The king's ring

CHAPTER VI.

THE BATTLE OF NÖRDLINGEN.

Until now the Swedish lion, through the wisdom and valour of Gustaf Adolf, and of the leaders and men trained under him, had hastened from victory to victory, and overthrown all his opponents. At last a day of misfortune dawned; in a great battle the Swedish arms suffered a terrible defeat.

The brilliant Wallenstein had died the death of a traitor at Eger; now Gallas, the destroyer, overran central Germany, captured Regensburg, and advanced against the free city of Nördlingen, in Schwaben; Duke Bernhard and Gustaf Horn hurried with the Swedish army to its rescue. They had, however, but 17,000 men, whilst Gallas had 33,000.

"We will attack," said the duke.

"Let us wait," said Horn.

They expected 5,000 men as a reinforcement, and fourteen days passed. Then Nördlingen came to sore straits, and began to light beacon fires on the walls at night. Again the duke wished to attack; again Horn preferred to entrench and assist the city without battle. Then they called this brave soul a cowardly man; and, indignant, but with dark presentiments, he resolved to fight. Repeated victories had made the Swedes over-confident, and they entered the conflict assured of success beforehand.

The battle took place on the 26th of August, 1634. Outside Nördlingen is a height called Arensberg, and between it and the town a smaller one. Upon the last the Imperialists had raised three redoubts.

The Swedish army stood on Arensberg, Horn on the right and the duke on the left wing. The battle-cry was the same as at Breitenfeld and Lützen: God with us!

Early in the morning a heavy rain fell. Once more the wise Horn wished to wait, but the duke, who held the supreme command, ordered an advance. Horn obeyed, and the right wing marched down the valley between the two heights. The impatience of the cavalry hastened the conflict, which resulted unfavourably even in the very beginning. The cannon of the Imperialists in the redoubts made great gaps in the lines of the cavalry, and the enemy's superiority made them hesitate. Horn sent two brigades to storm the middle redoubt. They captured it and pursued the enemy. Piccolomini checked their course and drove them back to the redoubt. There the powder happened to take fire. With a terrific explosion the earthwork flew into the air, and several hundreds of Swedes and Finns with it. This was the first calamity.

Upon this position, however, depended the victory. For a few moments the spot stood empty; Piccolomini's soldiers, alarmed by the report and destruction, could not be induced to advance and occupy it. At last they did so. Horn asked for help in order to expel them. The duke sent the young Bohemian, Thurn, with the yellow regiment. He made a mistake, attacked the wrong redoubt, and engaged with a greatly superior force. Seventeen times he charged the enemy, and as often was he repulsed. In vain did Horn try to storm the height. Thurn's error was the second calamity.

On the left wing the duke had begun the conflict against the artillery and cavalry. At the first encounter the Imperialists were hurled back, and the duke's German cavalry broke their ranks and pursued the enemy. But Tilly's spirit seemed to-day to give the Imperialists courage. They advanced their ordered and superior troops against the assailants, checked them, and drove them back with loss. The duke tried to get reinforcements into Nördlingen, but failed. In vain did he drive Gallas before him. New masses of the enemy constantly opposed him, and in his rear the Croats plundered his baggage-wagons.

It was about noon. Horn's troops had been under fire for eight consecutive hours, and were worn out with fatigue. With every hour their hopes of victory grew less and less, but their unflinching, indomitable courage remained the same. They had observed the disorder in the left wing. They themselves were in a desperate plight down in the valley, where Piccolomini's bullets fell every moment into the underbush, and sprinkled the fallen branches with blood. Then Horn proposed to withdraw to Arensberg, and the duke at last consented. He considered the matter, however, for nearly two hours; but these two hours he would afterwards have been glad to purchase with half a lifetime.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Horn made the Finnish cavalry make a feigned attack, so as to cover the retreat, and began like a prudent general to withdraw in good order. The Imperialists perceiving his intention, pressed on with double force. They began to hope, what they had not dared to entertain before, that even the Swedes might be conquered, and Piccolomini's stumpy figure flew through the ranks, urging his men to bear down with their collected forces upon the Swedes' exposed flanks, and totally crush them.

