In desperation Hund, unarmed as he was, threw himself upon the pirate.In desperation Hund, unarmed as he was, threw himself upon the pirate.
In desperation Hund, unarmed as he was, threw himself upon the pirate.In desperation Hund, unarmed as he was, threw himself upon the pirate.
In desperation Hund, unarmed as he was, threw himself upon the pirate.
Hund sprang to his feet in an agony of passion. The well-armed pirate was up as soon as he. Rolf drew back two paces, to be out of sight, if by chance they should look up, and armed himself with a heavy stone. He heard the pirate say—
"You can try to run away, if you like; I shall shoot you through the head before you have gone five yards. And you may refuse to return with me; and then I shall know how to report of you to my captain. I shall tell him that you are lying at the bottom of this lake—if it has a bottom—with a stone tied round your neck, like a drowned wild cat. I hope you may chance to find your enemy there, to make the place the pleasanter."
Rolf could not resist the impulse to send his heavy stone into the middle of the tarn, to see the effect upon the men below. He gave a good cast, on the very instant; and prodigious was the splash, as the stone hit the water, precisely in the middle of the little lake. The men did not see the cause of the commotion that followed; but, staring and turning at the splash, they saw the rings spreading in the dark waters which had lain as still as the heavens but a moment before. How could two guilty, superstitious men doubt that the waters were thrown into agitation by the pirate's last words? Yet they glanced fearfully round the whole landscape, far and near. They saw no living thing but a hawk which, startled from its perch on a scathed pine was wheeling round in the air in an unsteady flight. The pirate pointed to the bird with one hand, while he laid the other on the pistol in his belt.
"Yes," said Hund, trembling, "the bird saw it. Did you see it?"
"See what?"
"The water-sprite, Uldra. Before you throw me in to the water-sprite, we will see which is the strongest."
And in desperation Hund, unarmed as he was, threw himself upon the pirate, sprang at his throat, and both wrestled with all their force. Rolf could not but look; and he saw that the pirate had drawn forth his pistol, and that all would be over with Hund in a moment if he did not interfere. He stood forward between the two pine stems, on the ridge of the rock, and uttered very loud the mournful cry which had so terrified his enemies at Vogel islet. The combatants flew asunder, as if parted by a flash of lightning. Both looked up to the point whence the sound had come; and there they saw what they supposed to be Rolf's spectre, pointing at them, and the eyes staring as when looking up from the waters of the fiord. How could these guilty and superstitious men doubt that it was Rolf's spectre, which, rising through the centre of the tarn, had caused the late commotion in its waters? Away they fled—at first in different directions; but it amused Rolf to observe that rather than be alone, Hund turned to follow the track of the tyrant, who had just been threatening and insulting him, and driving him to struggle for his life.
"Ay," thought Rolf, "it is his conscience that makes me so much more terrible to him than that ruffian. I never hurt a hair of his head; and yet, through his conscience, my face is worse than the blasting lightning to his eyes. Heigh-ho! Where is Erlingsen? It is nothing short of cruel to keep me waiting to-day, of all days; and in this spot, of all places—almost within sight of the seater where my poor Erica sits pining, and seeing nothing of the pastures, but only, with her minds' eye, the sea-caves where she thinks these limbs are stretched, cold and helpless, as in a grave. A pretty story I shall have to tell her, if she will only believe it, of another sort of sea-cave."
To pass the time he took out the shells he had collected for Erica, and admired them afresh, and planned where she would place them, so as best to adorn their sitting-room, when they were married. Erlingsen arrived before he had been thus engaged five minutes; and indeed before he had been more than a quarter of an hour altogether at the place of meeting.
"My dear master!" exclaimed Rolf, on seeing him coming, "have pity on Erica and me, and hear what I have to tell you, that I may be gone."
"You shall be gone at once, my good fellow! I will walk with you, and you shall tell your story as we go."
Rolf shook his head, and objected that he could not, in conscience, take Erlingsen a step further from home than was necessary, as he was only too much wanted there.
"Is that Oddo yonder?" he asked. "He said you would bring him."
"Yes; he has grown trustworthy of late. We have had fewer heads and hands among us than the times require since Peder grew old and blind, and you were missing, and Hund had to be watched instead of trusted. So we have been obliged to make a man of Oddo, though he has the years of a boy, and the curiosity of a woman. I brought him now, thinking that a messenger might be wanted to raise the country against the pirates; and I believe Oddo, in his present mood, will be as sure as we know he can be swift."
"It is well we have a messenger. Where is the bishop?"
"Just going to his boat, at this moment, I doubt not," replied Erlingsen, measuring with his eye the length of the shadows. "The bishop is to sup with us this evening."
"And how long to stay?"
"Over to-morrow night, at the least. If many of the neighbours should bring their business to him, it may be longer. My little Frolich will be vexed that he should come while she is absent. Indeed I should not much wonder if she sets out homeward when she hears the news you will carry, so that we shall see her at breakfast."
"It is more likely," observed Rolf, "that we shall see the bishop up the mountain at breakfast. Ah! you stare; but you will find I am not out of my wits when you hear what has come to my knowledge since we parted, and especially within this hour."
Erlingsen was indeed presently convinced that it was the intention of the pirates to carry off the Bishop of Tronyem, in order that his ransom might make up to them for the poverty of the coasts. He heard besides such an ample detail of the plundering practices which Rolf had witnessed from his retreat as convinced him that the strangers, though in great force, must be prevented by a vigorous effort from doing further mischief. The first thing to be done was to place the bishop in safety on the mountain; and the next was so to raise the country as that these pirates should be certainly taken when they should come within reach.
