CHAPTER IX.

DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.

After some time the door was opened, and an old man, bent with age, and with snow-white hair, disclosed himself. Accustomed by the right of war to take whatever was necessary, when it was not given voluntarily, Bertel pushed the old man aside and entered the miserable hut without ceremony. To his great astonishment he found it empty. A half burnt "perta,"* stuck in between the bricks of the fire-place, threw a flickering light around this abode of poverty. There was no door except the entrance; no living being besides the old man and a large woolly dog, which lay outstretched on the hearth, and showed his teeth to the uninvited guest.

* A thin stick of pine-wood, a yard long and an inch thick, which the peasants sometimes use instead of candles.

"Where is the man in the black leather hood, who was here a moment ago?" asked Bertel sharply.

"God bless your grace," answered the old man humbly and evasively, "who could be here but your grace?"

"Out with the truth! Somebody must be hidden here. Under the bed ... no. Behind the oven ... no. And yet you have just had a large fire kindled in the fire-place. What? I believe it is put out with water? Answer."

"It is so cold, your grace, and the hut is full of cracks..."

Bertel's aroused suspicions were not so easily dispelled. His eyes searched every part of the room, and soon discovered a little object which had fallen under a bench. It was a fine and soft lady's glove, lined with flannel.

"Will you now confess, old wretch?" burst out the excited young man.

The old man seemed dismayed, but only for a moment. He suddenly changed his manner, nodded slyly, and pointed to the corner nearest the oven. Bertel followed the hint ... took a few steps ... and suddenly felt himself precipitated downwards. He had fallen into the open hole of a cellar, whose entrance had been hidden by the heavy shadow of the fire-place. Instantly a trap-door was closed over the opening, and he heard the rattling of an iron hook, which secured the trap and deprived him of all chance of opening the door from below.

Bertel had fallen into one of those places under the floor in which poor people keep roots and home-brewed beer. The cellar was not deep, nor his fall dangerous, but, nevertheless, Bertel's anger was quite natural. The little glove had betrayed the whole story. She must be here; she, the beautiful, proud, unfortunate princess, whom he had so long adored in secret. Perhaps she had fallen into the hands of cruel robbers. And just now, when he was near to her after years of longing, and when, perhaps, she most needed his help and protection, he had been caught in a miserable trap; imprisoned in a rat-hole, more miserable than the hut itself, of which the floor this moment served him for a ceiling. In vain did he try to lift up the planks of the floor by the strength of his shoulders; they were as inexorable as the fate which had so long mocked his dearest hopes.

Then he heard the footsteps of several persons passing over the floor overhead. Then all was silent.

Pekka was now Bertel's only hope, but the former had not dared to enter the hut. Nothing was heard of him, however, and three or four hours passed in torturing suspense, increased by the prospect of perishing from hunger and cold. Then steps again sounded overhead; the iron hook was unfastened, and the trap-door raised. Half-frozen, Bertel crawled up from the damp hole, in the firm belief that Pekka had at last spied out his prison. He was met instead by the old man with the snow-white hair, who, humble and submissive as before, offered his hand to help him up.

The enraged young warrior seized him by his bony shoulders, and proceeded to catechise him in a thorough manner.

"Wretch," he exclaimed, "are you tired of life, or do you not know what you are doing, dotard? What hinders me from crushing your miserable carcase against the walls of your own hut?"

The old man looked at him with an unchanging countenance.

"Do so, Bertila's son," he replied; "kill your mother's old faithful servant if you wish; why should he live any longer?"

"My mother's old servant, do you say?"

"I am the last survivor of all those who formerly inhabited this fertile region, which is now a wilderness. It was I who said to Aron Bertila, when my master's house was destroyed in blood and ashes: 'Save my young mistress.' And Bertila did it; cursed is he and blessed at the same time! He carried my lovely young mistress out of the flames, and she, a noble maiden, became the haughty peasant's humble wife."

"But are you mad, old man? If you are, as you say, my mother's old servant, why did you shut me up in that damned hole? You must admit that your friendship is of a strange kind."

"Kill me, sir. I am ninety years of age. Kill me, I am a Catholic!"

"You! Well, by my sword now I begin to understand you."

"I am the last Catholic in this country. I belong to King John's and King Sigismund's time. I am one of the four who buried the last nun in Nadendal's cloister. For twenty years I have not heard mass, or been sprinkled with holy water. But all the saints be praised, an hour before your arrival, I had eaten of the holy wafer."

"A monk has been in your hut?"

"Yes, sir, one of ours."

"And with him a young girl and her old waiting-maid? Answer."

"Yes, sir, they were in his company."

"And on my arrival you concealed them..."

"In the garret. Yes, your grace."

"Then you decoyed me into that miserable rat-hole, while you allowed the women and the monk to escape."

"I do not deny that it is so."

"And what do you think that your reward will be?"

"Anything--death, perhaps."

"I will spare your life on one condition: you shall show me the way the fugitives have taken."

"My life; I told you that I was ninety years old."

"And you do not fear the torture?"

"The saints be praised, if I was worthy of so great an honour."

"But if I burn you alive in your own hut?"

"The holy martyrs have been burnt at the stake."

"No, old man, I am not an executioner. I have learnt in the service of my king to revere faithfulness." And Bertel pressed the old man's hand with emotion.

"But I will tell you one thing," he continued, "you think that I have come to take the fugitives back to their prison. It is not so. I give you my word of honour, that I will defend Lady Regina's freedom with my life's blood, and do all in my power to favour her flight. Will you now tell me which way she has gone?"

"No, your grace," said the calm old man; "the young lady is under the protection of the saints, and a wise man's guidance. You are hot-blooded and young, and would bring them all to ruin. Turn back, you will not find any trace of the fugitives."

