Chapter Fifteen.
Mountain Fare.
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 set 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 Norland 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 the 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 all 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 footstool, 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.
“Surely,” said Erica, whom he had summoned to see the work, “when God plants a lofty mountain overlooking the glorious sea, with the heavens themselves for a roof, He makes a temple with which no church built by men can compare. I suppose men build cathedrals in cities because they are not so happy as to have a mountain to worship on.”
“How I pity the countries that have no glorious mountains!” cried Frolich; “especially if few of their people live in sight of the vast sea, or in the heart of deep forests.”
And, by one impulse, they all struck up the national air “For Norgé,”—a thanksgiving for their home being planted in the midst of the northern seas.
All being done now for which a strong arm 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.
Frolich shook her head often and mournfully over the breakfast. The skill and diligent hands of two people could not, up in the clouds here, cover the long table in a way which appeared at all creditable to Nordland eyes. Do what they would, it was only bread, cheese, butter, berries, and cream: and then berries and cream, butter, cheese, and bread. They garnished with moss, leaves, and flowers; they disposed their few bowls and platters to the best advantage,—taking some from the dairy which could ill be spared. It was still but a poor apology for a feast; and Frolich looked so ready to cry as to make Erica laugh.
Presently, however, 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 (Note 1). 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 a treat, other mountain dwellers came with offerings of tydder, roer, ryper, and jerper (Note 2): so that the dresser was loaded with game enough to feed half a hundred hungry men.
Some of these willing neighbours stayed to help. One went to pick more cloud-berries on the edge of the nearest bog. Another rode off, on the pony, to beg a supply of sugar from a house where it was known to abound. Two or three more cleared a space for a fire behind a thicket, and prepared to broil the venison and stew the kid, while others sat down to pluck the game. The Lapps, as being dirty and despised, were got rid of as soon as possible.
Erica and Frolich returned to their breakfast-table, to make the new arrangements now necessary, and place the fruits 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. You know I gave you a hint, just twelve hours since, of what would become of this same cheese.”
“You did,” admitted Erica. 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. Possibly she comforted herself with thinking, that if the demon had set its heart upon the cheese, it might have been beforehand with the Lapps. She contented herself with setting apart the dish till her mistress should decide what ought to be done with it. 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.—When, however, were unfashionable mothers known to forget the interests of their daughters? Madame Erlingsen never did! and she now engaged one of the bishop’s followers to ride forward with a certain bundle which Orga had carried on her lap. The man discharged his errand so readily that, on the arrival of the train, Frolich was seen so dressed, walking “in silk attire,” as to appear to all eyes as the daughter of the hostess.
The bishop’s reputation preceded him, as is usual in such cases.
“Where is he now?”
“How far off is he?”
“Why does he not come?” asked one and another of the expectant people, of those who first appeared before the seater.
“He is at the tents, speaking to the Lapps.”
“Speaking to the Lapps! Impossible! What Lapp would ever dream of being spoken to by a bishop of Tronyem?”
“He is with them, however. When I left him, he was just stooping to enter one of their tents.”
“Now, you must be joking. The Lapps are low people enough in the open pasture: but in their tents, pah!”
He did not go in without a reason. There was a sick child in the tent, who could not come out to him. The mother wished him to see and pronounce upon the charms she was employing for her child’s benefit, and he himself chose to be satisfied whether any medical knowledge which he possessed could avail to restore the sick. Nothing was more certain than that the Bishop of Tronyem was in a Lapland tent. The fact was confirmed by M. Kollsen, who next appeared, musing as he rode, with a countenance of extreme gravity. He would fain have denied that his bishop was smiling upon Lapps who wore charms; but he could not. He muttered that it was very extraordinary.
“Quite as much so,” whispered Erica to Frolich, “as that the Holiest should be found in the house of a publican.”
“What is that?” inquired the vigilant M. Kollsen. “What was your remark?”
Erica blushed deeply; but Frolich readily declared what it was that she had said: and in return M. Kollsen remarked on the evil of ignorant persons applying Scripture according to their own narrow notions.
“Two—four—eight horses,” observed a herdsman. “I think the neighbours should each take one or two; or here will soon be an end of Erlingsen’s new hay. This lot of pasture will never feed eight horses, besides his own and the herd.”
“Better than having them carried off by the pirates,” said a neighbour. “But I will run home and send a load of grass.”
In such an amiable mood did the bishop find all who were awaiting him at his place of refuge. On their part, they were persuaded that he deserved all their love, even if he had some low notions about the Lapps.
As the bishop’s 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 Rolfs 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 Thore’s, Kyril’s, Tank’s and other places along the shore, about which information has been given by a witness.”
“Thore’s, Kyril’s, 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.
After breakfast, notice was given that the party who had travelled all night wished to repose for a few hours; all others therefore withdrew, to secure quiet some within the pine-wood, others to the nearest breezy hill, to gossip and sport, while some few took the opportunity of going home, to see after their cattle, or other domestic affairs, intending to return in the afternoon.
Note 1. Ants abound in Norway, both in the forests and on the mountains. Some, of a large kind, are boiled for the sake of the (formic) acid they contain; and the water when strained is used for vinegar. It is as good as weak vinegar.
Note 2. Tydder and roer are the cock and hen of the wild bird called in Scotland the capercailzie. The ryper is the ptarmigan. The jerper is of the grouse species.—Lloyd’s “Field Sports of the North of Europe.”
Chapter Sixteen.
Old Tales and Better Tidings.