Oddo was called, and entrusted with the information which had to be conveyed to the magistrate at Saltdalen. He carried his master's tobacco-pouch as a token—this pouch, of Lapland make, being well known to the magistrate as Erlingsen's. Oddo was to tell him of the danger of the bishop, and to request him to send to the spot whatever force could be mustered at Saltdalen; and moreover to issue the budstick,[5] to raise the country. The pirates having once entered the upper reach of the fiord, might thus be prevented from ever going back again, and from annoying any more the neighbourhood which they had so long infested.
[5] When it is desired to send a summons or other message over a district in Norway where the dwellings are scattered, the budstick is sent round by running messengers. It is a stick made hollow, to hold the magistrate's order, and a screw at one end to secure the paper in its place. Each messenger runs a certain distance, and then delivers it to another, who must carry it forward. If any one is absent, the budstick must be laid upon the "housefather's great chair, by the fireside;" and if the house is locked, it must be fastened outside the door, so as to be seen as soon as the host returns. Upon great occasions, it was formerly found that a whole region could be raised in a very short time. The method is still in use for appointments on public business.
Erlingsen promised to be wary on his return homewards, so as not to fall in with the two whom Rolf had put to flight. He said, however, that if by chance he should cross their path, he did not doubt he could also make them run, by acting the ghost or demon, though he had not had Rolf's advantage of disappearing in the fiord before their eyes. They were already terrified enough to fly from anything that called itself a ghost.
The three then went on their several ways—Oddo speeding over the ridges like a sprite on a night errand, and Rolf striding up the grassy slopes like (what he was) a lover anxious to be beside his betrothed after a perilous absence.
This was the day when the first cheese of the season was found to be perfect and complete. Frolich, Stiorna, and Erica examined it carefully, and pronounced it a well-pressed, excellent Gammel cheese, such as they should not be ashamed to set before the bishop, and therefore one which ought to satisfy the demon. It now only remained to carry it to its destination—to the ridge where the first cheese of the season was always laid for the demon, and where, it appeared, he regularly came for his offering, as no vestige of the gift was ever to be found the next morning—only the round place in the grass where it had lain, and the marks of some feet which had trodden the herbage.
"Help me up with it upon my head, Stiorna," said Erica.
"I know why you will not let me carry the cheese," said Frolich, smiling. "You are thinking of Oddo with the cake and ale. Nobody but you must deposit offerings henceforward. You are afraid I should eat up that cheese, almost as heavy as myself. You think there would not be a paring left for the demon by the time I got to the ridge."
"Not so," replied Erica. "I think that he to whom this cheese is destined had rather be served by one who does not laugh at him. And it is a safer plan for you, Frolich."
And off went Erica with her cheese.
The ridge on which she laid it would have tempted her at any other time to sit down. It was green and soft with mosses, and offered as comfortable a couch to one tired with the labours of the day as any to be found at the farm. But to-night it was to be haunted; so Erica merely stayed to do her duty. She selected the softest tuft of moss on which to lay the cheese, put her offering reverently down, and then diligently gathered the brightest blossoms from the herbage around, and strewed them over the cheese. She then walked rapidly homewards, without once looking behind her. If she had had the curiosity and courage to watch for a little while, she would have seen her offering carried off by an odd little figure, with nothing very terrible in its appearance—namely, a woman about four feet high, with a flat face, and eyes wide apart, wearing a reindeer garment like a waggoner's frock, a red comforter about her neck, a red cloth cap on her head, a blue worsted sash, and leather boots up to the knee—in short, such a Lapland girl as Erica would have given a rye-cake to as charity, but would not have thought of asking to sit down even in her master's kitchen; for the Norwegian servants are very high and saucy towards the Laps who wander to their doors. It is not surprising that the Lapps, who pitch their tents on the mountain, should like having a fine Gammel cheese for the trouble of picking it up; and the company whose tents Erica had passed on her way up to the seater, kept a good look-out upon all the dairy people round, and carried off every cheese meant for the demon. While Erica was gathering and strewing the blossoms, this girl was hidden near; and trusting to Erica's not looking behind her, the rogue swept off the blossoms, and threw them at her before she had gone ten yards, trundled the cheese down the other side of the ridge, made a circuit, and was at the tents with her prize before supper-time. What would Erica have thought if she had beheld this fruit of so many milkings and skimmings, so much boiling and pressing, devoured by greedy Lapps in their dirty tent?
On her way homewards Erica remembered that this was Midsummer Eve—a season when her mother was in her thoughts more than at any other time; for Midsummer Eve is sacred in Norway to the wood-demon, whose victim she believed her mother to have been. Every woodman sticks his axe into a tree that night, that the demon may, if he pleases, begin the work of the year by felling trees or making a faggot. Erica hastened to the seater, to discover whether Erlingsen had left his axe behind, and whether Jan had one with him.
Jan had an axe, and remembering his duty, though tired and sleepy, was just going to the nearest pine-grove with it when Erica reached home. She seized Erlingsen's axe and went also, and stuck it in a tree, just within the verge of the grove, which was in that part a thicket, from the growth of underwood. This thicket was so near the back of the dairy that the two were home in five minutes. Yet they found Frolich almost as impatient as if they had been gone an hour. She asked whether their heathen worship was done at last, so that all might go to bed; or whether they were to be kept awake till midnight by more mummery?
Erica replied by showing that Jan was already gone to his loft over the shed, and begging leave to comb and curl Frolich's hair, and see her to rest at once. Stiorna was asleep; and Erica herself meant to watch the cattle this night. They lay crouched in the grass, all near each other, and within view, in the mild slanting sunshine; and here she intended to sit, on the bench outside the home-shed, and keep her eye on them till morning.
"You are thinking of the Bishop of Tronyem's cattle," said Frolich.
"I am, dear. This is Midsummer Eve, you know, when, as we think, all the spirits love to be abroad."
