Part 12
Oh, it is cruel to live when we are parted from the object of our love! Few hearts have known this pang in all its extent, because few hearts have known love in all its depth. Then, in some sort a stranger to our ordinary existence, we create for ourselves a melancholy waste, a vast solitude, and for the absent one some terrible world of peril, of monsters, and of deceit; the various faculties which make up our being are changed into and lost in an infinite longing for the missing one; everything about us seems utterly indifferent to us. And yet we still breathe, and move, and act, but without our own volition. Like a wandering planet which has lost its sun, the body moves at random; the soul is elsewhere.
XVIII.
On a vast buckler those relentless men Terrified hell with fearful oaths; And beside a black bull which they had slain, All, bathing their hands in blood, swore to be revenged. _The Seven Chiefs before Thebes._
The coast of Norway abounds in narrow bays, in creeks, coves, reefs, lagoons, and little headlands so numerous as to weary the traveller’s memory and the topographer’s patience. Formerly, if we are to credit popular tradition, every isthmus was haunted by some demon, each bay inhabited by some fairy, each promontory protected by some saint; superstition mingles all beliefs to create for itself imaginary terrors. Upon Kelvel strand, some miles to the north of Walderhog cave, there was but a single spot, they said, which was free from all jurisdiction either of infernal, intermediary, or celestial spirits. It was the glade lying along the shore, overhung by a cliff, on the top of which could still be seen vestiges of the manor of Ralph, or Rudolf, the Giant. This little wild meadow, bordered on the west by the sea, and closely shut in by rocks clad with heather, owed its exemption solely to the name of that ancient Norwegian lord, its first possessor. For what fairy, what devil, or what angel would venture to become master or guest of a domain once occupied and guarded by Ralph the Giant?
It is true that the mere name of the much dreaded Ralph sufficed to give an alarming character to a region wild in itself. But after all, a memory is not so much to be feared as a spirit; and no fisher, belated in rough weather, and mooring his bark in Ralph’s creek, had ever seen the will-o’-the-wisp sport and dance upon the summit of a rock, or a fairy ride through the heather in her phosphorescent car drawn by glow-worms, or a saint ascend toward the moon, after his prayers were said.
And yet, if the angry waves and wind had allowed a wandering mariner to land in that hospitable harbor upon the night after the great storm, he might have been struck with superstitious fear at the sight of three men, who upon that same night sat around a huge fire, blazing in the middle of the meadow. Two of them wore the broad felt hat and loose trousers of royal miners. Their arms were bare to the shoulder, their feet were cased in fawn-colored leather boots; a red sash held their crooked swords and heavy pistols; each had a hunter’s horn slung about his neck. One was old, the other was young; the old man’s thick beard and the young man’s long hair lent a wild and barbarous look to their faces, which were naturally hard and stern.
By his bearskin cap, his tanned leather jacket, the musket slung across his back, his short, tight-fitting drawers, his bare knees, his bark shoes, and the glittering axe in his hand, it was easy to guess that the companion of the two miners was a mountaineer from the north of Norway.
Certainly, any one who saw from afar these three weird figures, upon which the flames, fanned by the salt breeze, cast a red, flickering light, might well have been frightened, even had he no faith in spectres and demons; it would have been enough that he believed in thieves and was somewhat richer than the ordinary poet.
The three men constantly turned their heads toward the winding path through the wood which fringes Ralph’s meadow, and judging by such of their words as were not carried off by the wind, they were expecting a fourth person.
“I say, Kennybol, do you know that we should not be allowed to wait so peacefully for this envoy from Count Griffenfeld, if we were in the neighboring meadow, Goblin Tulbytilbet’s meadow, or yonder in St. Cuthbert’s bay?”
“Don’t talk so loud, Jonas,” replied the mountaineer; “blessed be Ralph the Giant, who protects us! Heaven save me from setting foot in Tulbytilbet’s meadow! The other day I thought I was picking hawthorn there, and I gathered mandrake instead, which began to bleed and shriek, and nearly drove me mad.”
The young miner laughed.
“Nearly, Kennybol? For my part, I think that the mandrake’s shriek produced its full effect upon your feeble brains.”
