CHAPTER I.

THE TREASURE FROM THE BATTLEFIELD.

The first thing to be borne in mind is, that the story of the Sword and the Plough happened before the Battle of Lützen. On now going back to that combat, on the 6th of November, 1632, we may forget for a time that the "Sword and the Plough" ever existed, and imagine that we still stand by the great hero's dead body, as it lay embalmed in the village of Meuchen.

It was a fine but terrible spectacle when the Pappenheimers charged the Finns on the east of the River Rippach. These splendid cuirassiers rushed upon Stälhandske; the tired Finns and their horses reeled and gave way before this terrific onslaught. But Stälhandske rallied them again, man to man, horse to horse; they fought to the death; and friends and foes were mixed together in one bleeding, confused mass. Here fell Pappenheim and his bravest men; half of the Finnish cavalry were trampled under the horses' hoofs, and yet the battle raged till nightfall.

Bertel rode at Stalhandske's side, and here he encountered Pappenheim. The youth of twenty could not cope with this arm of steel; the brave general struck Bertel on the helmet with such tremendous force, that he reeled and became unconscious. But in falling he mechanically grasped his horse by the mane, and the faithful Lapp galloped away, dragging his master with one foot in the stirrup.

When Bertel opened his eyes he was in utter darkness. He vaguely remembered the last incident of the combat, and Pappenheim's uplifted sword. He thought he was now dead, and lay in his grave. He then put his hand to his heart; it was beating: he bit his finger; it hurt him. He realised that he was still in existence, but how and where it was impossible to guess. He reached out his hand and picked up some straw. He felt the damp ground under him, and the empty space above. He tried to raise himself up, but his head was too heavy. It still suffered from the blow of Pappenheim's sword.

Then he heard a voice not far from him, half-complaining, half-mocking, saying in Swedish:

"Saints and fiends! Not a drop of wine! Those rascally Wallachians have grabbed my flask; the miserable hen-thieves! Hollo, Turk, or Jew--it is all one--here with a drop of wine!"

"Is it you, Larsson?" said Bertel in a faint voice, for his tongue was also parched with a burning thirst.

"What sort of a marmot is it whispering my name?" replied the voice in the darkness. "Hurrah, boys, loose reins and a smart gallop! Fire your pistols, fling them to the devil, and slash away with swords! Cleave their skulls; peel them like turnips! Grind them to powder! The king has fallen ... Devils and heroism, what a king! ... to-day we bleed. To-day we shall die, but first revenge. That's the way, boys, hurrah ... pitch in, East Bothnians!"

"Larsson," repeated Bertel; but his comrade did not heed him. He continued in his delirium to lead his Finns to the combat.

After a time a ray of the late autumn morning shone through the window of the miserable hut upon Bertel. He could now distinguish the straw upon the bare ground, and two men asleep.

Then the door opened, and a couple of uncouth, bearded men entered, and thrust roughly at the sleepers with the butts of their muskets.

"_Raus!_" they cried in Low German; "it is the signal to start!"

And outside the hut was heard the well-known trumpet-blast, which at that time was the usual signal for breaking up the camp.

"May they spear me like a frog," said one of the men in a bad humour, "if I can guess what the reverend father wishes to do with these heretic dogs. He should have given them a passport to the arch-fiend, their lord and master."

"Fool!" replied the other; "do you not know that the heretic king's death is going to be celebrated with a great festival at Ingolstadt? The reverend father intends to hold a grand _auto-de-fé_ in honour of the happy event."

The two sleepers now stood up half-awake, and Bertel could recognise by the faint morning light the little, thick-set Larsson and his own faithful Pekka. But there was no opportunity for explanations. All three were brought out, bound, and put into a cart, and then the long caravan, composed of wagons for the wounded and baggage, under the charge of the Croats, began slowly to move.