"You will die before your time, Erica," said the weary girl. "These spirits give you no rest of body or mind. What a day's work we have done! And now you are going to watch till twelve, one, two o'clock! I could not keep awake," she said, yawning, "if there was one demon at the head of the bed, and another at the foot, and the underground people running like mice all over the floor."
"Then go and sleep, dear. I will fetch your comb, if you will just keep an eye on the cattle for the moment I am gone."
As Erica combed Frolich's long fair hair, and admired its shine in the sunlight, and twisted it up behind, and curled it on each side, the weary girl leaned her head against her, and dropped asleep. When all was done, she just opened her eyes to find her way to bed, and say—
"You may as well go to bed comfortably; for you will certainly drop asleep here, if you don't there."
"Not with my pretty Spiel in sight. I would not lose my white heifer for seven nights' sleep. You will thank me when you find your cow, and all the rest, safe in the morning. Good-night, dear."
And Erica closed the door after her young mistress, and sat down on the bench outside, with her face towards the sun, her lure by her side, and her knitting in her hands. She was glad that the herd lay so that by keeping her eye on them she could watch that wonder of Midsummer night within the Arctic Circle, the dipping of the sun below the horizon, to appear again immediately. She had never been far enough to the north to see the sun complete its circle without disappearing at all; but she did not wish it. She thought the softening of the light which she was about to witness, and the speedy renewing of day, more wonderful and beautiful.
She sat, soothed by her employment and by the tranquillity of the scene, and free from fear. She had done her duty by the spirits of the mountain and the wood; and in case of the appearance of any object that she did not like, she could slip into the house in an instant. Her thoughts were therefore wholly Rolf's. She could endure now to contemplate a long life spent in doing honour to his memory by the industrious discharge of duty. She would watch over Peder, and receive his last breath—an office which should have been Rolf's. She would see another houseman arrive, and take possession of that house, and become betrothed, and marry; and no one, not even her watchful mistress should see a trace of repining in her countenance, or hear a tone of bitterness from her lips. However weary her heart might be, she would dance at every wedding—of fellow-servant or of young mistress. She would cloud nobody's happiness, but would do all she could to make Rolf's memory pleasant to those who had known him, and wished him well.
Her eyes rested on the lovely scene before her. From the elevation at which she was, it appeared as if the ocean swelled up into the very sky, so high was the horizon line; and between lay a vast region of rock and river, hill and dale, forest, fiord, and town, part in golden sunlight, part in deep shadow, but all, though bright as the skies could make it, silent as became the hour. As Erica found that she could glance at the sun itself without losing sight of the cattle, which still lay within her indirect vision, she carefully watched the descent of the orb, anxious to observe precisely when it should disappear, and how soon its golden spark would kindle up again from the waves. When its lower rim was just touching the waters, its circle seemed to be of an enormous size, and its whole mass to be flaming. Its appearance was very unlike that of the comparatively small, compact, brilliant luminary which rides the sky at noon. Erica was just thinking so, when a rustle in the thicket, within the pine grove, made her involuntarily turn her head in that direction. Instantly remembering that it was a common device of the underground people for one of them to make the watcher look away, in order that others might drive off the cattle, she resumed her duty, and gazed steadfastly at the herd. They were safe—neither reduced to the size of mice, nor wandering off, though she had let her eye glance away from them.
The sky, however, did not look itself. There were two suns in it. Now Erica really did quite forget the herd for some time, even her dear white heifer—while she stared bewildered at the spectacle before her eyes. There was one sun, the sun she had always known—half sunk in the sea, while above it hung another, round and complete, somewhat less bright perhaps, but as distinct and plain before her eyes as any object in heaven or earth had ever been. Her work dropped from her hands, as she covered her eyes for a moment. She started to her feet, and then looked again. It was still there, though the lower sun was almost gone. As she stood gazing, she once more heard the rustle in the wood. Though it crossed her mind that the wood-demon was doubtless there making choice of his axe and his tree, she could not move, and had not even a wish to take refuge in the house, so wonderful was his spectacle—the clearest instance of enchantment she had ever seen. Was it meant for good—a token that the coming year was to be a doubly bright one? If not, how was she to understand it?
"Erica!" cried a voice at this moment from the wood—a voice which thrilled her whole frame. "My Erica!"
She not only looked towards the wood now, but sprang forwards; but her eyes were so dazzled by having gazed at the sun that she could see nothing. Then she remembered how many forms the cunning demon could assume, and she turned back thinking how cruel it was to delude her with her lover's voice, when instead of his form she should doubtless see some horrid monster. She turned in haste, and laid her hand on the latch of the door, glancing once more at the horizon.
There was now no sun at all. The burnish was gone from every point of the landscape, and a mild twilight reigned.
One good omen had vanished; but there was still enchantment around, for again she heard the thrilling "Erica!"
There was no huge beast glaring through the pine stems, and trampling down the thicket; but instead, there was the figure of a man advancing from the shadow into the pasture. "Why do you take that form?" said the trembling girl, sinking down on the bench. "I had rather have seen you as a bear. Did you not find the axe? I laid it for you. Pray—pray, come no nearer."
"I must, my love, to show you that it is your own Rolf. Erica, do not let your superstition come for ever between us."
She held out her arms—she could not rise, though she strove to do so. Rolf sat beside her—she felt his kisses on her forehead—she felt his heart beat—she felt that not even a spirit could assume the very tones of that voice.
"Do forgive me," she murmured; "but it is Mid-summer Eve, and I felt so sure——"
"As sure of my being the demon as I am sure there is no cruel spirit here, though it is Midsummer Eve. Look, love! see how the day smiles upon us!"
