CHAPTER II.
THE NOBLEMAN WITHOUT A NAME.
At dawn on the 8th of September, the Swedish army was exercised. They felt sure of complete victory. From all parts news arrived that the enemy's army was almost destroyed. The king left one division of his troops to follow the Imperialists; whilst the rest received the agreeable order to loot Tilly's camp: the spoil was divided into lots. The treasures were enormous, and many a man was enriched for life. The whole army wore a joyous look; the dead were quickly buried, and the wounded forgot their pains. In the bright September morning, the battlefield was covered with groups of delighted soldiers, and here, if ever, Beskow's words could be used, "The air was cooled with the waving of the flags gained in the victory."
The king had passed the night in a carriage. After he had read the army prayers, and given orders for the first part of the day, he called for those who had most distinguished themselves in the battle. And now many a brave deed was recognised with honours and promotion. But higher than any other reward, was the inner satisfaction, and the praise they received from this hero, whom the whole of Europe had now learnt to admire.
Amongst those who were specially called was a young man, who plays a great part in this history. Gustaf Bertila was only twenty years old, and his heart was beating at this time more rapidly than it had ever done in the most terrible moments of the conflict. He knew well that the noble king would not take any account of his crime, which was that he had disobeyed orders in battle; he blushed and grew pale by turns, as he thought of what the king might mean by this special summons, which was in itself a great honour.
The king had erected his tent under one of the great elms, at Gross Wetteritz, because all the buildings in the neighbourhood were burnt or destroyed by friends or enemies.
After waiting for half an hour, Bertila was introduced into the royal presence. Gustaf Adolf was sitting on a low chair, and his arm was resting on a table, covered with maps and papers. The king was tall and portly, and his tight-fitting buff coat made him look still more corpulent.
When Bertila entered, the king lifted up his mild and beautiful blue eyes; he had just signed an order, and looked sharply at the young man.
Gustaf Adolf was short sighted, and therefore had a difficulty in recognising persons, and when he met individuals only slightly known to him, it gave his look a peculiar sharpness, which, however, disappeared immediately.
"Your name is Bertila," said the king, as if he wished to assure himself that he had heard it correctly the day before.
"Yes, your Majesty."
"Aged twenty years," said the king, watching him closely with a strange look.
"Yes, your Majesty."
"His son did you say?"
The young man bowed his head and blushed.
"How strange!" the king muttered this to himself, and seemed for a moment to be in deep thought. He then said,
"Why have you not announced yourself to me before? Your father has done my father and the country great service. He is then still alive."
"He is alive, and thankful for your Majesty's goodness."
"Really so."
The king said this more as if a secret thought had escaped him, than as a remark to the listener. The young man felt the colour mount to his cheeks, and the king noticed it.
"Your father and I once had a quarrel," continued the king, and he smiled, but a cloud was seen on his brow. "But this was all forgotten long ago, and I am glad that such a good man has such a brave son. You were amongst the seventy Finns at Demmin."
"Yes, your Majesty."
"And no one has mentioned you for promotion?"
"My colonel has promised to remember me."
"Your king never forgets a real service. Gustaf Bertila, I have just signed your commission as sub-lieutenant. Take it, and continue to serve with honour."
"Your Majesty," said the young man.
"I have something more to say to you. Your action yesterday was against orders."
"Yes, your Majesty."
"I want my soldiers to obey implicitly. I have been told that you dismounted at the foot of the steepest hill, so that you could get up quicker."
"It is true your Majesty."
"And that you reached the top of the hill first, whilst the others had to ride round; and that you killed two of the enemy, and took the first cannon."
"Yes, your Majesty."
"It is good, sub-lieutenant Bertila; I forgive you, and promote you to the rank of lieutenant in my Finnish cavalry."
The young man could not speak. The king himself laboured under considerable emotion.
"Come nearer, young man," said the king. "You ought to know that once, in my youth, I did your father a considerable injury. Heaven knows that I repent, and has at last given me an opportunity to repair to the son the injustice done to the father.
"Lieutenant Bertila, you are brave and noble, and you have received a military education. You have also brought into my service four soldiers. In your position as officer in my army you are already considered a nobleman. That none of my officers shall look down upon you as a peasant's son, I will give you a name, and the knight's spur."
"Go, young man. Go, my son," repeated the king with great emotion, "and show that you are worth the king's favour."
"Until death." And the young man bent his knee to the king. The latter stood up. The emotion which had for a moment passed over his fine face now disappeared, and he was again the royal leader.
The young Bertila understood that the time had come to retire. But he still remained in his kneeling position, and gave the king a letter, which he, until this day, had carried sewed in his coat.
"May I ask your Majesty to read this letter. When I said farewell to my old father he gave me this letter, and said, 'My son, go and try to win your king's favour, through your faithfulness and valour. And if some day you can obtain it for your own sake, and not only for the sake of your father's name, then give him this letter, and tell him that it is my last will. His great heart will understand what I mean.'"
The king opened the letter and read it, and on his face was seen that deep flush, which in his later years was the only sign of the struggles of a soul, able to control itself. It came as a light cloud on the king's forehead, deepened for a moment, and then passed away without leaving any trace. When he had finished reading, his eyes rested for a moment on the handsome youth who was still kneeling at his feet.
"Stand up," said the king at last.
Bertila obeyed.
"Do you know what this letter contains?"
"No, your Majesty."
The king watched him closely, but was satisfied with the honest and truthful expression of his face.
"Your father is a strange man. He hates all noblemen since the days of the Peasants' War. He fought many tough battles as their leader; and Fleming's troops took possession of his farm. He forbids you ever to bear a noble name, if you wish to avoid his curse."
Bertila did not reply. A thunder-bolt from a clear sky had come down upon his happiness, and all his dreams of a noble and knightly name had been destroyed at one blow.
"A father's will must be obeyed," continued the king with great seriousness.
"The noble name which I had intended for you, you cannot accept. Do not feel sad, my young friend, you shall keep your sword and your lieutenant's commission; with them, and your brave arm, the path to honour will always be open to you."
The king now dismissed him, and the young man left the tent with mixed feelings.