III.—FIRE AND WATER.
Six weeks passed before the surgeon and his circle of listeners gathered again. During that time an accident had happened to old Bäck. Most of us in this world possess hobbies, and old bachelors in particular. Bäck had got it into his mind that he ought to have a certain comfort in his old age; he had in his garret a good-sized sack of feathers, which he increased in spring and autumn by bird-shooting. To what use these feathers were to be put no one knew; when he was asked about it, he said:
"I will do like Possen at the 'Wiborg explosion'; if Finland is in need, I will go up some tower and shake my feathers into the air, then there will be as many soldiers as the sack has feathers."
"You talk like a goose, my brother," replied Captain Svanholm, the postmaster. "In our days one must have different stuff to make soldiers of. By my soul, I think you consider us warriors like chickens!"
"Yes," added the surgeon, when the captain was about to continue, "I know what you wish to say: exactly like Fieandt at Karstula."
However, the fact was, that the surgeon had one fine April day gone to the sea-shore on a shooting expedition, with artificial decoy ducks. He was accompanied by an old one-eyed corporal called Ritsi (Finnish for Fritz), who had been a pedlar in his youth, and wandered over Germany with a pack on his back; but he brought home nothing except a change in his name.
The ice still remained in patches, with gaps between; both the old men strolled along the edge, and discharged a shot every now and then; but it amounted to very little, as both of them had rather poor eyesight. It happened early one morning that Bäck thought he saw a pair of fine ducks at the further end of the ice, which could only be reached by making a long circuit. He set off, and sure enough the ducks were there. He crept as near as he dared, aimed, and fired ... the ducks' feathers were slightly agitated, but they did not stir from the spot. "Those creatures are pretty tough," thought Bäck; he reloaded, and fired again at thirty paces. The same result followed. Much astonished, Bäck went nearer, and discovered for the first time that he had been shooting at his own decoy ducks, which the wind had imperceptibly driven from the inner to the outer edge of the ice.
The old gentleman now thought about returning; but this was easier said than done. The wind had separated the ice on which he stood, from the ice which held Ritsi, and the loose block was drifting out to sea. The two old friends looked sadly at each other; scarcely a dozen yards separated them, and yet the corporal could not assist his companion, for there was no boat. Bäck was drifting slowly and steadily out to sea.
"Good-bye, now, comrade," cried the surgeon, whilst still within hearing. "Tell Svenonius and Svanholm that my will is locked up in the bureau-drawer to the right. Tell them to have the bells rung for me next Sunday. As for the funeral, you need not give yourself any trouble; I will attend to that myself."
"God have mercy!" yelled the corporal, putting the wrong side of his jacket to his eyes, and returning to the shore slowly and tranquilly, as if nothing had happened.
For the honour of the good town, it must be said, that the rest of the surgeon's friends were far from taking the matter like the corporal. The postmaster cursed and swore; the schoolmaster marched out at the head of his boys; and the old grandmother quietly sent off a couple of able-bodied pilots in their boats to cruise between the blocks of ice. The greatest excitement prevailed; confusion and running about everywhere; and those who made the most fuss accomplished the least.
Two days passed without any trace of the surgeon; on the third the pilots came back from a fruitless search. All gave the surgeon up for lost. There was sincere mourning in the town for such an old institution as Bäck—everyone's friend, and everybody's confidant—he was one of the little town's house-spirits, without whom the community could not get on. But what could be done? When the third Sunday arrived, without any news of the unfortunate bird-hunter, the bells were rung for his soul, according to custom, and a fine eulogy composed by Svenonius, was read in the church, and the city magistrate appointed a day in the ensuing week for taking an inventory of his effects.
I hope, however, that the reader, who has noticed the title of this veracious story, will not be alarmed. In reality it would be very hard if the surgeon should be called away just now, when Regina sits imprisoned at Korsholm, under Fru Marta's stern control, and Bertel lies bleeding on the battlefield of Lützen. And what would become of the gentle Meri, of the peasant king of Storkyro, and of so many other important personages in this narrative? Patience! the surgeon had certainly gone through worse experiences in his day ... he had not been born for nothing on the same day as Napoleon!
Everything was arranged to take the inventory. Astonishing order prevailed in Bäck's garret; something unusual had happened there; the place was swept and cleaned. All his things were set out: medicine chest dusted, stuffed birds placed in a row, the collection of eggs exposed to view. The silver-headed Spanish cane stood in a corner; the old peruke hung with a melancholy look on its hook; the innermost mysteries of Bäck's bureau, the pale locks of hair from former days, were drawn forth to be valued in roubles and kopeks; probably not at high amounts. An alderman, with an official air, had taken his place at the old oak table, where a large sheet of official paper now occupied the space usually reserved for the surgeon's carpenter's tools; a clerk was sharpening his pencil opposite the alderman, and the old grandmother as hostess, had presented herself with moist eyes to deliver up Bäck's property, as the old man had no relations. One thing, however, was still unopened: it was the old seal-skin trunk under the surgeon's bed. The official's eyes occasionally wandered there with a pious thought of the profit to be derived from the inheritance; but no one knew what the trunk contained, and who was the rightful and legal heir.
It was time to begin. Svanholm and Svenonius were called as appraisers. The alderman coughed once or twice, assumed a judicial air, and then said:
"Whereas it has come to the knowledge of the worthy magistrate that the deceased surgeon of the High Crown, Andreas Bäck, met his death on the ice whilst engaged in bird-shooting; and although not found in body, is in soul, rightfully and lawfully killed..."
"I would most humbly beg to contradict that!" suddenly interrupted a voice from the door.
The effect was truly marvellous.