“Feeble brains yourself!” said the vexed mountaineer; “just see, Jonas, he jests at mandrake. He laughs like a lunatic playing with a death’s-head.”
“Hum!” answered Jonas. “Let him go to Walderhog cave, where the heads of those whom Hans, the foul fiend of Iceland, has murdered, come back every night to dance about his bed of withered leaves, and gnash their teeth to lull him to sleep.”
“That’s so,” said the mountaineer.
“But,” rejoined the young man, “did not Mr. Hacket, for whom we are waiting, promise us that Hans of Iceland would take the lead in our rebellion?”
“He did,” replied Kennybol; “and with the help of that demon we are sure to conquer the green jackets of Throndhjem and Copenhagen.”
“So much the better!” cried the old miner. “But I’m not the man to stand guard beside him at night.”
At this moment the rustle of dead leaves beneath the tread of a man drew the attention of the speakers; they turned, and the firelight gleamed on the new-comer’s face.
“It is he! it is Mr. Hacket! Welcome, Mr. Hacket; you have kept us waiting. We have been here this three quarters of an hour.”
“Mr. Hacket” was a short, fat man, dressed in black, and his jovial countenance wore a forbidding expression.
“Well, friends,” said he, “I was delayed by my ignorance of the road and the necessary precautions. I left Count Schumacker this morning; here are three purses of gold which he bade me give you.”
The two old men flung themselves upon the gold with the eagerness common among the peasants of barren Norway. The young miner declined the purse which Hacket offered him.
“Keep your gold, Sir Envoy; I should lie if I said that I had joined the revolt for your Count Schumacker’s sake. I rebel to free the miners from the guardianship of the crown; I rebel that my mother’s bed may have a blanket less ragged than the coast of our good country, Norway.”
Far from seeming disconcerted, Mr. Hacket answered smilingly, “Then I will send this money to your poor mother, my dear Norbith, so that she may have two new blankets to shield her from the cold wind this winter.”
The young man assented with a nod, and the envoy, like a skilful orator, made haste to add:--
“But be careful not to repeat what you just now inconsiderately said, that you are not taking up arms in behalf of Schumacker, Count Griffenfeld.”
“But--but,” muttered the two old men, “we know very well that the miners are oppressed, but we know nothing about this count, this prisoner of state.”
“What!” sharply rejoined the envoy; “are you so ungrateful? You groan in your subterranean caves, deprived of light and air, robbed of all your property, slaves to the most onerous tutelage! Who came to your rescue? Who revived your failing courage? Who gave you gold and arms? Was it not my illustrious master, noble Count Griffenfeld, more of a slave and more unfortunate even than you? And now, loaded with his favors, would you refuse to use them to acquire his liberty with your own?”
“You are right,” interrupted the young miner; “that would be an ill deed.”
“Yes, Mr. Hacket,” said the two old men, “we will fight for Count Schumacker.”
“Courage, my friends! Rise in his name; bear your benefactor’s name from one end of Norway to the other. Only listen; everything seconds your righteous enterprise; you are about to be freed from a formidable enemy, General Levin de Knud, governor of the province. The secret power of my noble master, Count Griffenfeld, will soon procure his recall to Bergen. Come, tell me, Kennybol, Jonas, and you, my dear Norbith, are all your comrades ready?”
“My brethren of Guldbrandsdal,” said Norbith, “only await my signal. To-morrow, if you wish--”
“To-morrow; so be it. The young miners under your leadership must be the first to raise the standard. And you, my brave Jonas?”
“Six hundred heroes from the Färöe Islands, who for three days have lived on chamois flesh and bear’s fat in Bennallag forest, only ask a blast from the horn of their old captain, Jonas of Loevig town.”
“Good! And you, Kennybol?”
“All those who carry an axe in the gorges of Kiölen, and climb the rocks with bare knees, are ready to join their brothers, the miners, when they need them.”
“Enough. Tell your comrades that they need not doubt their victory,” added the envoy, raising his voice; “for Hans of Iceland will be their captain.”
“Is that certain?” asked all three at once, in a voice of mingled hope and fear.
The envoy answered: “I will meet you four days hence, at the same hour, with your united forces, in Apsyl-Corh mine, near Lake Miösen, on Blue Star plain. Hans of Iceland will be with me.”