When the bishop came forth in the afternoon to take his seat in the shade of the wood, those who were there assembled were singing “For Norgé.” Instead of permitting them to stop, on account of his arrival, he joined in the song, and solely because his heart was in it. Seldom had he witnessed such a scene as this; and 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 hill-side, 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, however, 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 to the anxious mother awaiting the confirmation of her child,—to the young person preparing for that important event,—to the bereaved,—to the penitent,—to the thoughtless,—and to those who wondered why God had given them so many rich blessings—what the good bishop said to all these was so fit and so welcome, that not a word was 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. She wished,—she needed to pour out all that she felt; but M. Kollsen was there, and she could not speak quite freely before him. He, for his part, observed that, if she was now so happy, she must have given up some of her superstitions, for certainly he had never known any one less likely to enjoy peace than Erica, on all occasions on which he had seen her,—so great was her dread of evil spirits on every hand.
“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 had 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. Did you ever hear what spirits everybody in this country believed in before the blessed gospel was brought to old Norway?”
“I have heard of Thor, that yonder islet was named after; and that, when there was a tempest, with rolling thunder, such as we never hear in this region, the people used to say it was Thor driving his chariot over the mountain-ridge.”
“That was what people said of the thunder. What they said of fire and frost was that they were giants called Loke and Thrym, who dwelt in a dreadful tempestuous place, at the end of the earth, and came abroad to do awful things among men. The giant Frost drove home his horses at night,—the hail-clouds that sped through the air; and there sat the giant on the frost winds, combing the manes of his horses as they went. Fire was a cunning demon that stole in where it was not wanted: and when once in, it devoured all that it chose, till it rose into the sky at last in smoke.—Then there was the giant Aegir, who brought in squalls from the sea, and made whirlpools in the fiords.”
“Why, that is like Nipen.”
“Very like Nipen;—perhaps the same. Then there was the good god Balder (the white god), who made everything bright and beautiful, and ripened the fruits of the earth. This god Balder was the sun. Then there were the three magical women, the Fates, who made men’s lives happy or miserable. Did you ever hear how these giants and Fates were worshipped before Jehovah and Christ were known in this land?”
“I have heard Ulla sing many old songs about these and more; and how Thor and two companions as mighty as himself were travelling, and entered a curious house for the night; and wandered about in the great house, being frightened at a strange loud noise outside: and how they found in the morning that this house was the mitten of a giant, infinitely greater than themselves; and that what they had taken for a separate chamber in the great house was the thumb of his mitten; and that the strange noise was the snoring of this giant Skrymir, who was asleep close by, after having pulled off his mittens.”
“That 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 men.”
“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 is with him.”
“But what is to be done?” asked M. Kollsen.
“The time will come,” said the bishop, “when the mother will sing to her babe of the gentle Jesus; and tell her growing child of how he loved to be alone with his Father in the waste and howling wilderness; and bade his disciples not be afraid when there was a tempest on the wide lake. Then, when the child grows up to be a man, if he finds himself alone on the mountain or in the forest, he will think of Jesus, and fear no demon: and if a west wind and fog should overtake a woman in her boat on the fiord,” he continued, looking with a smile at Erica, “she will never think of Nipen, but rather that she hears her Saviour saying, ‘Why are ye afraid, O! ye of little faith?’”
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 keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.’ (The watchman’s call in the towns of Norway.) 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.”
He went on to remark on the story she had told him; and she was really surprised to find that there was not the slightest reason to suppose that any spirit had been employed to vex and alarm her. The fog and the pirates had overtaken and frightened many in the fiord with whom Nipen had no quarrel. Rolfs imprisonment, and all the sorrows that belonged to it, had been owing to his own imprudence. The appearance of a double sun the night before was nothing uncommon, and was known to take place when the atmosphere was in a particular state. She herself had seen that no Wood-Demon had touched the axes in this very grove last night; and that it was no mountain-sprite, but a Laplander, who had taken up the first Gammel cheese. She had also witnessed how absurdly mistaken Hund had been about the boat having been spirited away, and Vogel island being enchanted, and Rolf’s ghost being allowed to haunt him. Here was a case before her very eyes of the way in which people with superstitious minds may misunderstand what happens to themselves.
“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, however, 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.
Chapter Seventeen.
The Watch on the Hill.
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 of 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 Olaf’s hands, instead of 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 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—
“A west wind!” exclaimed Erica. “Any fog?”
“No, not a flake of mist. Neither you nor any one will say that Nipen is favourable to the enemy to-night, Erica.”
“You will hear me say less of Nipen, henceforward,” said Erica.
“That is wise for to-night, at least. Here is the west wind; but only to waft the enemy into our hands. But have you really left off believing in Nipen, and the whole race of sprites?”
These words jarred on Erica’s yet timid feelings. She replied that she must take time for thought, as she had much to think about: but the bishop had to-day spoken words which she believed would, when well considered, lift a heavy load from her heart.
The girls kindly left this impression undisturbed, and 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 doing,” observed Orga, quietly.
“Oddo’s doing! 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. And like a really great man, Oddo’s head was not turned with his importance, but intent on the perfect discharge of his office. 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.
Chapter Eighteen.
To Church.
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 reverend 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. The birds of the islands, and the leaping fish, might perhaps wonder as the train of bowery boats floated down,—for every boat was dressed with green boughs and garlands of flowers;—but the matter was understood and rejoiced in by all others.
To conclude, the bishop was punctual, and kindly in his welcome of Erica to the altar. He was also graciously pleased with Rolfs 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!”