphasis, hit the pastor like so many blows.
“I will come,” he said, with solemn resolution. “Sit down till I get ready.”
He had expected some expression of gratification or thanks, for Atle well knew what he had asked. It was his life the pastor risked, but this time in his calling as a physician, not of bodies, but of souls. It struck him, while he took leave of his wife, that there was something resentful and desperate in the pilot’s manner, so different from his humble pleading at their last meeting.
As he embraced the children one by one, and kissed them, he missed Carina, but was told that she had probably gone to the cow-stable with the dairy-maid, who was her particular friend. So he left tender messages for her, and, summoning Atle, plunged out into the storm. A servant walked before him with a lantern, and lighted the way down to the pier, where the boat lay tossing upon the waves.
“But, man,” cried the pastor, seeing that the boat was empty, “where are your boatmen?”
“I am my own boatman,” answered Atle, gloomily. “You can hold the sheet, I the tiller.”
Mr. Holt was ashamed of retiring now, when he had given his word.
But it was with a sinking heart that he stepped into the frail skiff, which seemed scarcely more than a nutshell upon the tempestuous deep. He was on the point of asking his servant, unacquainted though he was with seamanship, to be the third man in the boat; but the latter, anticipating his intention, had made haste to betake himself away. To venture out into this roaring darkness, with no beacon to guide them, and scarcely a landmark discernible, was indeed to tempt Providence.
But by the time he had finished this reflection, the pastor felt himself rushing along at a tremendous speed, and short, sharp commands rang in his ears, which instantly engrossed all his attention. To his eyes the sky looked black as ink, except for a dark-blue unearthly shimmer that now and then flared up from the north, trembled, and vanished. By this unsteady illumination it was possible to catch a momentary glimpse of a head, and a peak, and the outline of a mountain. The small sail was double-reefed, yet the boat careened so heavily that the water broke over the gunwale. The squalls beat down upon them with tumultuous roar and smoke, as of snow-drifts, in their wake; but the little boat, climbing the top of the waves and sinking into the dizzy black pits between them, sped fearlessly along and the pastor began to take heart. Then, with a fierce cutting distinctness, came the command out of the dark.
“Pull out the reefs!”
“Are you crazy, man?” shouted the pastor. “Do you want to sail straight into eternity?”
“Pull out the reefs!” The command was repeated with wrathful emphasis.
“Then we are dead men, both you and I.”
“So we are, parson—dead men. My son lies dead at home, though you might have saved him. So, now, parson, we are quits.”
With a fierce laugh he rose up, and still holding the tiller, stretched his hand to tear out the reefs. But at that instant, just as a quivering shimmer broke across the sky, something rose up from under the thwart and stood between them. Atle started back with a hoarse scream.
“In Heaven’s name, child!” he cried. “Oh, God, have mercy upon me!”
And the pastor, not knowing whether he saw a child or a vision, cried out in the same moment: “Carina, my darling! Carina, how came you here?”
It was Carina, indeed; but the storm whirled her tiny voice away over the waves, and her father, folding her with one arm to his breast, while holding the sheet with the other, did not hear what she answered to his fervent exclamation. He only knew that her dear little head rested close to his heart, and that her yellow hair blew across his face.
“I wanted to save that poor boy, papa,” were the only words that met his ears. But he needed no more to explain the mystery. It was Carina, who, repenting of her unkindness to him, had stolen into his study, while he sat in the dark, and there she had heard Atle Pilot’s message. Even if this boy was sick unto death, she might perhaps cure him, and make up for her father’s harshness. Thus reasoned the sage Carina; and she had gone secretly and prepared for the voyage, and battled with the storm, which again and again threw her down on her road to the pier. It was a miracle that she got safely into the boat, and stowed herself away snugly under the stern thwart.
The clearing in the north gradually spread over the sky, and the storm abated. Soon they had the shore in view, and the lights of the fishermen’s cottages gleamed along the beach of the headland. Presently they ran into smoother water; a star or two flashed forth, and wide blue expanses appeared here and there on the vault of the sky. They spied the red lanterns marking the wharf, about which a multitude of boats lay, moored to stakes, and with three skilful tacks Atle made the harbor. It was here, standing on the pier, amid the swash and swirl of surging waters, that the pilot seized Carina’s tiny hand in his big and rough one.
“Parson,” he said, with a breaking voice, “I was going to run afoul of you, and wreck myself with you; but this child, God bless her! she ran us both into port, safe and sound.”