“We will be there,” said the three leaders. “And may God not desert those whom the Devil aids!”
“Fear nothing from God,” said Hacket, with a sneer. “Stay; you will find flags for your troops among the ruins of Crag. Do not forget the war-cry, ‘Long live Schumacker! We will rescue Schumacker!’ Now we must part; day will shortly break. But first, swear the most profound secrecy as to what has passed between us.”
Without a word each of the three chiefs opened a vein in his left arm with the point of his sword; then, seizing the envoy’s hand, each let a few drops of blood trickle into it.
“You have our blood,” they said.
Then the young man exclaimed: “May all my blood flow forth like that which I now shed; may a malicious spirit destroy my plans, as the hurricane does a straw; may my arm be of lead to avenge an insult; may bats dwell in my tomb; may I, still living, be haunted by the dead, and dead, be profaned by the living; may my eyes melt with tears like those of a woman, if ever I speak of what has occurred at this time in Ralph the Giant’s meadow. And may the blessed saints deign to hear this, my prayer!”
“Amen!” repeated the two old men.
Then they parted, and nothing was left in the meadow but the smouldering fire, whose expiring embers burned up at intervals, and gleamed upon the summit of Ralph the Giant’s ruined and deserted towers.
XIX.
_Theodore._ Tristam, let us be gone. _Tristam._ This is a strange disgrace. _Theodore._ Did any one see us? _Tristam._ I know not, but I fear they did. LOPE DA VEGA: _The Gardener’s Dog_.
Benignus Spiagudry found it hard to guess the motives which led a youth of fine appearance, and apparently likely to live for many long years, to become the voluntary antagonist of the much-dreaded Hans of Iceland. He had frequently and with much ingenuity broached the question since they started on their travels; but the young adventurer preserved a stubborn silence as to the cause of his journey. Nor was the poor fellow any more successful in satisfying his curiosity concerning various other details as to his strange comrade. Once he ventured to ask a question about his young master’s family and his name. “Call me Ordener,” was the reply; and this very unsatisfactory answer was given in a tone which forbade further question. He was forced to submit; every one has his secrets, and good Spiagudry himself carefully concealed in his wallet, under his cloak, a certain mysterious casket, any inquiry as to which he would certainly have considered very disagreeable and greatly out of place.
Four days had passed since they left Throndhjem, but they had made little progress, owing to the bad state of the roads after the storm, and the multiplicity of crosscuts and roundabout routes which the runaway keeper thought it prudent to take in order to avoid too thickly settled regions. Leaving Skongen on their right, toward evening of the fourth day they reached the shores of Lake Sparbo.
The vast stretch of water reflecting the last gleams of daylight and the first stars of coming night set in a frame of tall cliffs, black firs, and lofty oaks, presented a gloomy but magnificent picture. The sight of a lake at evening sometimes produces, at a certain distance, a peculiar optical illusion; it seems as if a vast abyss, cleaving the earth from side to side, revealed the heavens beneath our feet.
Ordener paused to contemplate the old Druidical forests, which cover the steep shores of the lake as with a garment, and the chalky huts of Sparbo, scattered over the slope like a stray flock of white goats. He listened to the distant clink of the forges,[11] mingled with the dull roar of the weird forests, the intermittent cry of wild birds, and the solemn music of the waves. To the north a huge granite bowlder, still gilded by the rays of the sun, rose majestically above the little village of Oëlmœ, its summit bending beneath a mass of ruined towers, as if the giant were weary of his load.
When the soul is sad, it delights in melancholy scenes; it adds to them its own gloom. Let an unhappy man be thrown among wild, high mountains beside some black lake in the heart of a dark forest, at the close of day, and he will see this solemn scene through a funereal veil; he will not feel that the sun is setting, but that it is dying.
Ordener lingered, motionless and mute, until his companion exclaimed: “Capital, sir! You do well to ponder thus beside the most miasma-laden lake in Norway.”
This remark and the gesture which accompanied it, would have brought a smile to the lips of any but a lover parted from his mistress perhaps never again to meet her. The learned keeper added:--
“And yet I must rouse you from your meditations to remind you that day is drawing to a close, and we must make haste if we would reach Oëlmœ village before twilight overtakes us.”