In the valley behind the Swedes and between the two heights flowed a stream with high banks, and swollen by the abundant rains. At the little village of Hirnheim, the stream was spanned by a single bridge, and this point Horn had carefully guarded in order to secure the retreat. The artillery passed first over the bridge, and were safe on Arensberg. The first lines of Horn's wing had also reached the village, and the rest were only a short distance from it, when a new calamity occurred, the third and the worst on this most disastrous day. Duke Bernhard had undertaken to detain the enemy with his left wing until Horn and his men had crossed the stream. But he soon discovered that he had consulted valour rather than prudence. The enemy concentrated their forces, and increased their terrible attacks. Three times De Werth charged the duke's cavalry; three times was he repulsed. The fourth time, however, he broke through the duke's lines. In vain the latter sent a squadron to take him in flank. Mad with rage, the duke snatched his gold-embroidered banner from an ensign's hand, and followed by his bravest men, rushed into the midst of the enemy. It was all useless. His best men were slain, his horse shot under him, and the banner wrenched from his hand; wounded and overpowered he was nearly taken prisoner, when a young officer at his side lent him his horse, and he escaped with great difficulty. His infantry had already been routed, being unable to support the attacks of the cavalry on the open plain; and when the wounded leader galloped away, his whole wing followed in the utmost disorder, convinced that all was lost.

At that moment, Horn's infantry crossed the narrow bridge. Then confused and loud cries arose, that the battle was lost, and the enemy close upon them. First single horsemen, then whole troops of the duke's cavalry rushed along the road to the bridge, and rode amongst the infantry, trampling some under their horses' hoofs, and throwing the rest into fearful confusion. The efforts of Horn and his nearest officers to stay the frantic rout were fruitless. On the narrow bridge everything was mixed pell-mell—men, horses, wagons, dead, and wounded; and finally the duke's whole wing rushed to this fatal spot. Like a storm Piccolomini pressed upon the rear of the fugitives; he sent some light guns up on the heights, where they played with terrible effect on the retreating mass; every ball cut long lanes through it. Then the Croats fell upon the rout, and as friend and foe became mixed together, the artillery fire had to cease. The long lances and swords of the Imperial cavalry made great slaughter. All the Swedes and Finns seemed doomed to destruction.

Gustaf Horn, the wise and courageous Finnish general, whom Gustaf Adolf called "his right hand," was now the last to retain self-possession and courage at this terrible crisis. With the remains of three regiments he had taken up a position by the bridge, and the fugitives fled past him without drawing his force into the current. They implored him to save himself; but his stubborn, Finnish will refused to listen to these appeals, and he stayed where he was. For a time the pursuit was checked, the only thing that Horn hoped to gain by his intrepid resistance. Gallas sent one of his best Spanish brigades to oust him. Horn drove them back with loss. The victorious De Werth fell upon him with his dragoons. The result was the same. The enemy now concentrated their forces, and Horn was attacked on three sides at once. They offered him his life if he would surrender. He replied with a sword-thrust, and his men gave the same response. Not one would ask for quarter. At last, when nearly all those near him had fallen, he was overwhelmed by numbers and taken prisoner. Then the few surviving heroes surrendered.

When the Swedish army in full flight rushed over Arensberg, Duke Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar tore his hair, and exclaimed that he was a fool, and Horn a wise man. Later on the duke consoled himself with Elsas, but that day he had reason to repent of his rashness. Six thousand Swedes, Finns, and Germans covered the blood-stained heights of Nordlingen; 6,000 were taken prisoners, and amongst them the two Finns, Horn and Wittenberg, who were well treated by the enemy. Of the other 10,000, half were wounded, and most of the remaining mercenaries deserted. The army had lost 4,000 baggage-wagons, 300 banners, and all their artillery. A miserable remnant made its way to Mentz, plundering and pillaging as it fled, and suffering from extreme want.

More disastrous to Sweden than the loss of these 12,000 men was the damage to its prestige, and the enemy's regained belief in victory. The battle of Nordlingen became the turning point in the Thirty Years' War, and excited both joy and consternation. throughout Europe, until Baner's genius and victories restored their lost lustre to the Swedish arms once more.