But Carina did not hear what he said, for she lay sweetly sleeping in her father’s arms.
When Hakon Vang said his prayers at night, he usually finished with these words: “And I thank thee, God, most of all, because thou madest me a Norseman, and not a German or an Englishman or a Swede.”
To be a Norseman appears to the Norse boy a claim to distinction.
God has made so many millions of Englishmen and Russians and Germans, that there can be no particular honor in being one of so vast a herd; while of Norsemen He has made only a small and select number, whom He looks after with special care; upon whom He showers such favors as poverty and cold (with a view to keeping them good and hardy), and remoteness from all the glittering temptations that beset the nations in whom He takes a less paternal interest. Thus at least reasons, in a dim way, the small boy in Norway; thus he is taught to reason by his parents and instructors.
As for Hakon Vang, he strutted along the beach like a turkey-cock, whenever he thought of his glorious descent from the Vikings—those daring pirates that stole thrones and kingdoms, and mixed their red Norse blood in the veins of all the royal families of Europe. The teacher of history (who was what is called a Norse-Norseman) had on one occasion, with more patriotic zeal than discretion, undertaken to pick out those boys in his class who were of pure Norse descent; whose blood was untainted by any foreign admixture. The delighted pride of this small band made them an object of envy to all the rest of the school. Hakon, when his name was mentioned, felt as if he had added a yard to his height. Tears of joy started to his eyes; and to give vent to his overcharged feelings, he broke into a war-whoop; for which he received five black marks and was kept in at recess.
But he minded that very little; all great men, he reflected, have had to suffer for their country.
What Hakon loved above all things to study—nay, the only thing he loved to study—was the old Sagas, which are tales, poems, and histories of the deeds of the Norsemen in ancient times. With eleven of his classmates, who were about his own age and as Norse as himself, he formed a brotherhood which was called “The Sons of the Vikings.” They gave each other tremendously bloody surnames, in the style of the Sagas—names that reeked with gore and heroism. Hakon himself assumed the pleasing appellation “Skull-splitter,” and his classmate Frithjof Ronning was dubbed Vargr-i-Veum, which means Wolf-in-the-Temple. One Son of the Vikings was known as Ironbeard, another as Erling the Lop-Sided, a third as Thore the Hound, a fourth as Aslak Stone-Skull. But a serious difficulty, which came near disrupting the brotherhood, arose over these very names. It was felt that Hakon had taken an unfair advantage of the rest in selecting the bloodiest name at the outset (before anyone else had had an opportunity to choose), and there was a general demand that he should give it up and allow all to draw lots for it. But this Hakon stoutly refused to do; and declared that if anyone wanted his name he would have to fight for it, in good old Norse fashion.
A holm-gang or duel was then arranged; that is, a ring was marked out with stones; the combatants stepped within it, and he who could drive his antagonist outside of the stone ring was declared to be the victor. Frithjof, who felt that he had a better claim to be named Skull-Splitter than Hakon, was the first to accept the challenge; but after a terrible combat was forced to bite the dust. His conqueror was, however, filled with such a glowing admiration of his valor (as combatants in the Sagas frequently are), that he proposed that they should swear eternal friendship and foster-brotherhood, and seal their compact, according to Norse custom, by the ceremony called “Mingling of Blood.” It is needless to say that this seemed to all the boys a most delightful proposition; and they entered upon the august rite with a deep sense of its solemnity.
First a piece of sod, about twelve feet square, was carefully raised upon wooden stakes representing spears, so as to form a green roof over the foster-brothers. Then, sitting upon the black earth, where the turf had been removed, they bared their arms to the shoulder, and in the presence of his ten brethren, as witnesses, each swore that he would regard the other as his true brother and love him and treat him as such, and avenge his death if he survived him; in solemn testimony of which each drew a knife and opened a vein in his arm, letting their blood mingle and flow together. Hakon, however, in his heroic zeal, drove the knife into his flesh rather recklessly, and when the blood had flowed profusely for five minutes, he grew a trifle uneasy. Frithjof, after having bathed his arm in a neighboring brook, had no difficulty in stanching the blood, but the poor Skull-Splitter’s wound, in spite of cold water and bandages, kept pouring forth its warm current without sign of abatement. Hakon grew paler and paler, and would have burst into tears, if he had not been a “Son of the Vikings.” It would have been a relief to him, for the moment, not to have been a “Son of the Vikings.” For he was terribly frightened, and thought surely he was going to bleed to death. The other Vikings, too, began to feel rather alarmed at such a prospect; and when Erling the Lop-Sided (the pastor’s son) proposed that they should carry Hakon to the doctor, no one made any objection. But the doctor unhappily lived so far away that Hakon might die before he got there.