"Bull-head," muttered Bertel indignantly. "Farewell, I shall get along without your help."

"Remain here quietly until to-morrow, your grace. To-night you are at liberty to walk, if you choose, six miles through the high snow-drifts, to the nearest farm. To-morrow you can ride comfortably."

"Wretch! you have sent my horses away?"

"Yes, your grace ... you must be hungry. Here is a kettle with boiled turnips; may they be to your taste."

"Ah!" thought Bertel to himself, as he impatiently paced the floor, "I would not let Larsson see me at this moment for ten bottles of Rhine wine. He would certainly compare me to the wandering knight of La Mancha, who, on the way to his Dulcinea, fell into the most peculiar adventures. How shall I get away from here through these terrible snow-drifts?"

"But," he added aloud, "I have an idea; I will try if one of the greatest amusements of my youth cannot serve me a good turn now. Old man, where do you keep your snow-shoes?"

"My snow-shoes?" replied the old man, confused. "I have none."

"You have, I see it in your face. No Finn in the wilderness is without snow-shoes. Out with them, quick!"

And without heeding the old man, Bertel pushed open the door which led to the garret, and drew out a fine pair of snow-shoes.

"Well, old friend," exclaimed the young cavalier, "what do you think of my horses? ... I call them mine, for I will bet anything that you will sell them to me for three hard silver thalers: swifter steeds have seldom hurried over high snow-drifts. If you have any greeting for the monk or Lady Regina, I will take it with pleasure."

"Do not go alone into the wilderness," said the old man. "There is neither track or path; the woods extend for miles, and are filled with wolves. It will be certain death to you."

"You are wrong, my friend," replied Bertel. "If I am not mistaken, there are traces in two directions: one from my horses, the other from the fugitives. Tell me, did they go in a sleigh, or on horseback?"

"I think they went on horseback."

"Then I am certain they drove. You are a finished rogue. But I forgive you for the sake of your excellent snow-shoes. Farewell, in a couple of hours I will find those whom I seek."

With these words Bertel hurried out.

It was yet early in the morning, a short time before sunrise. But fortunately the storm had ceased, the sky was clear, and the winter stars twinkled brightly in the blue firmament. The cold had increased, and a sharp frost had covered all the branches and snowdrifts with those ice diamonds, which at once dazzle and charm the wanderer's eye. The sight of woods and snow on a starry winter morning gives the Northerner a peculiar exhilarating feeling. There is in this scene a grandeur, a splendour, a purity, a freshness, which carries him back to the impressions of his childhood and the brilliant illusions of youth. There is nothing to cramp the heart, or paralyze the soaring imagination; all is there so vast, so solemn, so free. One might say that nature in this deep silence of winter and night is dead, and yet she lives, warm and rich, in the wanderer's heart.

It is as if she had in this little spot, this solitary place in the wilderness, compressed all her throbbing life, only to let it exist all the more beautifully in the midst of silence, stillness, and the radiance of the stars.

Bertel also experienced this feeling of freshness and life. He was still young and open to every impression. As he hastened along, light as the wind, between the trees and snow-drifts, he felt like a child. It seemed to him that he was again the boy who flew over the snow on Storkyro plains to spread his snares for the black-cock in the woods. It was true that he was a little unsteady in the beginning for lack of practice, and the snow-shoes slid merrily down the icy slopes; occasionally he made false pushes, and sometimes stumbled, but he soon regained his former skill, and stood firm on the uneven ground.

Now it was necessary to find the traces of the fugitives, and this was not easy. Bertel had wandered about for more than an hour in the direction of Ylihärmä, but had not discovered the slightest sign. The last outbreak of the storm had destroyed all indications; one could only see the fresh track of the wolf, where he had just trotted along, and now and then a frightened bird flew between the branches which were heavy with snow. Want of sleep, hunger, and fatigue, exhausted the young man's strength. The cold increased as sunrise approached, and covered his moustache and plumed hat with frost.

At last he saw on a wood-path, which the broad pines had shielded from the blast, fresh traces of runners and horses' feet. Bertel followed these with renewed energy; at times the tracks were lost in the snow, and then reappeared where the road was sheltered. The sun rose deep red in the south-east over the tops of the trees. The day was cold and clear. In every direction nothing was to be seen but trees and snow-drifts, but far away in the north a little column of smoke rose towards the morning sky. Bertel aimed at this point. The snow-shoes regained their speed, the road seemed smoother, and at last the weary adventurer reached a solitary farmhouse by the side of the high road.

The first person he encountered was Pekka, who was going to feed his horses.

"Scoundrel!" cried Bertel, with glad surprise, "who sent you here?"

"Who?" repeated Pekka, equally delighted and astonished. "Well, I shall tell you that the devil did it. I waited and waited outside that accursed old shanty in the woods until my eyes and feet became heavy together, where I sat in the snow-drift. After a little while I was aroused by the neighing of horses. And then I saw a sleigh just like ours harnessed to two horses, dashing away along the road. It is either my master or the devil. It is all the same to me. I will follow him, I said. Then I climbed up again on the horse's back. I was so hungry that it is a shame to speak of it; but I went after him. Finally the horse became tired and I lost sight of the sleigh; and thanked are both Lutheran and Catholic saints that I came here to the farm and got a good bowl of porridge. For was it not at Lützen and Nördlingen ... it is damned cold at Ylihärmä, that is sure."

"Good," said Bertel, "they shall not escape us. But do you know one thing, Pekka: there are moments when hunger and want of sleep are even stronger than love itself. Come, let us go in."

Bertel entered, and drank a bowl of boiled milk, and threw himself, overcome by fatigue, on a straw bed in the "stuga." Here we will leave our wandering knight for a couple of hours in peace.