Amongst those who fought at Horn's side to the last, was our old friend, Captain Larsson. The sturdy little captain had on this occasion no time to open his talkative mouth; he perspired profusely from the heat, and had fought since dawn; yet he had not received the least scratch upon his fleshy person. Let it be said in his praise, that at Nordlingen he thought of neither Rhine wine or Bavarian nuns, but honestly plied his weapons as well as possible. Nevertheless, we will not assert that he then cut down thirty Imperialists with his trusty sword, as he afterwards declared in good faith.

He was taken prisoner with Horn; but it was not his capture that most provoked the captain, but the terrible vexation he experienced on seeing the Croats afterwards empty at their leisure the Swedish stock of wine which they had captured with the baggage-wagons.

Another of our friends, Lieutenant Bertel, fought at the duke's side all day, and was the one who offered him his horse. We shall see, by-and-by, that the duke did not forget this service. Bertel, like Larsson, was hotly engaged in the battle, but, less fortunate than the latter, received several wounds, and was finally borne along in the stream of fugitives to Arensberg. Almost without knowing how, he found himself the next day far from the battlefield, and proceeded with the remnant of the duke's army to Mentz.

CHAPTER VII.

THE LOST SON.

It is Epiphany, in 1635, thus in mid-winter. In Aron Bertila's "stuga,"* at Storkyro, a large fire of pine logs crackled on the spacious hearth, for at that time heavy forests still grew around the fertile fields. Outside rages a snow-storm, with a heavy blast; the wolves howl on the ice of the stream; the famished lynx prowls around to find shelter. It is Twelfth-day evening, an hour or two after twilight. The Storkyro peasant king sits in his high-backed chair, at a short distance from the hearth, listening with scattered thoughts to his daughter Meri, who by the firelight reads aloud a chapter of Agricola's Finnish New Testament, for at that period the whole Bible had not been translated into the Finnish tongue. Bertila has grown very old since we last met him, then still vigorous in his old age. The great ideas that constantly revolve in his bald head give him no peace, and yet these plans are now completely shattered by the king's death, like fragments from a shipwreck floating around on the stormy billows of a dark sea. Strong souls like his generally succumb only by destroying themselves. All the changes and misfortunes of his turbulent life had not been able to break his iron will; but grief over a ruined hope, the vain attempt to reconstruct the vanished castles in the air, and the sorrow of seeing his own children themselves tear down his work, all this gnawed like a vulture upon his inner life. A single thought had made him twenty years older in two years, and this idea was presumptuous even to madness.

* A large room, filling the entire house space with the exception of one or two small chambers. Sleeping bunks are arranged round the walls. The later peasants' houses have more rooms.

"Why is not one of my own family at this moment King of Sweden?" Thus it ran.

At times Meri raises her mild blue eyes from the Holy Book and regards her old father with anxious looks. She, too, looks older; the quiet sorrow lies like the autumn over green groves; it neither breaks or kills, but makes the fresh leaves wither on the tree of life. Meri's glance is full of peace and submission. The thought that shines forth from her soul like a sun at its setting, is none other than this:

"Beyond the grave I shall again meet the joy of my heart, and then he will no longer wear an earthly crown."

Near her, to the left, sits old Larsson, short and stout like his jovial son. His good-natured, hearty face has for a time assumed a more solemn expression, as he listens to the reading of the sacred book. His hands are folded as in prayer, and now and then he stirs the fire a little, with friendly attention, so that Meri can see better.

Behind him in a devotional attitude sit some of the field hands; and this group, illuminated by the reflection of the fire, is completed by a purring grey cat, and a large shaggy watch-dog, curled up under Meri's feet, to which he seems proud to serve as a footstool.

When Meri in her reading came to the place in Luke, where it speaks of the Prodigal Son, old Bertila's eyes began to glitter with a sinister light.

"The reprobate!" he muttered to himself. "To waste one's inheritance, that is nothing! But to forget one's old father ... by God, that is shameful!"

Meri read until she came to the Prodigal Son's repentance: "And he arose and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him."

"What a fool of a father!" again muttered Aron Bertila to himself. "He ought to have bound him with cords, beaten him with rods, and then driven him away from his house back to the riotous living and the empty wine-cups!"