“Well, then,” said Wolf-in-the Temple, “let us take him to old Witch-Martha. She can stanch blood and do lots of other queer things.”
“Yes, and that is much more Norse, too,” suggested Thore the Hound; “wise women learned physic and bandaged wounds in the olden time. Men were never doctors.”
“Yes, Witch-Martha is just the right style,” said Erling the Lop-Sided down in his boots; for he had naturally a shrill voice and gave himself great pains to produce a manly bass.
“We must make a litter to carry the Skull-Splitter on,” exclaimed Einar Bowstring-Twanger (the sheriff’s son); “he’ll never get to Witch-Martha alive if he is to walk.”
This suggestion was favorably received, the boys set to work with a will, and in a few minutes had put together a litter of green twigs and branches. Hakon, who was feeling curiously light-headed and exhausted, allowed himself to be placed upon it in a reclining position; and its swinging motion, as his friends carried it along, nearly rocked him to sleep. The fear of death was but vaguely present to his mind; but his self-importance grew with every moment, as he saw his blood trickle through the leaves and drop at the roadside. He appeared to himself a brave Norse warrior who was being carried by his comrades from the battle-field, where he had greatly distinguished himself. And now to be going, to the witch who, by magic rhymes and incantations, was to stanch the ebbing stream of his life—what could be more delightful?
Witch Martha lived in a small lonely cottage down by the river. Very few people ever went to see her in the day-time; but at night she often had visitors. Mothers who suspected that their children were changelings, whom the Trolds had put in the cradle, taking the human infants away; girls who wanted to “turn the hearts” of their lovers, and lovers who wanted to turn the hearts of the girls; peasants who had lost money or valuables and wanted help to trace the thief—these and many others sought secret counsel with Witch-Martha, and rarely went away uncomforted. She was an old weather-beaten woman with a deeply wrinkled, smoky-brown face, and small shrewd black eyes. The floor in her cottage was strewn with sand and fresh juniper twigs; from the rafters under the ceiling hung bunches of strange herbs; and in the windows were flower-pots with blooming plants in them.
Martha was stooping at the hearth, blowing and puffing at the fire under her coffee-pot, when the Sons of the Vikings knocked at the door. Wolf-in-the-Temple was the man who took the lead; and when Witch-Martha opened the upper half of the door (she never opened both at the same time) she was not a little astonished to see the Captain’s son, Frithjof Ronning, staring up at her with an anxious face.
“What cost thou want, lad?” she asked, gruffly; “thou hast gone astray surely, and I’ll show thee the way home.”
“I am Wolf-in-the-Temple,” began Frithjof, thrusting out his chest, and raising his head proudly.
“Dear me, you don’t say so!” exclaimed Martha.
“My comrade and foster-brother Skull-Splitter has been wounded; and I want thee, old crone, to stanch his blood before he bleeds to death.”
“Dear, dear me, how very strange!” ejaculated the Witch, and shook her aged head.
She had been accustomed to extraordinary requests; but the language of this boy struck her as being something of the queerest she had yet heard.
“Where is thy Skull-Splitter, lad?” she asked, looking at him dubiously.
“Right here in the underbrush,” Wolf-in-the-Temple retorted, gallantly; “stir thy aged stumps now, and thou shalt be right royally rewarded.”
He had learned from Walter Scott’s romances that this was the proper way to address inferiors, and he prided himself not a little on his jaunty condescension. Imagine then his surprise when the “old crone” suddenly turned on him with an angry scowl and said:
“If thou canst not keep a civil tongue in thy head, I’ll bring a thousand plagues upon thee, thou umnannerly boy.”
By this threat Wolf-in-the-Temple’s courage was sadly shaken. He knew Martha’s reputation as a witch, and had no desire to test in his own person whether rumor belied her.
“Please, mum, I beg of you,” he said, with a sudden change of tone; “my friend Hakon Vang is bleeding to death; won’t you please help him?”
“Thy friend Hakon Vang!” cried Martha, to whom that name was very familiar; “bring him in, as quick as thou canst, and I’ll do what I can for him.”