The magistrate lost both his wits and official bearing; he turned his eyes upwards, and his eloquent tongue for the first time refused its office. The secretary sprang up like a rocket, and knocked over the learned Svenonius, who, being somewhat deaf, had not heard the cause of the sudden commotion. The brave Svanholm was in a terrible plight; one could have sworn that not even at Karstula had he gone through such an ordeal. He looked as white as a ghost, and tried in vain to compel his left foot to advance. The old grandmother was the only one who showed self-possession; she put on her spectacles, went straight to the new-comer, and shook her ancient head dubiously, as if to say that it was very wrong of corpses to come to life again.
But old Bäck—for who else could it be?—was not at all daunted. His feelings had quite a different character. When he beheld his dear old garret so altered, his precious effects on show, and the magistrate in full activity with what Bäck thought none of his business, he was seized, excusably enough, with righteous anger, and took the myrmidons of the law by the neck, one after the other, and threw them without ceremony from the room. Then came the turn of brother Svenonius, who was not spared, and finally Svanholm, before he could utter a word, found himself rolling headlong down the stairs. All this happened in the twinkling of an eye. Only the grandmother remained. When Bäck met her mild, reproachful glance, he was ashamed, and came to his senses.
"Well, well," said he, "you must not take it ill, cousin; I shall teach brooms and dusters to disorder my room ... be so kind as to take a seat. It would provoke a stone to see such actions. See how these wretches have scrubbed my room and dusted my birds. It is a positive crime!"
"Dear cousin," said the grandmother, at once vexed and delighted, "I am the one to be blamed; we thought you must be drowned."
"Drowned, indeed!" muttered the surgeon. "I tell you, cousin, that poor powder isn't so easily got rid of. It is true that I floated around on that miserable ice-floe for three whole days and nights. It wasn't exactly a warm bed and spread table, but it served. I shot a venturesome seal. It was pretty oily, I assure you, but 'better that than nothing.' I had a tinder-box and salt, too; so I made a fire of my game bag, and fried a steak. On the fourth day I drifted to firm ice at West Bothnia, and marched ashore. 'Now it's time to go home,' I thought. Said and done; I sold my gun and hired a team. And I tell you what, cousin, they would have been spared from upsetting my room, and sticking their noses into my affairs, had not the Swedes quadrupled the rate, compared with old times. My purse was empty before I came to Haparanda. Then I thought, 'let the Medical College go to the dogs!' and began my old practice with the lancet and 'essentia dulcis,' as I went along; and all the old women—God bless you, I thought you were going to sneeze—and all the old women were amazed to see former times revived. In this manner I was able to reach home—a little too late, but still in time to throw out my uninvited guests."
The surgeon had great difficulty in pardoning his friends for their invasion of his peaceful kingdom. Had they taken his treasures, or slandered his good name, he could have forgiven them, but to put his room in order was more than he could stand! Little by little, however, the storm was allayed through the old grandmother's wise diplomacy; and so the day came when the reconciliation was celebrated with a third tale. It is true that some plain people still looked upon the surgeon as a ghost; the magistrate doubted his right to live when he had been legally declared dead; the postmaster swore over his sore back, which still bore the marks of the meeting with brother Bäck; Svenonius sighed over a hole in his twenty-year-old black coat, which he had worn in honour of the solemn occasion. But the old grandmother smiled as usual; Anne Sophie was friendly as ever; the little folks were as noisy; and—thus it happened that the sunshine scattered the morning mists, and the horizon was cleared for the captive Regina.
* * * * *
"My dear friends," began the surgeon, "it may puzzle you why I call this story 'Fire and Water.' You understand The King's Ring, and how The Sword and the Plough came into conflict. Perhaps you think that I shall now treat you to natural history. That would be well and good. But I entertain the opinion that in a story, humanity is the great thing. If we look at pictures, we heartily admire a fruit or a game painting, but I believe figure-painting, with fine human forms, is nevertheless superior. Therefore I do not intend to describe conflagrations and deluges, but have chosen my title from the fact that human temperaments correspond to the elements—some to fire, some to air, others to water and earth. I intend to tell you about four persons: two of whom possessed a fiery nature, and two a watery. All is not said that could be said, for most titles have the fault of only giving one aspect of many. I thought of calling this part 'The Coat of Arms,' when I realised that it might also be called 'The Axe.' I might have alarmed you with the terrible title of 'The Curse'; but when I came to think it over, I found that it could just as well be styled 'The Blessing.' Therefore you will have to be contented with the elements; I have now said all I wished, and I will leave you to guess the rest."
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!"
CHAPTER II.
TWO OLD ACQUAINTANCES.
When the autumn sun on the following morning spread its first rays into the turret room, Bertel arose and looked out of the iron-barred window. It was a beautiful view that here met his eye. Underneath the turret wound a lovely river, and on the other side of it lay a town with thirty spires, and beyond were seen a number of still verdant vineyards.
Bertel at once recognised Würzburg. The castle of Marienburg, where the prisoners were confined, had at the retreat of the Swedes fallen back into the bishop's hands; but his grace, on account of the insecurity of the times, did not return there himself, but remained in Vienna. The castle had suffered much, from the last conquest, and the consequent plundering; one tower had been destroyed, and the moat was filled up in several places. At present there were only fifty men in the garrison, guarding the sisters of charity from the cloisters in the town, and many sick and wounded.
When Bertel had carefully examined his prison, he thought he recognised Regina's room, the same in which that beautiful young lady with her maids in waiting had watched the battle, and where the image of the Holy Virgin had been broken into fragments by the splinters from the cannon-shot.*
* The surgeon forgets that this room was totally destroyed.—Author.
"Here," thought the dreaming young man, "she slept the last night before the storm."
For Bertel this room was sacred; when he pressed his lips against the cold walls, he thought he kissed the marks of Regina's tears.