"Father!" whispered Meri reproachfully. "Be merciful, as our Heavenly Father is merciful, and takes the lost children to His arms."

"And if your son ever returns..." began Larsson in the same tone. But Bertila stopped him.

"Hold your tongues, and don't trouble yourselves about me. I have no longer any son ... who falls repentant at my feet," he added directly, when he saw two large, clear pearls glistening in Meri's eyelashes.

She continued: "And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son."

"Stop reading that!" burst out the old man, in a bad temper. "See that my bed is in order, and let the folks go to sleep; it is now late."

At this moment horses' hoofs were heard outside on the creaking snow. This unusual occurrence on the evening of a sacred day made Larsson go to the low window, and breathe on the frost-covered pane, so as to look out into the storm. A sleigh, drawn by two horses, worked its way through the snow-drifts and drove into the yard. Two men in sheep-skin cloaks jumped out.

Seized with a sudden intuition, Larsson hurried out to meet the travellers, and quick as lightning Meri followed him. The door swung to behind them, and there was a moment's delay before it opened again.

But now a young man in a soldier's garb entered with bowed head, threw aside his plumed hat, white with snow, and going straight to old Bertila, knelt down, and bent his beautiful curly head still lower, as he said:

"Father, I am here, and ask your blessing!"

And behind him stood Meri and old Larsson, both with clasped hands, and raising their pleading eyes to the stern old man, with the same words:

"Father, here is thy son, give him thy blessing!"

For a brief moment Bertila struggled with himself, his lips slightly trembled, and his hand was unconsciously stretched out, as if to lift up the young man at his feet. But soon his bald head rose higher, his hand drew back, his keen eyes flashed darker than ever, and his lips trembled no more.

"Go!" said he, short and sharp; "go, you reprobate boy, back to your brother noblemen, and your sisters, the fine ladies. What seek you in the plain peasant's 'stuga,' which you despise? Go! I have no longer a son!"

But the youth went not.

"Do not be angry, my father," he said, "if in my youthful ambition I have at any time violated your commands. Who sent me out amongst the great and illustrious ones of the earth, to win fame and honour? Who bade me go to the war to ennoble my peasant name with great deeds? Who exposed me to the temptation of all the brilliant examples which surrounded the king? You, and only you, my father; and now you thrust away your son, who for your sake twice refused a patent of nobility."

"You!" exclaimed the old man with foaming rage. "You renounce a patent of nobility, you, who have blushed for your peasant name and taken another which would look more imposing? No, on your knees have you begged for a coat of arms. What do I know about its being offered you; what do I care. I only know that since your earliest childhood I have tried to implant in your soul, recreant, that there are no other rightful powers than the king and people, that all who place themselves between, whether they bear the name of aristocrats, ecclesiastics, or what not, are monstrosities, a ruin, a curse to State and country ... all this have I tried to teach you, and the fruit of my teachings has been that you have smuggled yourself among this nobility, which I hate and despise, that you have coveted its empty titles, paraded with its extravagant display, imbibed its prejudices, and now you stand here, in your father's house, with a lie on your lips, and aristocratic vanity in your heart. Go, degenerate son! Aron Bertila is what he has always been—a peasant! He curses and rejects you, apostate!"

With these words the old man turned away, rose and went with a firm step and a high head into the little bed-chamber, leaving Bertel still on his knees in the same place.

"Hear me, father, father!" cried Bertel after him, as he quickly unbuttoned his coat and took out a folded paper; "this paper I have intended to tear to pieces at your feet!"

But the old father did not hear him; the paper fell to the ground, and when Larsson, a moment later, unfolded and read it, he saw it contained a diploma from the Regency in Stockholm, conferring upon Gustaf Bertel, captain of horse in the "life-guards," a patent of nobility, and a coat of arms with the name of Bertelsköld* at Duke Bernhard of Weimar's solicitation.

* Bertila is a Finnish peasant name. Bertel is a burgher name. Bertelsköld is a noble name, indicated by the termination sköld, always a sign of nobility in Sweden and Finland.