Wolf-in-the-Temple put two fingers into his mouth and gave a loud shrill whistle, which was answered from the woods, and presently the small procession moved up to the door, carrying their wounded comrade between them. The poor Skull-Splitter was now as white as a sheet, and the drowsiness of his eyes and the laxness of his features showed that help came none too early. Martha, in hot haste, grabbed a bag of herbs, thrust it into a pot of warm water, and clapped it on the wound. Then she began to wag her head slowly to and fro, and crooned, to a soft and plaintive tune, words which sounded to the ears of the boys shudderingly strange:
“I conjure in water, I conjure in lead,I conjure with herbs that grew o’er the dead;I conjure with flowers that I plucked, without shoon,When the ghosts were abroad, in the wane of the moon.I conjure with spirits of earth and airThat make the wind sigh and cry in despair;I conjure by him within sevenfold ringsThat sits and broods at the roots of things.I conjure by him who healeth strife,Who plants and waters the germs of life.I conjure, I conjure, I bid thee be still,Thou ruddy stream, thou hast flowed thy fill!Return to thy channel and nurture his lifeTill his destined measure of years be rife.”
She sang the last two lines with sudden energy; and when she removed her hand from the wound, the blood had ceased to flow. The poor Skull-Splitter was sleeping soundly; and his friends, shivering a little with mysterious fears, marched up and down whispering to one another. They set a guard of honor at the leafy couch of their wounded comrade; intercepted the green worms and other insects that kept dropping down upon him from the alder branches overhead, and brushed away the flies that would fain disturb his slumbers. They were all steeped to the core in old Norse heroism; and they enjoyed the situation hugely. All the life about them was half blotted out; they saw it but dimly. That light of youthful romance, which never was on sea or land, transformed all the common things that met their vision into something strange and wonderful. They strained their ears to catch the meaning of the song of the birds, so that they might learn from them the secrets of the future, as Sigurd the Volsung did, after he had slain the dragon, Fafnir. The woods round about them were filled with dragons and fabulous beasts, whose tracks they detected with the eyes of faith; and they started out every morning, during the all too brief vacation, on imaginary expeditions against imaginary monsters.
When at the end of an hour the Skull-Splitter woke from his slumber, much refreshed, Witch-Martha bandaged his arm carefully, and Wolf-in-the Temple (having no golden arm-rings) tossed her, with magnificent superciliousness, his purse, which contained six cents. But she flung it back at him with such force that he had to dodge with more adroitness than dignity.
“I’ll get my claws into thee some day, thou foolish lad,” she said, lifting her lean vulture-like hand with a threatening gesture.
“No, please don’t, Martha, I didn’t mean anything,” cried the boy, in great alarm; “you’ll forgive me, won’t you, Martha?”
“I’ll bid thee begone, and take thy foolish tongue along with thee,” she answered, in a mollified tone.
And the Sons of the Vikings, taking the hint, shouldered the litter once more, and reached Skull-Splitter’s home in time for supper.
The Sons of the Vikings were much troubled. Every heroic deed which they plotted had this little disadvantage, that they were in danger of going to jail for it. They could not steal cattle and horses, because they did not know what to do with them when they had got them; they could not sail away over the briny deep in search of fortune or glory, because they had no ships; and sail-boats were scarcely big enough for daring voyages to the blooming South which their ancestors had ravaged. The precious vacation was slipping away, and as yet they had accomplished nothing that could at all be called heroic. It was while the brotherhood was lamenting this fact that Wolf-in-the-Temple had a brilliant idea. He procured his father’s permission to invite his eleven companions to spend a day and a night at the Ronning saeter, or mountain dairy, far up in the highlands. The only condition Mr. Ronning made was that they were to be accompanied by his man, Brumle-Knute, who was to be responsible for their safety. But the boys determined privately to make Brumle-Knute their prisoner, in case he showed any disposition to spoil their sport. To spend a day and a night in the woods, to imagine themselves Vikings, and behave as they imagined Vikings would behave, was a prospect which no one could contemplate without the most delightful excitement. There, far away from sheriffs and pastors and maternal supervision, they might perhaps find the long-desired chance of performing their heroic deed.