A wonderful thought struck him like lightning. If the nun that visited them yesterday was a princess ... if the white hand belonged to Regina! It would be a miracle, but ... love believes in miracles. Bertel's heart beat fast.
His neglected wounds had greatly improved under the gentle hands of his nurse. He now felt much stronger. His unfortunate comrades were still asleep after their terrible journey. Then the door was quietly opened, and the nun softly entered with a drink for the wounded prisoners. Bertel felt his head swim. Overcome by his violent emotions, he fell on his knees before her.
"Your name, you kind angel, who remembers the prisoners!" he cried. "Tell me your name, let me see your face ... Ah! I should have known you amongst thousands ... you are Regina, yourself!"
"You make a mistake," said the same kind voice that Bertel had heard the day before. It was not Regina's voice, and still he knew the tones. To whom then did it belong?
Bertel rushed forward and pulled the veil from the nun's head. In front of him stood the beautiful mild Ketchen with a smiling face. The surprised Bertel drew back.
"Imprudent one," she said, covering her face with her hands. "I wished to have you in my care, but now you make me leave the place to another."
Ketchen disappeared. On the evening of the same day another nun entered the room.
Larsson addressed a long speech to her, and put her hand to his lips, and impressed on it a loud kiss. He then swore fearfully.
"Millions of devils!" he said, "that I should kiss an old shrivelled hand like that. The skin was like a century-old parchment."
"Verily, my dear Bertel," continued the chagrined captain with philosophical resignation, "there are secrets in nature which will for ever remain concealed from human sagacity. This hand, for example—manus mana, manum—hand, as the old Roman used to say: this hand, my friend, would undoubtedly occupy a shining place in the Greek poet Ovid's 'Metamorphoses,' which we formerly studied in the Cathedral School at Abo, the time my father wanted to make me a priest. Yesterday I could have sworn that it was the beautiful white hand of a young girl, and to-day I will be shaved as bare as a monk it it was not a hand that belongs to a seventy-year-old washerwoman. Sic unde ubi apud unquam post, as the ancients used to say. That is, so can a pretty girl be changed into a witch before anyone knows it."
The prisoners' wounds healed rapidly under the care of the nuns. The fierce autumn storms whistled around the castle turrets, and the heavy rain beat against the small panes. The verdure of the vineyards faded, and a thick, heavy mist rose from the Main, and obscured the view of the town.
"I cannot stand it any longer," growled Larsson. "The wretches! they do not give us either wine or dice. And forgive me, Saint, the devil may kiss their hands or lips, not I. No. I have a great respect for old women. I cannot stand this. I will jump out of the window."
"Do it," said Bertel, provoked.
"No, I will not jump out of the window," said the captain. "No, my dear friend—micus ameus, as we learned people used to express ourselves—I will instead honour our companion with a game."
And the inventive captain for the thirtieth time summoned Pekka to a game of pitch and toss. This uninteresting game, which was his only diversion, was played with a Carl IX. six-öre piece.
"Tell me what they are building over there on the square of Würzburg, just opposite the bank of the Main?" said Bertel.
"An ale-house," said Larsson. "Crown!"
"It looks to me like a pyre."
"Tail!" repeated Larsson monotonously. "Dash it, what ill luck I have; this damned Limingo peasant will win my horse, my saddle, and my stirrups."
"The first morning after we were taken prisoners, I heard something about an auto-de-fé, to celebrate the battle of Lützen. What do you think of it?"
"I? What should I care; they might burn a dozen witches for our amusement."
"But if we are concerned in it? If they are waiting for the bishop's arrival?"
Larsson dilated his small grey eyes, and took hold of his goatee.
"Blitz-donner-kreutz ... the wretched Jesuits! They would cook us like turnips ... we ... the conquerors of the Holy Roman Empire ... I mean, my friend Bertel, that in such desperate straits, an honest soldier would not be to blame if he tried to escape in silence—for example, through the window..."
"There is a fall of seventy feet to the Main underneath."
"The door," said the thoughtful captain.
"Is guarded night and day by two armed men."
The captain fell into some melancholy reflections. Time passed on; it was evening; it became night. The nun with their suppers did not appear.
"The festival begins with a fast," muttered the captain in a gloomy tone. "I am shaped like a fish, if I do not wring the head off our neglectful nun as soon as she appears."
At this moment the door opened, and the nun entered alone. Larsson exchanged a glance with his companions, suddenly approached the nun, caught her round the neck, and held her against the wall.
"Be still, like a good child, highly honoured abbess," mockingly said the captain; "if you make a sound you are lost. By right I ought to throw you out of the window and let you have a swim in the Main, to teach you punctum preciosum, that is, a precise punctuality in your attendance. But I will give you grace for this night. Tell me, you most miserable of meal bringers, what is the meaning of that fire which they are preparing on the square; who is going to be roasted there?"
"For the sake of all the saints, speak low," whispered the nun. "I am Ketchen, and have come to save you. A great danger threatens you. To-morrow the bishop is expected, and Father Hieronymus, the implacable enemy of all the Finns, has sworn to burn you alive for the glory of the saints."
"My fine little soft hand!" cried Larsson delighted. "Upon my honour, I am a fool not to recognise it at once. Well, my beautiful friend, for the glory or St. Brita I will take a kiss on the spot..."
The captain kept his word. But Ketchen freed herself, and said quickly:
"If you do not behave yourself, young man, you will afford fuel for the flames. Hurry! bind me to the bedpost, and tie a handkerchief over my mouth.
"Bind you..." replied the captain; "explain yourself."
"Make haste! the guard are drunk and asleep, but in twenty minutes they will be inspected by the pater himself. Seize their cloaks and hurry to get out. The passwords are Petrus and Paulus."
"And yourself?" said the captain.
"They will find me bound. I have been overpowered, and my mouth stopped."