And he pointed to where a golden star seemed to kindle on the edge of the sea. It was the sun again, rising after its few minutes of absence.
"I saw two just now," cried Erica—"two suns. Where are we, really? And how is all this? And where do you come from?"
And she gazed, still wistfully, doubtfully, in her lover's face.
"I will show you," said he, smiling. And while he still held her with one arm, lest in some sudden fancy she should fly him as a ghost, he used the other hand to empty his pockets of the beautiful shells he had brought, tossing them into her lap.
"Did you ever see such, Erica? I have been where they lie in heaps. Did you ever see such beauties?"
"I never did, Rolf; you have been at the bottom of the sea."
And once more she shrank from what she took for the grasp of a drowned man.
"Not to the bottom, love," replied he, still clasping her hand. "Our fiord is deep, perhaps as deep as they say. I dived as deep as a man may to come up with the breath in his body, but I could never find the bottom. Did I not tell you that I should go down as far as Vogel island, and that I should there be safe?"
"Yes! You did—you did!"
"Well! I went to Vogel island, and here I am safe!"
"It is you! We are together again!" she exclaimed, now in full belief. "Thank God! Thank God!" And she wept upon his shoulder.
They did not heed the time, as they talked and talked; and Rolf was just telling how he had more than once seen a double sun without finding any remarkable consequences follow, when Stiorna came forth with her milk pails just before four o'clock. She started and dropped one of her pails when she saw who was sitting on the bench, and Erica started no less at the thought of how completely she had forgotten the cattle and the underground people all this time. The herd was all safe, however—every cow as large as life, and looking exactly like itself, so that the good fortune of this Midsummer Eve had been perfect.
The appearance of Stiorna reminded the lovers that it was time to begin the business of the morning. They startled Stiorna with the news that a large company was coming to breakfast. Being in no very amiable temper towards happy lovers, she refused after a moment's thought to believe what they said, and sat down sulking to her task of milking. So Rolf proceeded to rouse Jan, and Erica stepped to Frolich's bedside, and waked her with a kiss.
"Erica! No, can it be?" said the active girl, up in a moment. "You look too happy to be Erica."
"Erica never was so happy before, dear, that is the reason. You were right, Frolich—bless your kind heart for it! Rolf was not dead. He is here."
Frolich gallopaded round the room, like one crazy, before proceeding to dress.
"Whenever you like to stop," said Erica, laughing, "I have some good news for you too."
"I am to go and see the bishop!" cried Frolich, clapping her hands, and whirling round on one foot like an opera-dancer.
"Not so, Frolich."
"There now! you promise me good news, and then you won't let me go and see the bishop when you know that is the only thing in the world I want or wish for!"
"Would it not be a great compliment to you, and save you a great deal of trouble, if the bishop were to come here to see you?"
"Ah! that would be a pretty sight! The Bishop of Tronyem over the ankles in the sodden, trodden pasture—sticking in the mud of Sulitelma! The Bishop of Tronyem sleeping upon hay in the loft, and eating his dinner off a wooden platter! That would be the most wonderful sight that Nordland ever saw."
"Prepare, then, to see the Bishop of Tronyem drink his morning coffee out of a wooden bowl. Meantime, I must go and grind his coffee. Seriously, Frolich, you must make haste to dress and help. The pirates want to carry off the bishop for ransom. Erlingsen is raising the country. Hund is coming here as a prisoner, and the bishop, and my mistress, and Orga, to be safe; and if you do not help me I shall have nothing ready, for Stiorna does not like the news."
Never had Frolich dressed more quickly. She thought it very hard that the bishop should see her when she had nothing but her dairy dress to wear, but she was ready all the sooner for this. Erica consoled her with her belief that the bishop was the last person who could be supposed to make a point of a silk gown for a mountain maiden.
A consultation about the arrangements was held before the door by the four who were in a good humour, for Stiorna remained aloof. This, like other mountain dwellings, was a mere sleeping and eating shed, only calculated for a bare shelter at night, at meals, and from occasional rain. There was no apartment at the seater in which the bishop could hold an audience, out of the way of the cooking and other household transactions. It could not be expected of him to sit on the bench outside, or on the grass, like the people of the establishment; for, unaccustomed as he was to spend his days in the open air, his eyes would be blinded, and his face blistered by the sun. The young people cast their eyes on the pine wood as the fittest summer parlour for him, if it could be provided with seats.
Erica sprang forward to prevent any one from entering the wood till she should have seen what state the place was in on this particular morning. No trees had been felled, and no branches cut since the night before, and the axes remained where they had been hung. The demon had not wanted them, it seemed, and there was no fear of intruding upon him now. So the two young men set to work to raise a semicircular range of turf seats in the pleasantest part of the shady grove. The central seat, which was raised above the rest, and had a foot-stool, was well cushioned with dry and soft moss, and the rough bark was cut from the trunk of the tree against which it was built, so that the stem served as a comfortable back to the chair. Rolf tried the seat when finished, and as he leaned back, feasting his eyes on the vast sunny landscape which was to be seen between the trees of the grove, he declared that it was infinitely better to sit here than in the bishop's stall in Tronyem Cathedral.
All being done now for which a strong man was wanted, Rolf declared that he and Jan must be gone to the farm. Not a man could be spared from the shores of the fiord till the affairs of the pirates should be settled. Erica ought to have expected to hear this, but her cheek grew white as it was told. She spoke no word of objection, however, seeing plainly what her lover's duty was.
She turned towards the dairy when he was gone, instead of indulging herself with watching him down the mountain. She was busy skimming bowl after bowl of rich milk, when Frolich ran in to say that Stiorna had dressed herself, and put up her bundle, and was setting forth homewards to see, as she said, the truth of things there—which meant, of course, to learn Hund's condition and prospects. It was now necessary to tell her that she would presently see Hund brought up to the seater a prisoner, and that the farm was no place for any but fighting men this day. To save her feelings and temper, Erica asked her to watch the herd, leading them to a point whence she could soonest see the expected company mounting the uplands.