It was a beautiful morning early in August that the boys started from Strandholm, Mr. Ronning’s estate, accompanied by Brumle-Knute. The latter was a middle-aged, round-shouldered peasant, who had the habit of always talking to himself. To look at him you would have supposed that he was a rough and stupid fellow who would have quite enough to do in looking after himself. But the fact was, that Brumle-Knute was the best shot, the best climber—and altogether the most keen-eyed hunter in the whole valley. It was a saying that he could scent game so well that he never needed a dog; and that he could imitate to perfection the call of every game bird that inhabited the mountain glens. Sweet-tempered he was not; but so reliable, skilful, and vigilant, and moreover so thorough a woodsman, that the boys could well afford to put up with his gruff temper.
The Sons of the Vikings were all mounted on ponies; and Wolf-in-the-Temple, who had been elected chieftain, led the troop. At his side rode Skull-Splitter, who was yet a trifle pale after his blood-letting, but brimming over with ambition to distinguish himself. They had all tied their trousers to their legs with leather thongs, in order to be perfectly “Old Norse;” and some of them had turned their plaids and summer overcoats inside out, displaying the gorgeous colors of the lining. Loosely attached about their necks and flying in the wind, these could easily serve for scarlet or purple cloaks wrought on Syrian looms. Most of the boys carried also wooden swords and shields, and the chief had a long loor or Alpine horn. Only the valiant Ironbeard, whose father was a military man, had a real sword and a real scabbard into the bargain. Wolf-in-the-Temple, and Erling the Lop-Sided, had each an old fowling-piece; and Brumle-Knute carried a double-barrelled rifle. This, to be sure, was not; quite historically correct; but firearms are so useful in the woods, even if they are not correct, that it was resolved not to notice the irregularity; for there were boars in the mountains, besides wolves and foxes and no end of smaller game.
For an hour or more the procession rode, single file, up the steep and rugged mountain-paths; but the boys were all in high spirits and enjoyed themselves hugely. The mere fact that they were Vikings, on a daring foraging expedition into a neighboring kingdom, imparted a wonderful zest to everything they did and said. It might be foolish, but it was on that account none the less delightful. They sent out scouts to watch for the approach of an imaginary enemy; they had secret pass-words and signs; they swore (Viking style) by Thor’s hammer and by Odin’s eye. They talked appalling nonsense to each other with a delicious sentiment of its awful blood-curdling character. It was about noon when they reached the Strandholm saeter, which consisted of three turf-thatched log-cabins or chalets, surrounded by a green inclosure of half a dozen acres. The wide highland plain, eight or ten miles long, was bounded on the north and west by throngs of snow-hooded mountain peaks, which rose, one behind another, in glittering grandeur; and in the middle of the plain there were two lakes or tarns, connected by a river which was milky white where it entered the lakes and clear as crystal where it escaped.
“Now, Vikings,” cried Wolf-in-the-Temple, when the boys had done justice to their dinner, “it behooves us to do valiant deeds, and to prove ourselves worthy of our fathers.”
“Hear, hear,” shouted Ironbeard, who was fourteen years old and had a shadow of a moustache, “I am in for great deeds, hip, hip, hurrah!”
“Hold your tongue when you hear me speak,” commanded the chieftain, loftily; “we will lie in wait at the ford, between the two tarns, and capture the travellers who pass that way. If perchance a princess from the neighboring kingdom pass, on the way to her dominions, we will hold her captive until her father, the king, comes to ransom her with heaps of gold in rings and fine garments and precious weapons.”
“But what are we to do with her when we have caught her?” asked the Skull-Splitter, innocently.
“We will keep her imprisoned in the empty saeter hut,” Wolf-in-the-Temple responded. “Now, are you ready? We’ll leave the horses here on the croft, until our return.”
The question now was to elude Brumle-Knute’s vigilance; for the Sons of the Vikings had good reasons for fearing that he might interfere with their enterprise. They therefore waited until Brumle-knute was invited by the dairymaid to sit down to dinner. No sooner had the door closed upon his stooping figure, than they stole out through a hole in the fence, crept on all-fours among the tangled dwarf-birches and the big gray boulders, and following close in the track of their leader, reached the ford between the lakes. There they observed two enormous heaps of stones known as the Parson and the Deacon; for it had been the custom from immemorial times for every traveller to fling a big stone as a “sacrifice” for good luck upon the Parson’s heap and a small stone upon the Deacon’s. Behind these piles of stone the boys hid themselves, keeping a watchful eye on the road and waiting for their chief’s signal to pounce upon unwary travellers. They lay for about fifteen minutes in expectant silence, and were on the point of losing their patience.