"Noble girl! The crown of all Franconia's sisters of charity; had I not sworn never to marry.... Very well, hasten, Bertel! hurry, Pekka, you lazy dog! Farewell, little rogue! another kiss ... Good-bye!"
The three prisoners hastened out. But scarcely were they outside the door when they were seized by iron fists, thrown down, and bound.
"Take the dogs down into the treasury," said a well-known voice. It was Father Hieronymus.
CHAPTER III.
THE TREASURY.
Bound hand and foot, the prisoners soon found themselves in the deep, dark, damp vault, blasted out of the rock, where the Bishop of Würzburg had kept his treasures before the Swedes delivered him from the trouble. No ray of light penetrated the gloom, and the moisture from the rocks trickled through the crevices and dropped steadily on the ground.
"Lightning and Croats! may all the devils take you, cursed earless monk!" bawled the captain, as soon as he felt firm ground beneath him. "To shut up officers of his Royal Highness and the Crown in this rat-trap. Diabolus infernalis multum plus plurimum! ... Are you alive, Bertel?"
"Yes. In order to be burned living to-morrow."
"Do you believe that, Bertel?" asked the captain in a lugubrious tone.
"I know this treasury. On three sides is the solid rock, on the other a door of iron, and the man who guards us here is harder than either rock or metal. We shall never see Finland again! Never shall I see her more..."
"Listen to me, Bertel; you are a smart chap, but that does not prevent you from talking like a milksop occasionally. You are in love with the black-eyed lady; well, well, I will say nothing about that; love is a bandit, as Ovidius so truly says. But I cannot stand whimpering. If we live, there are other girls to kiss; if we die, then good-bye to them all. So you really fancy that they intend to roast us like picked woodcocks?"
"That entirely depends upon you yourselves," answered a voice in the darkness. All three prisoners started from fright.
"The evil one is here in the midst of us!" exclaimed Larsson.
Pekka began to say his prayers. Then a clear ray from a dark lantern shot through the darkness, and they all saw the Jesuit Hieronymus standing alone near them.
"It depends upon you," he repeated. "To escape is impossible. Your king is dead; your army defeated; the whole world acknowledges the power of the Church and the Emperor. The pile is ready, and your bodies shall burn in honour of the saints. But the holy Church in its clemency wishes to save you, and has sent me here to offer you mercy."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Larsson mockingly. "Come, worthy father, loosen my bonds and let me embrace you. I offer you my friendship, and of course you believe me. How, says Seneca, homo homini lupus, we wolves are all brothers."
"I offer you mercy," continued the Jesuit coldly, "on three conditions, which you will certainly accept. The first is, that you abjure your heretic faith and publicly join the only saving Church."
"Never!" exclaimed Bertel hastily.
"Be quiet!" said the captain. "Well, posito that we abjure the Lutheran faith?"
"Then," continued the Jesuit, "as prisoners of war you shall be exchanged for the high-born Lady and Princess Regina von Emmeritz, whom your king tyrannically sent a prisoner to the north."
"It shall be done!" answered Bertel eagerly.
"Be still!" cried Larsson. "Well, go on; posito that we accomplish the lady's deliverance?"
"Only a trifle remains. I demand of Lieutenant Bertel King Gustaf Adolf's ring."
"Your money or your life, like a highwayman!" said Larsson derisively.
"You ask for that which I do not possess," answered Bertel.
The Jesuit gave him a suspicious glance.
"The king ordered Duke Bernhard to give you the ring, and you must have received it."
"All this is quite unknown to me," said Bertel with truth, but surprised and delighted at this unexpected news.
The Jesuit resumed his smiling composure.
"If that is how it stands, my dear sons," said he, "let us talk no more about the ring. As far as your conversion to the true believing Church is concerned..."
Bertel was just about to answer, but was interrupted by the captain, who, a moment before, had made a movement with the upper part of his body, which the light did not reach.
"Yes, as far as that matter is concerned," Larsson hastened to add; "you know, reverend father, that there are two sides to it: questio an and questio quomodo. Now to speak of questio an first, my sainted rector, Vincentius Flachsenius, used to say, always place negare as prima regula juris. Your reverence undoubtedly finds it unexpected and agreeable to hear a royal captain talk Latin like a cardinal. Your reverence should know that we, in Abo Cathedral School, studied Ciceronem, Senecam, and Ovidium, also called Naso; for my part I have always considered Cicero a great talker, and Seneca a blockhead; but as for Ovid ..."
The Jesuit moved towards the door, and said dryly,
"Then you choose the stake?"
"Rather than the disgrace of an apostasy!" exclaimed Bertel, who had not noticed Larsson's hints and motions.
"My friend," the captain hastily added, "thinks very sensibly and naturally that the worst part of the matter is the public scandal. Thus, worthy father, let us confer about questio quomodo. Posito that we become good Catholics, and enter the Emperor's service ... but deign to come a little closer; my friend Bertel is rather hard of hearing ever since he had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the mighty Pappenheim."
The Jesuit cautiously advanced a little nearer, after convincing himself with a glance that retreat stood open.
"It is I who decide the conditions," said he haughtily. "Yes or no?"
"Yes, yes, of course," replied Larsson quickly, as he continued to rub himself. "Consequently we are on sound grounds both with questio an and questio quomodo. Your reverence possesses a persuasive tongue. We will now come to questio ubi and questio quando, for according to logicam and meta-physicam ... Pardon me, worthy father, I don't say a word, I consent to it all. But," continued the captain, as he lowered his voice, "deign to cast a glance at my friend Bertel's right forefinger. I can tell your reverence my friend is a great rogue; I am very much mistaken if he has not got the king's ring on at this moment."