The observation was correct. Ordener resumed his journey, and Spiagudry followed him, continuing his unheeded reflections upon the botanic and physiologic phenomena which Lake Sparbo affords the naturalist.
“Mr. Ordener,” said he, “if you will listen to your devoted guide, you will give up your fatal enterprise; yes, sir, and you will take up your abode upon the shores of this most curious lake, where we can devote ourselves to all sorts of learned research; for instance, to the study of the _stella canora palustris_,--a singular plant, which many scholars consider to be fabulous, but which Bishop Arngrimmsson asserts that he both saw and heard on the shores of Lake Sparbo. Added to this, we shall have the satisfaction of feeling that we dwell upon soil which contains more gypsum than any other in Europe, and where the hired assassins of Throndhjem are least likely to find their way. Doesn’t it attract you, young master? Come, renounce your senseless journey; for, not to offend you, your scheme is dangerous, without being profitable,--_periculum sine pecunia_; that is to say, senseless, and conceived at a moment when you might better have been thinking of other things.”
Ordener, who paid no attention to the poor man’s words, merely kept up the conversation by those occasional meaningless monosyllables which great talkers are ready to accept in lieu of answers. Thus they reached Oëlmœ village, where they found an unusual bustle and stir.
The inhabitants--hunters, fishers, and blacksmiths--had left their houses, and hastily collected about a central mound occupied by a group of men, one of whom blew a horn and waved a small black-and-white banner over his head.
“Probably some quack doctor,” said Spiagudry,--“_ambubaiarum collegia, pharmacopolœ_; some scamp who turns gold into lead and wounds into sores. Let us see. What invention of the Evil One will he sell these poor rustics? It would be bad enough if these impostors confined themselves to kings, if they all imitated Borch the Dane and Borri of Milan, those alchemists who so completely duped our Frederic III.;[12] but they are just as greedy for the peasant’s mite as for the prince’s million.”
Spiagudry was mistaken. As they approached the mound they recognized by his black gown and round, pointed cap, the mayor, surrounded by a number of bowmen. The man blowing the horn was the town crier.
The fugitive keeper, somewhat disturbed, muttered: “Truly, Mr. Ordener, I did not expect to stumble upon the mayor when I came into this hamlet. Great Saint Hospitius, protect us! What does he say?”
His uncertainty was of brief duration, for the crier’s shrill voice was quickly raised, and religiously heeded by the little group of villagers.
“In the name of his Majesty and by order of his Excellency, General Levin de Knud, governor, the lord mayor of Throndhjem notifies the inhabitants of all cities, towns, and villages in the province, that a reward of one thousand crowns is offered for the head of Hans, a native of Klipstadur, in Iceland, a murderer and incendiary.”
A vague murmur ran through the crowd. The crier continued:--
“A reward of four crowns is offered for the head of Benignus Spiagudry, ex-keeper of the Spladgest at Throndhjem, accused of necromancy and sacrilege. This proclamation shall be published throughout the province by the mayors of all cities, towns, and villages, who will see that it is carried out.”
The mayor took the proclamation from the crier’s hands, and added in a lugubrious and solemn voice:--
“The life of these men is offered to whosoever will take it.”
The reader will readily believe that this reading was not heard unmoved by our poor, unfortunate Spiagudry. No doubt, the unusual signs of terror which he showed would have roused the attention of the bystanders, had it not just then been wholly absorbed by the first clause of the proclamation.
“A reward for the head of Hans!” cried an old fisherman, who had hastened to the spot, trailing his wet nets behind him. “They might as well, by Saint Usuph, set a price upon the head of Beelzebub!”
“To keep up a proper balance between Hans and Beelzebub,” said a hunter, recognizable by his chamois-skin jerkin, “they should only offer fifteen hundred crowns for the head and horns of the latter fiend.”
“Glory be to the holy mother of God!” cried an old woman, her bald head shaking as she twirled her distaff. “I only wish I might see the head of that Hans, so that I might make sure if his eyes are really live coals, as they say.”
“Yes, to be sure,” replied another old woman; “it was just by looking at it that he set Throndhjem cathedral on fire. Now I should like to see the monster whole, with his serpent’s tail, cloven foot, and broad wings like a bat.”