“Look here, Wolf-in-the-Temple,” cried Erling the Lop-Sided, “you may think this is fun, but I don’t. Let us take the raft there and go fishing. The tarn is simply crowded with perch and bass.”
“Hold your disrespectful tongue,” whispered the chief, warningly, “or I’ll discipline you so you’ll remember it till your dying day.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed the rebel, jeeringly; “big words and fat pork don’t stick in the throat. Wait till I get you alone and we shall see who’ll be disciplined.”
Erling had risen and was about to emerge from his hiding-place, when suddenly hoof-beats were heard, and a horse was seen approaching, carrying on its back a stalwart peasant lass, in whose lap a pretty little girl of twelve or thirteen was sitting.
The former was clad in scarlet bodice, a black embroidered skirt, and a snowy-white kerchief was tied about her head. Her blonde hair hung in golden profusion down over her back and shoulders. The little girl was city-clad, and had a sweet and appealing face. She was chattering guilelessly with her companion, asking more questions than she could possibly expect to have answered. Nearer and nearer they came to the great stone heaps, dreaming of no harm.
“And, Gunbjor,” the Skull-Splitter heard the little girl say, “you don’t really believe that there are trolds and fairies in the mountains, do you?”
“Them as are wiser than I am have believed that,” was Gunbjor’s answer; “but we don’t hear so much about the trolds nowadays as they did when my granny was young. Then they took young girls into the mountain and——”
Here came a wild, piercing yell, as the Sons of the Vikings rushed forward from behind the rocks, and with a terrible war-whoop swooped down upon the road. Wolf-in-the-Temple, who led the band, seized the horse by the bridle, and flourishing his sword threateningly, addressed the frightened peasant lass.
“Is this, perchance, the Princess Kunigunde, the heir to the throne of my good friend, King Bjorn the Victorious?” he asked, with a magnificent air, seizing the trembling little girl by the wrist.
“Nay,” Gunbjor answered, as soon as she could find her voice, “this is the Deacon’s Maggie, as is going to the saeter with me to spend Sunday.”
“She cannot proceed on her way,” said the chieftain, decisively, “she is my prisoner.”
Gunbjor, who had been frightened out of her wits by the small red- and blue-cloaked men, swarming among the stones, taking them to be trolds or fairies, now gradually recovered her senses. She recognized in Erling the Lop-Sided the well-known features of the parson’s son; and as soon as she had made this discovery she had no great difficulty in identifying the rest. “Never you fear, pet,” she said to the child in her lap, “these be bad boys as want to frighten us. I’ll give them a switching if they don’t look out.”
“The Princess Kunigunde is my prisoner until it please her noble father to ransom her for ten pounds of silver,” repeated Wolf-in-the-Temple, putting his arm about little Maggie’s waist and trying to lift her from the saddle.
“You keep yer hands off the child, or I’ll give you ten pounds of thrashing,” cried Gunbjor, angrily.
“She shall be treated with the respect due to her rank,” Wolf-in-the-Temple proceeded, loftily. “I give King Bjorn the Victorious three moons in which to bring me the ransom.”
“And I’ll give you three boxes on the ear, and a cut with my whip, into the bargain, if you don’t let the horse alone, and take yer hands off the child.”
“Vikings!” cried the chief, “lay hands on her! Tear her from the saddle! She has defied us! She deserves no mercy.”
With a tremendous yell the boys rushed forward, brandishing their swords above their heads, and pulled Gunbjor from the saddle. But she held on to her charge with a vigorous clutch, and as soon as her feet touched the ground she began with her disengaged hand to lay about her, with her whip, in a way that proved extremely unpleasant. Wolf-in-the-Temple, against whom her assault was especially directed, received some bad cuts across his face, and Ironbeard was driven backward into the ford, where he fell, full length, and rose dripping wet and mortified. Thore the Hound got a thump in his head from Gunbjor’s stalwart elbows, and Skull-Splitter, who had more courage than discretion, was pitched into the water with no more ceremony than if he had been a superfluous kitten. The fact was—I cannot disguise it—within five minutes the whole valiant band of the Sons of the Vikings were routed by that terrible switch, wielded by the intrepid Gunbjor. When the last of her foes had bitten the dust, she calmly remounted her pony, and with the Deacon’s Maggie in her lap rode, at a leisurely pace, across the ford.
“Good-by, lads,” she said, nodding her head at them over her shoulder; “ye needn’t be afraid. I won’t tell on you.”