The Jesuit, carried away by his curiosity, came a few steps nearer. Swift as an eel Larsson rolled himself to the door, for he was unable to rise on account of his bonds; and when the monk wished to retreat, the captain, who had cut through the ligatures which held his right arm, against a sharp stone, suddenly seized the Jesuit's legs and threw him down. Father Hieronymus made desperate efforts to free himself from the captain's grasp; the lantern was broken into fragments, the light extinguished, and a thick darkness enveloped the wrestlers. Bertel and Pekka, both unable to get up and assist, rolled themselves at random towards the spot, but without reaching it. Then the brave captain felt a sharp sensation in his shoulder, and directly afterwards a warm stream of blood. With a mighty oath he wrenched the dagger from his enemy's hand, and returned the stab. The Jesuit now begged for mercy.
"With the greatest pleasure, my son," answered the sarcastic captain. "But only on three conditions: the first, that you renounce Loyola, your lord and master, and declare him to be an emissary of the devil. Do you agree to it?"
"I agree to everything," murmured the pater.
"The second: that you start off and hang yourself to the first hook you find in the ceiling."
"Yes, yes, only let me go."
"The third: that you travel to Beelzebub, your patron," ... and with these words Larsson flung his enemy violently against the rocky wall, after which there was a dead silence.
The dagger was now used to quickly sever the prisoners' bonds, and then it only remained to find the door.
When the three fugitives, after having secured the treasury door from the outside, reached the dark and narrow stairway, which led to the upper portion of the castle, they stayed a moment to consult together. Their situation even now was not enviable, for they knew of old that the stairs led to the bishop's former bed-chamber, from whence two or three rooms had to be crossed before they came to the large armoury, and through that to the courtyard, after which they still had to pass the closed drawbridge and the guard. All the rooms, except the bed-chamber, which the Jesuit himself had taken possession of, had, two hours before, when the prisoners were carried down, been filled partly with soldiers, and partly with the sick and their nurses.
"One thing grieves me," whispered Larsson, "and that is, that I did not draw the fur off the fox when I held him by the ears. In the garments of piety I could have gone scot-free through purgatory like another Saulus inter prophetas. But as it is, my friend Bertel, I ask, in my simplicity, how shall we get away from here?"
"We will cut our way out. The garrison are asleep; the darkness of the night favours us."
"I confess, my friend, that if anybody, even I, Larsson himself, should call you a poltroon, I would call that fellow a liar. It is true that you once as good as solo, alone, alienus, all by yourself, took this fortress; but you had then at least a sword in your hand, and a few thousands of brave boys in the rear. Hush! I heard a step on the stairs ... no, it was nothing. Let us push on cautiously. Here it will serve us to tread gingerly, like maidens; the heavy peasant's boots sound as if we were a squadron of cavalry."
The fugitives had ascended about thirty or forty steps, and yet there seemed more, until a faint ray of light glimmered at the top in the passage. They then came to a door; it stood ajar. They stopped, and held their breath; not a sound could be heard. The brave captain now ventured to put in his head, then his foot, and finally his whole stout person.
"We are on the right track," he whispered; "boots off, the whole company must march in their stockinged feet—posito that the company has stockings. March!"
The bishop's bed-chamber, into which the three now entered on tip-toe, was a large and magnificent room. A flickering lamp faintly illumined the precious gobelin tapestry, the gilded images of the saints, and the ebony bedstead, inlaid with pearls, where the wealthy prelate used to fall asleep, with his goblet of Rhenish wine beside him. No living creature was visible, but from one of the windows which overlooked the courtyard they could see the castle chapel opposite, brilliantly lighted and filled with people. Even the courtyard was occupied by a crowd, visible owing to the reflection from the windows, and many of whom carried lighted candles.
"I will let them salt and pickle me like a cucumber if I understand what all these people are doing here in the dead of night," muttered the enraged captain. "You will find that they have assembled here to see three honest Finnish soldiers roasted by a slow fire like Aland herrings."
"We must look for weapons, and die like men," said Bertel, as he glanced through the room.
"Hurrah!" he exclaimed, "here are three swords, just what we require."
"And three daggers," added Larsson, who, in a large niche behind the image of a saint, found a little arsenal of all kinds of weapons. "The worthy fathers have a certain weakness for daggers, as the East Bothnians for 'punkkons,' or peasants' knives."
"I think," joined in the taciturn Pekka, as he caught sight of a good-sized flask in a corner, "that to-night being Xmas eve..."
"Brave boy!" interrupted the captain, inspired also by this sight, "you have a wonderfully keen scent where good liquor is concerned. Pious Jesuit, you have, anyhow, accomplished some good in the world! Xmas eve, did you say? Stupid, why didn't you tell us at once? It is clear as the day, that half of Würzburg is streaming to the chapel to hear Father Hieronymus say mass. 'Pon my honour, I fear that he will keep them waiting for some time, the good pater. Here goes, my friend, I will drink to you; an officer ought to always set his troops a good example. Your health, my boys ... damnation ... the miserable monk has basely cheated us. I have swallowed poison. I am a dead man!" And the honest captain turned pale as a corpse.
Both Bertel and Pekka had hard work to restrain their laughter, notwithstanding their critical position, when they saw Larsson at once white from fright and black from the fluid he had drank and spat out again.
"Be more careful another time," said Bertel, "and you will avoid drinking ink."
"Ink! I might have known that the earless scrawler would be up to some devilry. Two things trouble me to-night more than all the autos-da-fé: that the sweet Ketchen, with the soft hands, deceived us, and that I have swallowed the most useless stuff in the world—ink, bah!"*
* Here Captain Svanholm trod on Cousin Svenonius' toes, and the latter thoughtfully took a pinch of snuff.