Bertel knew that he and his companions were now prisoners of the Imperialists. He soon recovered his memory, and learned from his countrymen in captivity how it all happened. When the faithful Lapp felt the reins loose, he galloped with his unconscious master back to camp. But this was being plundered by the wild Croats, and when they saw a Swedish officer dragged along half dead by his horse, they took him prisoner, in the hope of a good ransom. Pekka, who would not forsake his master, was also taken prisoner. Larsson, on the other hand, had, at the Pappenheimers' attack, charged too far amongst the enemy, and having received a sabre thrust in the shoulder, and a wound in the arm, was unable to extricate himself. Who had triumphed Larsson did not know with certainty.

It was now the third day after the battle; they had marched for a day and night in a southerly direction, and then stopped for a few hours in a deserted village.

"Accursed crew!" exclaimed the little captain, whose jovial disposition did not abandon him under any circumstances; "if they had not stolen my flask, we might now drink Finland's health together. But these Croats are thieves of the first water, compared with whom our gipsies at home are innocent angels. I should like to hang a couple of hundred of them from the ramparts of Korsholm, as they hang petticoats on the walls of a Finnish garret."

The march continued with brief halts for several days, not without great suffering and discomfort to the wounded, who, improperly bandaged, were prevented by their fetters from helping each other. At the outset they travelled through a desolated country, where provisions were obtained with great difficulty, and whose population took to flight at the sight of the dreaded Croats. But they soon arrived in richer parts, where the Catholic inhabitants assembled to curse the heretics, and exult over their king's fall. The whole Catholic world shared this rejoicing. It is stated that in Madrid brilliant performances took place, in which Gustave Adolf, another dragon, was conquered by Wallenstein as St. George.

After seven days' wearisome journeying, the cart with the captive Finns drove late one evening over a clattering drawbridge, and stopped in a small courtyard. The wounded prisoners were led out, and conducted up two crumbling flights of stairs into a turret room in the form of a semi-circle. It seemed to Bertel as if he had seen this place before, but darkness and fatigue prevented him from making sure. The stars shone through the grated windows, and the prisoners were revived with a cup of wine. Larsson said with satisfaction:

"I will bet anything that the thieves have stolen their wine from our cellars, while we lay in Würzburg, for better stuff I have never tasted!"

"Würzburg!" said Bertel thoughtfully. "Regina!" added he, almost unconsciously.

"And the wine-cellar!" sighed Larsson, mocking him. "I will tell you something.

'The greatest fool upon the earth Is he that believes in a girl's worth. When love comes, the little dear, Marry instead the cup of good cheer.'

"The black-eyed young Regina now sits and knits stockings at Korsholm. Yes, yes, Fru Marta is not one of the folks who sit and weep in the moonlight. Since we last met I have had news from Vasa through the jolly sergeant, Bengt Kristerson. He said he had fought with your father. You had better believe that the old man is a trump; he carried Bengt out at arm's-length and threw him down the steps there at your home in Storkyro. Bengt cursed and swore, declaring that he would put the old man and twelve of his hands into the windmill at once, and grind them to groats; but Meri begged for them. Smart fellow, Bengt Kristerson! fights like a dragon, and lies like a skipper. Your health!"

"What else did you hear from East Bothnia?" inquired Bertel, who with the bashfulness of youth, blushed at the thought of revealing to his prosaic friend the secret of his heart--his love for the dark-eyed and unhappy Lady Regina von Emmeritz.

"Not much, except the bad harvests, immense drain caused by the war, and heavy conscriptions. The old men on the farm, your father and mine, quarrel as usual, and make it up again. Meri pines for you and sings doleful songs. Do you remember that splendid girl, Katri? round as a turnip, red as mountain-ash berries, and soft about the chin as a lump of butter. She has run away with a soldier. Your health, my boy!"

"Nothing more?" said Bertel abstractedly.

"Nothing more! What the devil do you want to know, when you don't care for the prettiest girl in the whole of Storkyro. 'Yes, _noch etivas_,' says the German. There has been a great affray at Korsholm. The conscripts got it into their heads that Lady Regina had tried to kill the king with 'witch-shots,' and then they stormed Korsholm, and burned the girl alive. Cursedly jolly! here's to the heretics! We also know the art of holding _autos-da-fé_."