While all in the "stuga" were still perfectly stupefied by old Bertila's conduct, three of Fru Marta's soldiers from Korsholm entered in great haste.

"Hullo, boys!" they exclaimed to the hands, "have you seen her? Here is something that will pay. Two hundred silver thalers reward to him who seizes and brings back, alive or dead, Lady Regina von Emmeritz, state prisoner at Korsholm."

At the sound of this name Bertel was aroused from his stupefying grief, sprang up, and seized the speaker by the collar.

"Wretch, what did you say?" he exclaimed.

"Ho, ho, if you please! Be a little more careful when you speak to the people of the Royal Majesty and the Crown. I tell you that the German traitress, the papistical sorceress, Lady von Emmeritz, succeeded in escaping last night from Korsholm castle, and that he who does not help to catch her is a traitor and a..."

The man had no time to finish his speech, before a blow from Bertel's strong arm stretched him at full-length on the floor.

"Ha, my father, you have wished it!" cried the young man, and in a flash was outside the door and in his sleigh, which at the next moment was heard driving off through the raging tempest.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FUGITIVE LADY.

We will now see what has become of Lady Regina, and what has induced her to exchange Fru Marta's tender care for the desperate adventure of fleeing in the middle of winter, through a strange country filled with desolate tracts, where she was profoundly ignorant of the roads and paths, and did not even know how to make herself understood in the language of the people.

We must not overlook the fact that our story is laid in a period when Catholicism and Lutheranism were in the sharpest conflict; when Lutheranism, heated by the violent opposition, was as little inclined to religious tolerance as Catholicism itself. Fru Marta had once for all been possessed by the idea that she was in duty bound to convert Lady Regina to the Lutheran faith, and from this well-meant but futile enterprise, no one could dissuade her. She therefore persisted, in and out of season, to torment the poor girl with her views; sometimes with books, sometimes with exhortations, and at others with persuasions and threats, or promises of freedom; and when Regina refused to read the books, or listen to the preaching, the zealous old lady had prayers read in her prisoner's room every morning and evening, as well as services on Sundays. All these means were thrown away on what Fru Marta considered Regina's stubbornness. The more the former exerted herself, the calmer, colder, and more unyielding became her captive. Regina naturally looked upon herself as a martyr for her faith, and suffered every humiliation with apparent fortitude for the sake of the holy cause.

But within the young girl's veins fermented the hot southern blood, and it was with great difficulty that she could always appear calm on the surface. There were times when Regina would have blown up the whole of Korsholm, if it had been in her power. But the old granite walls defied her silent rage, and flight finally became her only method of escape from the persecution. Night and day she pondered over it; and at last she discovered a means of eluding Fru Marta's vigilance.

In Kajaneborg castle was then confined the celebrated and unfortunate Johannes Messenius, who in his youth had been educated by the Jesuits in Braunsberg, and chosen by them to become the apostle of Catholicism in Sweden. Imprisoned for his lampoons and conspiracies in the interest of Sigismund's party, he had now for nineteen years, under hard treatment, sat there like a mole in his hole, when the report of his learning, his misfortunes, and his Popish sentiments reached Lady Regina in her prison. From this moment some bold plans began to ferment in the young girl's mind.

One day, about New Year's time, a wandering German quack came to Korsholm with his medicine-chest on his back, just like peddling Jews at a later date.* Such doctors and apothecaries combined in one individual did a lucrative business at the expense of the common people, and were frequently consulted even by the upper classes, for in the whole country there was not a single regular physician, and only one apothecary in Abo; and even this one was not well stocked. No wonder, then, that our man found enough to do, even at Korsholm, what with pains, stomach-aches, and gout; nay, Fru Marta, who, every time she had thrashed her male servants, complained of colic and shortness of breath, received the foreign doctor with very good will. In a few days the latter was quite at home, and thus it fell out that he was called in to prescribe for Lady Regina, who was suffering from a severe headache.

* It was peculiar that the surgeon always spoke of quacks with great contempt, although he had himself travelled about with a medicine chest on his back.