"If we had nothing else to do I could show you something that ink has done," rejoined Bertel, as he hastily turned over a pile of papers on the writing-table. "Here is a letter from the archbishop ... he is coming to-morrow ... we are to be solemnly burned ... they will tempt us to abjure our faith, and promise us grace ... but burn us, nevertheless! Infamous!"
"Roman!" observed the captain phlegmatically.
In the meantime Larsson had drawn out three monks' cloaks and hoods; they put them on, and now ventured to proceed farther on their dangerous enterprise.
The next two rooms were empty. Two common beds indicated that some menial monks had here their abode, and were now gone to mass.
"Bravo," whispered Larsson, "they will take us for sheep in wolves' clothing, and believe that we are also going to attend mass. Hist! didn't you hear something? A woman's voice. Be still!"
They stopped, and heard in the darkness a young female's voice, praying:
"Holy Virgin, forgive me this time, and save me from death; I will to-morrow take the veil, and serve you for ever."
"It is Ketchen's voice," said the captain. "She may be innocent, poor child! Upon my honour, it would be base of a cavalier not to deliver a sweet girl with such a soft hand."
"Let us be off!" whispered Bertel in vexation. But the captain had already discovered a little door, bolted on the outside; inside was a cell, and in the cell a trembling girl. Her eyes, used to the darkness, saw the monk's garb, and she threw herself at the captain's feet, exclaiming,
"Grace, my father, grace! I will confess all; I have favoured the prisoners' flight; I have given wine to the guard. But spare my life, have mercy upon me, I am so young. I do not wish to die."
"Who the devil has said that you are to die, my brave girl?" interrupted the captain's voice. "No, you shall live, with your soft hand, and your warm lips, as true as I'm not a Jesuit, but Lars Larsson, captain in his Royal Majesty's and the Crown's service, and herewith take you ... as my wedded wife, for better or for worse," continued the captain, no doubt because he thought that the well-known formula ought to be said to an end when he had once begun it.
"Away, away, with or without the girl, but away; they are coming, and we still have to pass the large armoury!"
"Allow me to tell you, my friend Bertel, that you are the greatest fidget I know, maximus fiescus, as the ancients so truly expressed themselves. How is it, my girl, you are not a nun ... only a novice? Well, it makes no difference to me. You shall be my wedded wife ... in case I ever marry. Here is a cloak; there now, straighten yourself up and look bold."
"It is no cloak, it is a mass-robe," whispered Ketchen, who had scarcely time to recover from her amazement.
"The deuce, a mass-robe! Wait, you take my cloak, and I will take the robe. I shall chant in their ears dies irae, so that all will be astonished."
The sound of several voices in the armoury outside interrupted the captain in his priestly speculations.
"They have missed the Jesuit, they are looking for him, and we are lost through your silly jabbering," whispered the exasperated Bertel. "We must be careful now not to betray ourselves. Come along, all of you."
"And Latin first!" exclaimed the captain.
All four went out. In the armoury there were about thirty sick beds, but only two sisters in attendance. This sight was reassuring, but much more dangerous was the meeting with two monks, who were in violent altercation in the doorway. When they saw Larsson in the mass-robe, and three figures behind him in hooded cloaks, the pious fathers were evidently startled. The captain raised his arm to bless them, uttered a solemn pax vobiscum, and was then going to steal by with a grave step, when he was checked by the foremost monk.
"Worthy father," said the latter, as he surveyed the unknown prelate from head to foot, "what procures our castle the honour at so unusual a time...?"
"Pax vobiscum!" repeated the captain devoutly. "The pious Father Hieronymus orders you to say mass with all your might ... his reverence is sick ... he has toothache."
"Let us go and wait upon him," said one of the monks, entering the smaller room. But the other seized Larsson by the robe, and regarded him in a way which much alarmed the brave captain.
"Quis vus et quid eltis!" said the captain in a regular dilemma. "Qui quoe quod, meus tuus suus ... go to the devil, you bald-headed baboons!" roared Larsson, unable to restrain himself any longer, and pushing the obstinate monk into the chamber he bolted the door. Then all four hastened at full speed down to the courtyard. The alarm was immediately given behind them; the monks shouting at the top of their voices, and the nuns joining in, until the crowd of people who thronged the courtyard began to listen.
"We are lost!" whispered Ketchen, "if we do not reach the drawbridge by the back way."
They hurried there ... the tumult increased ... they passed the guard at the large sally-port.
"Halt! who's there?"
"Petrus and Paulus," promptly answered Bertel. They were allowed to pass. Fortunately the drawbridge was down. But the whole castle was now alarmed.
"We will jump into the river, the night is dark, they will not see us!" cried Bertel.
"No," said Larsson, "I will not leave my girl, even if it should cost me my head."
"Here stand three saddled horses, be quick and mount."
"Up, you sweetest of all the nuns in Franconia, up in the saddle!" and the captain hastily swung the trembling Ketchen before him on the horse's back. They all galloped away into the darkness. But behind them raged tumult and uproar, the alarm bells sounding in all the turrets, and the whole of Würzburg wondering greatly what could have happened on Xmas eve itself.
CHAPTER IV.
DUKE BERNHARD AND BERTEL.
Three months after the events related in the preceding chapter we find Lieutenant Bertel one day in one of the rooms at the martial court, which Duke Bernhard of Weimar kept sometimes at Kassel and sometimes at Nassau, or wherever the duties of the war compelled him to go.
It was a spring day in March, 1633. Officers came and departed, orderlies hastened in all directions; Duke Bernhard had the greatest share of the south and west of Germany to look after, and the times were most anxious.
After having waited a good while, the young officer was conducted to the duke. The latter looked up irritably from his maps and papers, and seemed to wait to be spoken to; but Bertel remained silent.
"Who are you?" asked the duke in sharp, harsh tones.