“Who told you such nonsense, good mother?” broke in the hunter, with a self-satisfied air. “I’ve seen this Hans of Iceland with my own eyes in the gorges of Medsyhath; he is a man like ourselves, only he is as tall as a forty-year-old poplar.”
“Indeed!” said a voice from the crowd, with singular emphasis.
This voice, which made Spiagudry shudder, proceeded from a short man whose face was hidden by the broad felt hat of a miner, his body wrapped in rush matting and sealskin.
“Faith!” cried, with a coarse laugh, a smith who wore his heavy hammer slung across his shoulder, “they may offer one thousand or ten thousand crowns for his head, and he may be four or forty feet tall, but I’ll not offer to go in search of him.”
“Nor I,” said the fisherman.
“Nor I; nor I,” repeated every voice.
“And yet any one who may feel tempted,” rejoined the little man, “will find Hans of Iceland to-morrow at the ruins of Arbar, near Lake Miösen; the day after that at Walderhog cave.”
“Are you sure, my good man?”
This question was asked at one and the same time by Ordener, who listened to this scene with an interest easily understood by any one but Spiagudry, and by another short and tolerably stout man, dressed in black, with a merry countenance, who had issued from the only inn which the village contained, at the first sound of the crier’s horn.
The little man with the broad-brimmed hat seemed to be studying them both for a moment, and then answered in hollow tones: “Yes.”
“And how can you be so certain?” asked Ordener.
“I know where Hans of Iceland is, just as well as I know where Benignus Spiagudry is; neither of them is far off at this instant.”
All the poor keeper’s terrors were revived, and he scarcely dared look at the mysterious little man. Fancying that his French periwig had failed to disguise him, he began to pluck at Ordener’s cloak and to whisper: “Master, sir, in Heaven’s name, have mercy! have pity let us be off! let us leave this accursed suburb of hell!”
Ordener, although equally surprised, carefully examined the little man, who, turning his back to the light, seemed anxious to conceal his face.
“I’ve seen that Benignus Spiagudry,” cried the fisherman, “at Throndhjem Spladgest. He’s a tall fellow. They offer four crowns for him.”
The hunter burst out laughing.
“Four crowns! I shan’t go a-hunting for him. I can get more for the skin of a blue fox.”
This comparison, which at any other time would have greatly offended the learned keeper, now comforted him. Still, he was about to address another prayer to Ordener to persuade him to continue his journey, when the latter, having learned all that he wished to know forestalled him by making his way out of the crowd, which was beginning to disperse.
Although when they entered Oëlmœ village they had intended passing the night there, they quitted it, as if by common consent, without even alluding to the motive for their abrupt departure. Ordener was moved by the hope of a more speedy meeting with the brigand, Spiagudry by a desire to get away from the archers as speedily as might be.
Ordener was in too serious a mood to laugh at his comrade’s misadventures. He broke the silence in kindly tones.
“Old man, what is the name of the ruin where Hans is to be found to-morrow, according to that little man who seemed to know everything?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t quite catch the name, noble master,” replied Spiagudry, who uttered no falsehood in so saying.
“Then,” continued the young man, “I must make up my mind not to meet him until the day after to-morrow at Walderhog cave.”
“Walderhog cave, sir! Indeed, that is Hans of Iceland’s favorite haunt.”
“Let us take that road,” said Ordener.
“We must turn to the left, behind Oëlmœ cliff. It will take us at least two days to get to Walderhog cave.”
“Do you know, old man,” cautiously observed Ordener, “who that odd fellow was, who seemed to be so well acquainted with you?”
This question again awakened Spiagudry’s fears, which had been lulled to sleep as the village of Oëlmœ faded in the distance.
“No, truly, sir,” he answered, in trembling accents. “But he had a very strange voice.”
Ordener tried to encourage him.
“Fear nothing, old man; serve me well, and I will protect you. If I return victorious over Hans, I promise you not only a pardon, but I will also give you the thousand crowns reward offered by the officers of the law.”
Honest Benignus dearly loved his life, but he also loved gold. Ordener’s promises sounded like magic in his ears; they not only banished all his terrors, but they excited in him a kind of garrulous mirth, which found vent in lengthy discourses, queer gestures, and learned quotations.