Bertel started up, forgetting his wounds; but pain mastered him. Without a cry he sank fainting into Larsson's arms.

The honest captain was both troubled and angry. While he bathed Bertel's temples with the remainder of the noble fluid in the tankard, and presently brought him to life once more, he gave vent to his feelings in the following manner, crescendo from piano to forte.

"There, there, Bertel ... what next? What the deuce, boy? Are you in love with the girl? Faint like a lady's maid! Courage! did I say that they had burned her? No, my lad, she was only a little scorched, according to what Bengt Kristerson says, and afterwards she tore Fru Marta's eyes out, and climbed like a squirrel to the top of the castle. Such things happen every day in war ... Well, I declare, you have got both your eyes open at last. You are still alive, you milk-baked wheat loaf ... are you not ashamed to behave like a poltroon? You are a pretty soldier! blitz-donnerwetter-kreutz-Pappenheim, you are a pomade pot! D--n it, now the tankard is empty also!"

The stout little warrior would perhaps have continued to vent his bad humour for some time longer, especially as there was no consolation now left in the cup, had not the door opened, and a female figure then stepped over the threshold. At this sight the captain's pale and fluffy face brightened up. Bertel was laid aside, and Larsson leaned eagerly forward, in order to see better, for the light of the single lamp was very faint. But the result of his observation did not seem very satisfactory.

"A nun! Ah, by Heaven ... to convert us!"

"Peace be with you," said a youthful voice from underneath the veil. "I am sent here by the worthy prioress of the cloister of 'Our Lady' to bind your wounds, and heal them, if it is the will of the saints."

"Upon my honour, charming friend, I am much obliged; let us become better acquainted," said the captain, as he stretched out his hand to lift the nun's veil. In a flash the latter retreated, and two soldiers appeared at the door.

"The devil!" exclaimed Larsson, startled, "What proud nuns they have here! When I was at Würzburg, I used to get a dozen kisses a day from the young sisters at the convent; such sins always obtain absolution. Well," he continued, seeing the nun still hesitating at the door, "your venerableness must not take offence at a soldier's freedom of speech; an honest soldier is a born gallant. Although an unbelieving heretic, I can talk Latin like a monk. When we stayed at Munich I was very intimate with a plump Bavarian nun, twenty-seven years old, with brown eyes and a Roman nose."

"Hold your tongue!" impatiently whispered Bertel, "you will drive the nun away."

"I haven't said a word. Walk in; don't be frightened. I will bet it is a long time since you saw twenty-seven. _Posito_, says the Frenchman, that your venerableness is an old woman."

The nun returned in silence, with two others, and examined Bertel's wounded head. A delicate white hand drew out some scissors and cut his hair off on each side of the wound. In a short time Bertel's wound was dressed by an experienced hand. Bertel, touched by this compassion, kissed the nun's hand.

"Upon my honour, charming matron," cried the voluble captain, "I am jealous of my friend, who is fifteen years younger than I. Deign to stretch out your gentle hand and plaster this brave arm, which has conquered so many pious sisters' pity..."

The silent nun began to undo the bandages which covered Larsson's wounds. Her hand touched his.

"_Potz donnerwetter!_" burst out the captain in surprise. "What a fine and soft little hand! I beg your pardon, amiable Fru doctoress; _ex ungua leonem_, says one of the fathers of the church ... that is to say in good Swedish: by the paw one knows the lion. I will wager ten bottles of old Rhine against a cast-off stirrup, that this little white hand would much rather caress a knight's cheek than finger rosaries night and day."

The nun drew her hand away. The gallant captain feared the consequences of his gallantry.

"I will say no more; I am silent as a _karthäuser_ monk. But I will say that this hand is not an old woman's ... well, well, your lovely venerableness hears that I keep silent."

"_Tempus est consummatum, itur in missam_," said a solemn voice at the door, and the nun hastened her task. In a few moments the prisoners were again alone.

"I have heard that voice before," said Bertel thoughtfully. "We are surrounded by mysteries."

"Bah!" replied the captain, "it was a mangy and jealous monk. Bless me, what a dear little hand!"