"Gustaf Bertel, Lieutenant in his Royal Majesty's Finnish cavalry."
"What do you want?"
The young man coloured up and remained silent. The duke noticed this and looked at him with a discontented air.
"I understand," the latter said at last, "you have as usual been fighting with the German officers about the girls. I will not allow this sort of thing. A soldier's sword should be reserved for his country's enemies."
"I have not been fighting, your highness."
"All the worse. You came to ask for a furlough to go to Finland. I refuse it to you. I want all my men here. You will stay, Lieutenant. Good-bye!"
"I do not come to ask for a furlough."
"Well, What the devil do you want? Can you not speak out? Be short and quick! Leave the clergy to say prayers, and the girls to blush."
"Your highness has received from his Majesty, the late king, a ring..."
"I cannot remember it."
"... which his Majesty asked your highness to give to an officer in his life-guards."
The duke passed his hand over his high forehead.
"That officer is dead," he said.
"I am that officer, your highness. I was wounded at Lützen, and shortly after taken prisoner by the Imperialists."
Duke Bernhard beckoned Bertel to come nearer, and gave him a searching look; he seemed satisfied with his examination.
"Close the door," he said, "and sit down by my side."
Bertel obeyed. His cheeks were burning with anxiety.
"Young man," said the duke, "you carry on your forehead the marks of your origin, and I ask for no further evidence. Your mother is a peasant's daughter of Storkyro, in Finland, and her name is Emerentia Aronsdotter Bertila."
"No, your highness, the person you speak of is my elder sister, born of my father's first marriage. I have never seen my mother."
The duke looked at him with surprise.
"Very well," said he doubtfully, as he looked among some papers in his portfolio, "we will now speak of this sister of yours, Emerentia Aronsdotter. Her father had performed great services for Carl IX., and he was urged to ask a favour. He asked to be allowed to send his only daughter, then his only child, to Stockholm, to be educated with the young ladies of rank at the Court."
"I know very little about this."
"At thirteen years of age the peasant girl was sent to Stockholm, where her father's vanity and wealth procured her an abode, appearance, and education, far above her station. He was consumed with ambition, and as he himself could not gain a noble crest, he relied upon his daughter's high birth on her mother's side. Bertila's first wife was an orphan of the noble family Stjernkors, deprived of her inheritance by the war, and then rejected by her proud family on account of her marriage with the rich peasant Bertila."
"This is all unknown to me."
"The young Emerentia suffered a great deal in Stockholm from the envy and contempt of her aristocratic companions; for many of them were poorer than herself, and could not endure a plebeian at their side as an equal.
"But her beauty was as extraordinary as her wisdom and goodness. Within two years she had acquired the habits of the upper classes, whilst preserving the rustic simplicity of her heart. This wonderful combination of mental and physical graces reminded old persons of a lovely picture of their youthful days—Karin Mansdotter."
As he said these words, the duke closely watched the young officer; but Bertel did not betray any agitation, and remained silent. All this was something new and incomprehensible to him.
"Very well," continued the duke after a pause. "This beauty did not long remain unnoticed. A very young man of high birth soon fell in love with the beautiful maiden, then only fifteen years old, and she returned his affection with the whole devotion of a first love. This attachment soon became known to those who surrounded the noble youth; state policy was endangered, and the nobility were offended by the distinction thus conferred on a girl of low birth. They resolved to marry the maiden to an officer of the same origin as herself, who had distinguished himself in the Danish War. This intention came to the ears of the young people. Poor children! they were so young; he seventeen, she fifteen, both inexperienced and in love. Shortly after, the youth was sent to the war in Poland. The young girl's marriage came to nothing, and she was sent back by the offended nobility in disgrace to her cabin in Finland. Do you wish to hear any more, Lieutenant Bertel?"
"I do not understand, your highness, what this account of my sister's life has to do with..."
"... the ring you ask for. Patience. When the young man had a secret meeting with his beloved for the last time, just before his departure, she gave him a ring, whose earlier history I do not know, but which was probably made by a Finnish sorcerer, and had all the qualities of a talisman. She conjured her lover to always wear this ring on his finger, in war and danger, as he would thus become invulnerable. Twice this warning was forgotten, once at Dirschau..."
"Great God!"
"... the second time at Lützen."
Bertel's emotions were of such a violent nature that all the blood left his cheeks, and he sat pale as a marble statue.
"Young man, you now know part of what you ought to know, but you do not know all. We have spoken of your sister. We will now speak of yourself. It was his Majesty's intention to offer you a nobleman's coat of arms, and which you with your good sword have so well deserved. But old Aron Bertila, actuated by his hatred for the nobility had asked as a favour that the king would give you an opportunity to gain any other distinction than that one. The king could not refuse this request from a father, and therefore you are still a commoner by name. But I, who am not bound by any promise to your father, will offer you, young man, that which has hitherto been denied you: a knight's spur and coat of arms."
"Your highness ... this favour makes me wonder and mute; how have I deserved it?"
Duke Bernhard smiled with a strange expression.
"How, my friend? you have only half understood me."
Bertel remained silent.
"Well, with or without your knowledge and will, my friend, I already regard you as a nobleman. We will speak more about it another time. Your ring ... Ah! I have forgotten it. Do you remember what it was like?"
The duke now searched zealously in his portfolio. "They say that the king wore a copper ring, and on the inside of it magic signs were engraved, and the letters R.R.R."
"It is possible that I have mislaid it, for I cannot find it. And who the devil has time to think of such childish things? The ring must have been stolen from my private casket. If I find it again I will give it to you, and if not, you know that which is worth more. Go, young man, and be worthy of my confidence and the great king's memory. No one is to know what I have told you. Farewell; we will see each other again."
CHAPTER V.
LOVE AND HATE AGREE.