It was Hund, with his feet tied under his horse, and the bridle held by a man on each side.It was Hund, with his feet tied under his horse, and the bridle held by a man on each side.
It was Hund, with his feet tied under his horse, and the bridle held by a man on each side.It was Hund, with his feet tied under his horse, and the bridle held by a man on each side.
It was Hund, with his feet tied under his horse, and the bridle held by a man on each side.
Presently there were voices heard from the hill above. Some traveller who had met the budstick had reported the proceedings below, and the news had spread to a northern seater. The men had gone down to the fiord, and here were the women with above a gallon of strawberries, fresh gathered, and a score of plovers' eggs. Next appeared a pony, coming westward over the pasture, laden with panniers containing a tender kid, a packet of spices, a jar of preserved cherries, and a few of the present season, early ripe, and a stone bottle of ant vinegar. Frolich's spirits rose higher and higher, as more people came from below, sent by Rolf on his way down. A deputation of Lapps came from the tents, bringing reindeer venison, and half of a fine Gammel cheese. Before Erica had had time to pour out a glass of corn-brandy for each of this dwarfish party, in token of thanks, and because it is considered unlucky to send away Lapps without a treat, other mountain dwellers came with offerings of various wild fowl, so that the dresser was loaded with game enough to feed half a hundred hungry men.
Erica and Frolich returned to their breakfast-table, to make the new arrangements now necessary, and place the fruit, and spices. Erica closely examined the piece of Gammel cheese brought by the Lapps, and then, with glowing cheeks, called Frolich to her.
"What now?" said Frolich. "Have you found a way of telling fortunes with the hard cheese, as some pretend to do with the soft curds?"
"Look here," said Erica. "What stamp is this? The cheese has been scraped—almost pared, you see, but they have left one little corner. And whose stamp is there?"
"Ours," said Frolich coolly. "This is the cheese you laid out on the ridge last night."
"I believe it. I see it," exclaimed Erica.
"Now, dear Erica, do not let us have the old story of your being frightened about what the demon will say and do. Nobody but you will be surprised that the Lapps help themselves with good things that lie strewing the ground."
To Frolich's delight and surprise she appeared too busy—or was rather, perhaps, too happy—to lament this mischance, as she would formerly have done. Just when a youth from the highest pasture on Sulitelma had come running and panting, to present Frolich with a handful of fringed pinks and blue gentian, plucked from the very edge of the glacier, so that their colours were reflected in the ice, Stiorna appeared in haste to tell that a party on horseback and on foot were winding out of the ravine, and coming straight up over the pasture. All was now certainty, and great was the bustle to put out of sight all unseemly tokens of preparation. In the midst of the hurry Frolich found time to twist some of her pretty flowers into her pretty hair, so that it might easily chance that the bishop would not miss her silk gown.
The bishop's reputation preceded him, as is usual in such cases. As his horse, followed by those which bore the ladies, reached the house door, all present cried—
"Welcome to the mountain!" "Welcome to Sulitelma!"
The bishop observed that, often as he had wished to look abroad from Sulitelma, and to see with his own eyes what life at the seaters was like, he should have grown old without the desire being gratified but for the design of the enemy upon him. It was all he could do to go the rounds of his diocese, from station to station below, without thinking of journeys of pleasure. Yet here he was on Sulitelma!
When he and M. Kollsen and the ladies had dismounted, and were entering the house to breakfast, the gazers found leisure to observe the hindmost of the train of riders. It was Hund, with his feet tied under his horse, and the bridle held by a man on each side. He had seen and heard too much of the preparations against the enemy to be allowed to remain below, or at large anywhere, till the attack should be over. He could not dismount till some one untied his legs; and no one would do that till a safe place could be found in which to confine him. It was an awkward situation enough, sitting there bound before everybody's eyes; and not the less for Stiorna's leaning her head against the horse, and crying at seeing him so treated; and yet Hund had often been seen, on small occasions, to look far more black and miserable. His face now was almost cheerful. Stiorna praised this as a sign of bravery; but the truth was, the party had been met by Rolf and Jan going down the mountain. It was no longer possible to take Rolf for a ghost; and though Hund was as far as possible from understanding the matter, he was unspeakably relieved to find that he had not the death of his rival to answer for. It made his countenance almost gay to think of this, even while stared at by men, women, and children as a prisoner.
"What is it?" whimpered Stiorna—"what are you a prisoner for, Hund?"
"Ask them that know," said Hund. "I thought at first that it was on Rolf's account; and now that they see with their own eyes that Rolf is safe they best know what they have to bring against me."
"It is no secret," said Madame Erlingsen. "Hund was seen with the pirates, acting with and assisting them, when they committed various acts of thievery on the shores of the fiord. If the pirates are taken, Hund will be tried with them for robberies at There's, Kyril's, Tank's, and other places along the shore, about which information has been given by a witness."
"There's, Kyril's, and Tank's!" repeated Hund to himself; "then there must be magic in the case. I could have sworn that not an eye on earth witnessed the doings there. If Rolf turns out to be the witness, I shall be certain that he has the powers of the region to help him."
So little is robbery to be dreaded at the seaters, that there really was no place where Hund could be fastened in—no lock upon any door—not a window from which he might not escape. The zealous neighbours, therefore, whose interest it was to detain him, offered to take it in turn to be beside him, his right arm tied to the left of another man. And thus it was settled.