Again we fly from Germany's spring back to the North's winter. Before we go further on the bloody path of the Thirty Years' War, we will pay a visit to two of the chief personages of this narrative high up in East Bothnia.
It was about Advent time, 1632. A violent storm with heavy snow beat against the old ramparts of Korsholm, and drove the waves of the Baltic against the ice-covered shores. All navigation for the year had ceased. The newly conscripted soldiers had gone to Stralsund by way of Stockholm, at the end of July, and were impatiently waiting for news from the war. Then it happened in the middle of November that a rumour was spread about the country of the king's death. Such reports fly through the air, one does not know how or where they come from. Great misfortunes are known at a distance as presentiments, just as an earthquake far beyond its own circle causes a qualm in the mind. But this report had more than once been spread and refuted. The people relied upon King Gustaf Adolf's good fortune, and when corroboration did not arrive, the whole matter was forgotten, all thinking it was a false story.
It is an ordinary fact in life that, as we hate those to whom we have occasioned a wrong, so we feel well disposed towards persons whom we have had the opportunity of serving. Lady Marta of Korsholm was not a little proud of her brave defence against the drunken soldiers, and did not hesitate to attribute the preservation of the castle to the heroism she had then displayed. That she had saved Regina's life gave the latter great importance in her eyes; and neither could she refuse her admiration for the courage and self-sacrifice which the young girl had shown on the same occasion. The high-born prisoner was her pride; and she did not omit to watch her steps like an Argus; but she gave Regina a larger room, let her have old Dorthe again as a waiting woman, and provided her with an abundance of good food. Regina also was less proud and cold, she would sometimes answer Lady Marta with a word or a nod; but of all the nice things that were offered her, the choice meats, the strong beer, etc., she took little or nothing; she had sunk apparently into a state of indifference, told her beads devoutly, but in other respects let one day pass as another.
Lady Marta held the deep conviction that her prisoner, if not precisely the Roman Emperor's own daughter, was, nevertheless, a princess of the highest birth. She therefore hit upon the unlucky idea of trying to convert so distinguished a person from her papistical heresy, on the supposition that she would thereby accomplish something very remarkable when the war was ended and Regina was exchanged. Regina thus became exposed to the same proselytizing attempts which she herself had undertaken with the great Gustaf Adolf; but Lady Marta's were not so delicate or refined in their application as her own. She overwhelmed the poor girl with Lutheran sermons, psalm-books, and tracts, also often made long speeches interspersed with proverbs, and when this was without avail, she sent the castle chaplain to preach to the prisoner. Of course all this occurred to deaf ears. Regina was sufficiently firm in her faith to listen with patience, but she suffered from it; her stay at Korsholm became more unbearable every day, and who can blame her, if with secret longings she sighed for the day when she could regain her freedom.
Dorthe, on the contrary, flamed up every time the heretic preacher or the plucky old lady began their sermons, and rattled through a whole string of prayers and maledictions both in Latin and Low German, the result generally being that she was shut up for two or three days in the dungeon of the castle, until her longing for her lady's company once more made her tractable.
And so passed a half-year of Lady Regina's captivity.
A better product of Lady Marta's goodwill was, that Regina was allowed to embroider, and fine materials were ordered for her in the autumn from Stockholm. Thus it became possible for her to work a large piece of silk with the Virgin Mary and the infant Christ in silver and gold. Lady Marta in her innocence considered the work a sacrament cloth, which Regina might present to Vasa church, as a proof of her change of sentiments. A warrior's eyes, on the other hand, would have discerned in it an intended flag, a Catholic banner, which the imprisoned girl was quietly preparing in expectation of the day when her work would wave at the head of the Catholic hosts.
Still Lady Marta was not quite satisfied with the Holy Virgin's image, which seemed to her surrounded by too large a halo to be truly Lutheran. She therefore considered how she could procure her prisoner a more suitable occupation. It happened now and then that the daughter of the Storkyro peasant king, Meri, when she was in town, made an errand to Korsholm, and in order to gain the favour of the lady of the castle, presented her with several skeins of the finest and silkiest linen floss, which no one in the whole vicinity could spin as well as Meri. Lady Marta consequently got the idea one fine day to teach her prisoner to spin, and to give her Meri as a teacher in this art. Meri on her part desired nothing better. The near connection in which the imprisoned lady had stood to the king, gave her an irresistible interest in Meri's eyes. She wished to hear something about him—the hero, the king, the great, never-to-be-forgotten man, who stood before her mind's eye with more than earthly lustre. She wished to know what he had said, what he had done, what he had loved and hated on earth; she wished for once to feel herself transported by his glory, and then to die herself—forgotten. Poor Meri!
So Meri made her second acquaintance with Lady Regina in the castle. She was received at first with coldness and indifference, and her spinning scarcely pleased the proud young lady. But gradually her submissive mild demeanour won Regina's goodwill, and a captive's natural desire to communicate with beings outside the prison walls finally made Regina more open.
They spun very little, it is true, but they talked together like mistress and maid, especially during the days when Dorthe was shut up on account of her wicked tongue, and it was quite opportune that Meri recollected some German from more brilliant days. Meri knew how to constantly lead the conversation on to the subject of the king, and she soon divined Regina's enthusiastic love. But Regina was very far from having any idea of Meri's earlier experiences; she ascribed her questions to the natural curiosity which such high personages always excite in the minds of the common people. Sometimes she seemed astonished at the delicacy and nobleness of the simple peasant woman's expressions and views. There were moments when Meri's personality appeared to her as an enigma full of contradictions, and then she asked herself whether she ought not to consider this woman as a spy. But the next instant she repented this thought; and when the spinner looked at her with her clear, mild, penetrating gaze, then there was something which said to Regina's heart, this woman does not dissemble.