When the bishop came forth in the afternoon to take his seat in the shade of the wood, those who were there assembled were singingFor Norgé. Instead of permitting them to stop, on account of his arrival, he joined in the song; solely because his heart was in it. As he looked around him, and saw deep shades and sunny uplands, blue glaciers above, green pastures and glittering waters below, and all around, herds on every hillside, he felt his love of old Norway, and his thankfulness for being one of her sons, as warm as that of any one of the singers in the wood. Out of the fulness of his heart, the good bishop addressed his companions on the goodness of God in creating such a land, and placing them in it, with their happiness so far in their own hands as that little worthy of being called evil could befall them, except through faults of their own. M. Kollsen, who had before uttered his complaints of the superstition of his flock, hoped that his bishop was now about to attack the mischief vigorously.
The bishop only took his seat—the mossy seat prepared for him—and declared himself to be now at the service of any who wished to consult or converse with him. Instead of thrusting his own opinions and reproofs upon them, as it was M. Kollsen's wont to do, he waited for the people to open their minds to him in their own way; and by this means, whatever he found occasion to say had double influence from coming naturally. The words dropped by him that day were not forgotten through long years after; and he was quoted half a century after he had been in his grave, as old Ulla had quoted the good Bishop of Tronyem of her day.
In a few hours, many of the people were gone for the present, some being wanted at home, and others for the expected affair on the fiord. The bishop and M. Kollsen had thought themselves alone in their shady retreat, when they saw Erica lingering near among the trees. With a kind smile, the bishop beckoned to her, and bade her sit down, and tell him whether he had not been right in promising a while ago that God would soothe her sorrows with time, as is the plan of His kind providence. He remembered well the story of the death of her mother. Erica replied that not only had her grief been soothed, but that she was now so blessed that her heart was burdened with its gratitude.
"I wish," said Erica, with a sigh—"I do wish I knew what to think about Nipen."
"Ay! here it comes," observed M. Kollsen, folding his arms as if for an argument.
Encouraged by the bishop, Erica told the whole story of the last few months, from the night of Oddo's prank to that which found her at the feet of her friend; for she cast herself down at the bishop's feet, sitting as she had done in her childhood, looking up in his face.
"You want to know what I think of all this?" said the bishop, when she had done. "I think that you could hardly help believing as you have believed, amidst these strange circumstances, and with your mind full of the common accounts of Nipen. Yet I do not believe there is any such spirit as Nipen, or any demon in the forest, or on the mountain.
"This is one of the many tales belonging to the old religion of this country. And how did this old religion arise? Why, the people saw grand spectacles every day, and heard wonders whichever way they turned; and they supposed that the whole universe was alive. The sun as it travelled they thought was alive, and kind and good to men. The tempest they thought was alive, and angry with men. The fire and frost they thought were alive, pleased to make sport with them."
"As people who ought to know better," observed M. Kollsen, "now think the wind is alive, and call it Nipen; or the mist of the lake and river, which they call the sprite Uldra."
"It is true," said the bishop, "that we now have better knowledge, and see that the earth, and all that is in it, is made and moved by one Good Spirit, who, instead of sporting with men, or being angry with them, rules all things for their good. But I am not surprised that some of the old stories remain, and are believed in still, and by good and dutiful Christians too. The mother sings the old songs over the cradle, and the child hears tell of sprites and demons before it hears of the good God, who 'sends forth the snow and rain, the hail and vapour, and the stormy winds fulfilling His word.' And when the child is grown to be a man or woman, the northern lights shooting over the sky, and the sighing of the winds in the pine forest, bring back those old songs and old thoughts about demons and sprites, and the stoutest man trembles. I do not wonder, nor do I blame any man or woman for this, though I wish they were as happy as the weakest infant or the most worn-out old man, who has learned from the gentle Jesus to fear nothing at any time, because His Father was with Him."
Erica hid her face, ashamed under the good man's smile.
"In our towns," continued he, "much of this blessed change is already wrought. No one in my city of Tronyem now fears the angry and cunning fire-giant Loke; but every citizen closes his eyes in peace when he hears the midnight cry of the watch, 'Except the Lord keepeth the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.'[6] In the wilds of the country every man's faith will hereafter be his watchman, crying out upon all that happens, 'It is the Lord's hand: let Him do what seemeth to Him good!' This might have been said, Erica, as it appears to me, at every turn of your story, where you and your friends were not in fault."
[6] The watchman's call in the towns of Norway.
"Oh!" exclaimed Erica, dropping her hands from before her glowing face, "if I dared but think there were no bad spirits; if I dared only hope that everything that happens is done by God's own hand, I could bear everything! I would never be afraid again!"
"It is what I believe," said the bishop. Laying his hand on her head, he continued—
"We know that the very hairs of your head are all numbered. I see that you are weary of your fears; that you have long been heavy laden with anxiety. It is you, then, that He invites to trust Him, when He says by the lips of Jesus, 'Come ye that are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest.'"
"Rest; rest is what I have wanted," said Erica, while her tears flowed gently; "but Peder and Ulla did not believe as you do, and could not explain things; and——"
"You should have asked me," said M. Kollsen; "I could have explained everything."
"Perhaps so, sir; but—but, M. Kollsen, you always seemed angry, and you said you despised us for believing anything that you did not; and it is the most difficult thing in the world to ask questions which one knows will be despised."
M. Kollsen glanced in the bishop's face, to see how he took this, and how he meant to support the pastor's authority. The bishop looked sad, and said nothing.
"And then," continued Erica, "there were others who laughed—even Rolf himself laughed; and what one fears becomes only the more terrible when it is laughed at."
"Very true," said the bishop. "When Jesus sat on the well in Samaria, and taught how the true worship was come, He neither frowned on the woman who inquired, nor despised her, nor made light of her superstition about a sacred mountain."
There was a long silence, which was broken at last by Erica asking the bishop whether he could not console poor Hund, who wanted comfort more than she had ever done. The bishop replied, that the demons who most tormented poor Hund were not abroad on the earth or in the air, but within his breast—his remorse, his envy, his covetousness, his fear. He meant not to lose sight of poor Hund, either in the prison, to which he was to travel to-morrow, or after he should come out of it.
Here Frolich appeared, running to ask whether those who were in the grove would not like to look forth from the ridge, and see what good the budstick had done, and how many parties were on their way, from all quarters, to the farm.
M. Kollsen was glad to rise and escape from what he thought a schooling; and the bishop himself was as interested in what was going on as if the farm had been his home. He was actually the first at the ridge.
This part of the mountain was a singularly favourable situation for seeing what was doing on the spot on which every one's attention was fixed this day. While the people on the fiord could not see what was going forward at Saltdalen, nor those at Saltdalen what were the movements at the farm, the watchers on the ridge could observe the proceedings at all the three points. The opportunity was much improved by the bishop having a glass—a glass of a quality so rare at that time that there would probably have been some talk of magic and charms if it had been seen in any hands but the bishop's.
By means of this glass the bishop, M. Kollsen, or Madame Erlingsen announced from time to time what was doing as the evening advanced—how parties of two or three were leaving Saltdalen, creeping towards the farm under cover of rising grounds, rocks, and pine woods; how small companies, well armed, were hidden in every place of concealment near Erlingsen's, and how there seemed to be a great number of women about the place. This was puzzling. Who these women could be, and why they should choose to resort to the farm when its female inhabitants had left it for safety, it was difficult at first to imagine. But the truth soon occurred to Frolich. No doubt some one had remembered how strange and suspicious it would appear to the pirates, who supposed the bishop to be at the farm, that there should be no women in the company assembled to meet him. No doubt these people in blue, white, and green petticoats, who were striding about the yards, and looking forth from the galleries, were men dressed in their wives' clothes, or in such as Erlingsen furnished from the family chests. This disguise was as good as an ambush while it also served to give the place the festive appearance looked for by the enemy. It was found afterwards that Oddo had acted as lady's-maid, fitting the gowns to the shortest men, and dressing up their heads so as best to hide the shaggy hair. Great numbers were certainly assembled before night; yet still a little group might be seen now and then winding down from some recess of the wide-spreading mountain, making circuits by the ravines and water-courses, so as to avoid crossing the upland slopes, which the pirates might be surveying by means of such a glass as the bishop's.
The bishop was of opinion that scarcely a blow would be struck, so great was the country force compared with that of the pirates. He believed that the enemy would be overpowered and disarmed almost without a struggle. Erica, who could not but tremble with fear as well as expectation, blessed his words in her heart, and so, in truth, did every woman present.
No one thought of going to rest, though Madame Erlingsen urged it upon those over whom she had influence. Finding that Erica had sat up to watch the cattle the night before, she compelled her to go and lie down, but no compulsion could make her sleep; and Orga and Frolich did the best they could for her, by running to her with news of any fresh appearance below. Just after midnight they brought her word that the bishop had ordered every one but M. Kollsen away from the ridge. The schooner had peeped out from behind the promontory, and was stealing up with a soft west wind.
The girls went on to describe how the schooner was working up, and why the bishop thought that the people at the farm were aware of every inch of her progress.
Erica sprang from the bed, and joined the group who were sitting on the grass awaiting the sunrise, and eagerly listening for every word from their watchman, the bishop. He told when he saw two boats, full of men, put off from the schooner, and creep towards Erlingsen's cove under the shadow of the rocks. He told how the country people immediately gathered behind the barn and the house, and every outbuilding; and, at length, when the boats touched the shore, he said—
"Now come and look yourselves. They are too busy now to be observing us."
Then how eyes were strained, and what silence there was, broken only by an occasional exclamation, as it became certain that the decisive moment was come! The glass passed rapidly from hand to hand, but it revealed little. There was smoke, covering a struggling crowd; and such gazers as had a husband, a father, or a lover there, could look no longer. The bishop himself did not attempt to comfort them, at a moment when he knew it would be in vain.
In the midst of all this, some one observed two boats appearing from behind the promontory, and making directly and rapidly for the schooner; and presently there was a little smoke there too, only a puff or two, and then all was quiet till she began to hang out her sails, which had been taken in, and to glide over the waters in the direction of a small sandy beach, on which she ran straight up, till she was evidently fast grounded.
"Excellent!" exclaimed M. Kollsen. "How admirably they are conducting the whole affair! The retreat of these fellows is completely cut off—their vessel taken, and driven ashore, while they are busy elsewhere."
"That is Oddo's doings," observed Orga quietly.
"Oddo's doings! How do you know? Are you serious? Can you see? Or did you hear?"
"I was by when Oddo told his plan to my father, and begged to be allowed to take the schooner. My father laughed so that I thought Oddo would be for going over to the enemy."
"No fear of that," said Erica. "Oddo has a brave, faithful heart."
"And," said his mistress, "a conscience and temper which will keep him meek and patient till he has atoned for mischief that he thinks he has done."
"I must see more of this boy," observed the bishop. "Did your father grant his request?" he inquired of Orga.
"At last he did. Oddo said that a young boy could do little good in the fight at the farm; but that he might lead a party to attack the schooner, in the absence of almost all her crew. He said it was no more than a boy might do, with half-a-dozen lads to help him; for he had reason to feel sure that only just hands enough to manage her would be left on board, and those the weakest of the pirate party. My father said there were men to spare, and he put twelve, well armed, under Oddo's orders."
"Who would submit to be under Oddo's command?" asked Frolich, laughing at the idea.
"Twice twelve, if he had wanted so many," replied Orga. "Between the goodness of the joke and their zeal, there were volunteers in plenty—my father told me, as he was putting me on my horse."
In a very few minutes all signs of fighting were over at the farm. But there was a fire. The barn was seen to smoke and then to flame. It was plain that the neighbours were at liberty to attend to the fire, and had no fighting on their hands. They were seen to form a line from the burning barn to the brink of the water, and to hand buckets till the fire was out. The barn had been nearly empty, and the fire did not spread farther; so that Madame Erlingsen herself did not spend one grudging thought on this small sacrifice, in return for their deliverance from the enemy, who, she had feared, would ransack her dwelling, and fire it over her children's heads. She was satisfied and thankful, if indeed the pirates were taken.
At the bishop's question about who would go down the mountain for news, each of Hund's guards begged to be the man. The swiftest of foot was chosen, and off he went—not without a barley-cake and brandy-flask—at a pace which promised speedy tidings.
As Madame Erlingsen hoped in her heart, he met a messenger despatched by her husband; so that all who had lain down to sleep—all but herself, that is—were greeted by good news as they appeared at the breakfast-table. The pirates were all taken, and on their way, bound, to Saltdalen, there to be examined by the magistrate, and, no doubt, thence transferred to the jail at Tronyem. Hund was to follow immediately, either to take his trial with them, or to appear as evidence against them.
One of the pirates was wounded, and two of the country people, but not a life was lost; and Erlingsen, Rolf, Peder, and Oddo were all safe and unhurt.
Oddo was superintending the unlading of the schooner, and was appointed by the magistrate, at his master's desire, head guard of the property, as it lay on the beach, till the necessary evidence of its having been stolen by the pirates was taken, and the owners could be permitted to identify and resume their property. Oddo was certainly the greatest man concerned in the affair, after Erlingsen. When it was finished, and he returned to his home, he found he cared more for the pressure of his grandfather's hand upon his head, as the old man blessed his boy, than for all the praises of the whole country round.
An idea occurred to everybody but one, within the next few hours, which occasioned some consultation. Everybody but Erica felt and said that it would be a great honour and privilege, but one not undeserved by the district, for the Bishop of Tronyem to marry Rolf and Erica before he left Nordland. The bishop wished to make some acknowledgment for the zealous protection and hospitality which had been afforded him; and he soon found that no act would be so generally acceptable as his blessing the union of these young people. He spoke to Madame Erlingsen about it, and her only doubt was whether it was not too soon after the burial of old Ulla. If Peder, however, should not object on this ground, no one else had a right to do so.
So far from objecting, Peder shed tears of pleasure at the thought. He was sure Ulla would be delighted, if she knew—would feel it an honour to herself that her place should be filled by one whose marriage-crown should be blessed by the bishop himself. Erica was startled, and had several good reasons to give why there should be no hurry; but she was brought round to see that Rolf could go to Tronyem to give his evidence against the pirates, even better after his marriage than before, because he would leave Peder in a condition of greater comfort; and she even smiled to herself as she thought how rapidly she might improve the appearance of the house during his absence, so that he should delight in it on his return. When the bishop assured her that she should not be hurried into her marriage within two days, but that he would appoint a day and hour when he should be at the distant church, to confirm the young people resident lower down the fiord, she gratefully consented, wondering at the interest so high and revered a man seemed to feel in her lot. When it was once settled that the wedding was to be next week, she gave hearty aid to the preparations, as freely and openly as if she was not herself to be the bride.
The bishop embarked immediately on descending the mountain. His considerate eye saw at a glance that there was necessarily much confusion at the farm, and that his further presence would be an inconvenience. So he bade his host and the neighbours farewell for a short time, desiring them not to fail to meet him again at the church on his summons.
The kindness of the neighbours did not cease when danger from the enemy was over. Some offered boats for the wedding procession, several sent gilt paper to adorn the bridal crown which Orga and Frolich were making, and some yielded a more important assistance still. They put trusty persons into the seater, and over the herd, for two days, so that all Erlingsen's household might be at the wedding. Stiorna preferred making butter, and gazing southwards, to attending the wedding of Hund's rival; but every one else was glad to go. Nobody would have thought of urging Peder's presence, but he chose to do his part—(a part which no one could discharge so well)—singing bridal songs in the leading boat.
The summons arrived quite as soon as it could have been looked for, and the next day there was as pretty a boat-procession on the still waters of the fiord as had ever before glided over its surface. Within the memory of man, no bride had been prettier—no crown more glittering—no bridegroom more happy—no chanting was ever more soothing than old Peder's—no clarionet better played than Oddo's—no bridesmaids more gay and kindly than Orga and Frolich. The neighbours were hearty in their cheers as the boats put off and the cheers were repeated from every settlement in the coves and on the heights of the fiord, and were again taken up by the echoes till the summer air seemed to be full of gladness.
To conclude, the bishop was punctual, and kindly in his welcome of Erica to the altar. He was also graciously pleased with Rolf's explanation that he had not ventured to bring a gift for so great a dignitary, but that he hoped the bishop would approve of his giving his humble offering to the church instead. The six sides of the new pulpit were nearly finished now, and Rolf desired to take upon himself the carving of the basement as his marriage-fee. As the bishop smiled approbation, M. Kollsen bowed acquiescence, and Rolf found himself in prospect of indoor work for some time to come.
Erica carried home in her heart, and kept there for ever, certain words of the Bishop's address which he uttered with his eye kindly fixed upon hers. "Go, and abide under the shadow of the Almighty. So shall you not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day, nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noon-day. When you shall have made the Lord your habitation, you shall not fear that evil may befall you, or that any plague shall come nigh your dwelling. Go, and peace be on your house!"