This time, Fru Marta's usual perspicacity deserted her. Two days afterwards the young lady, old Dorthe, and the quack doctor were all missing. A grating which had been broken off from the outside, and a rope ladder, made it certain that the quack had been instrumental in procuring for the prisoner a free passage over wall and ramparts. Fru Marta forgot both her colic and shortness of breath, from sheer amazement and anger, stirred up the castle and the town, and immediately dispatched her soldiers in all directions to capture the fugitives. It will soon be seen how far she succeeded.

Let us now return for a moment to Bertel, whom we find driving ahead in the stormy night, attended by the faithful Pekka, and with a heart full of the most conflicting feelings. The faithful attendant could not understand the enormous folly of leaving a cheerful fireside and good wholesome porridge, for snow-drifts and wolves in the wild woods, as soon as they had arrived. Neither did Bertel comprehend it himself. On returning to the north, by way of Tornel, on a furlough from Germany, while the army lay in winter quarters, he had hurried through Storkyro to Vasa, which was his secret destination. And now he had met in one place a father's anger, and in the other the empty walls, where she had been, but was no longer. Regina had disappeared without leaving a trace.

"Where shall I drive?" asked Pekka monotonously and gruffly, when they entered the broad highway.

"Wherever you like," answered his master just as testily.

Pekka turned his horses towards Vasa, about twenty miles away. Bertel noticed this.

"Ass!" he cried, "have I not ordered you to drive north?"

"North!" repeated Pekka mechanically, and with a heavy sigh turned his horses towards Ny-Karleby, to which town it was quite forty miles. At that time they had no regular stations, with horses provided for the accommodation of travellers. But there were farms at intervals, where all who travelled on Government business could reckon on finding horses, while other travellers were obliged to bargain as best they could.

The parsonages were the usual stopping-places for the night, and always had a room in order in an out-building, where beds of straw and a table with cold food stood hospitably prepared for travellers.

It was, therefore, quite natural that Pekka, with his mind still full of the porridge-kettle, ventured to ask as a further question whether they would spend the night at Wort parsonage.

"Drive to Ylihärmä," answered the captain of horse, provoked, and wrapping himself up in his long sheepskin cloak, for the night wind was icy cold.

"The devil take me if I understand the pranks of these noblemen!" murmured Pekka to himself, as he turned off into the narrow village road, which from Storkyro leads northward towards Lappo parish.

Here the snow had drifted several feet high between the fences, and the travellers could only advance step by step. After an hour's efforts the horses were completely worn out, and stopped every few paces.

Bertel, absorbed in his thoughts, was scarcely conscious of it. They had left Kyro's wide plains behind them, and were now in the midst of Lappo's thick woods. The silence of the wilderness, interrupted by the wailing of the storm, surrounded the travellers on all sides, and as far as the eye could reach there were no traces of human habitations.

Pekka had for a time walked by the side of the sleigh, and with his broad shoulders lifted it up again, when it sank so deep in the snow that the horses' strength was insufficient to move it from the spot.

Finally his sinewy arms also refused their services, and the sleigh stopped right in the midst of a mountain of snow.

"Well!" exclaimed Bertel impatiently, "what is the matter?"

"Nothing," replied Pekka stolidly, "except that we need neither priest nor undertaker to find us a grave."

"How far is it from here to the nearest farm?"

"Between six and seven miles, I think."

"Do you not see something resembling a light, far away there in the woods?"

"Yes, yes, it looks like it..."

"Unharness the horses and let us ride there."

"No, dear master, it is of no use; these woods have been fearfully haunted, that I know of old, ever since the peasants beat the bailiff to death during the Club War, and burned his house and his innocent children."

"Nonsense! I tell you that we will ride there."

"It is all the same to me."

In a few moments the horses were taken out of the traces, and the two travellers pushed on in the direction of the light, which sometimes disappeared and then again shone between the snow-covered pines.

"But tell me, Pekka," resumed Bertel, "what is the story about this wilderness? I remember that I often heard them speak of it in my childhood."

"Yes, yes, your mother was born here."

"There used to be quite a little colony in this wood."

"Yes, indeed, it was many hundreds of acres in extent. The bailiffs had laid it all out for miles, as far back as Gustaf Vasa's time; and here many hundreds of tons of grain have been grown, so father has told me; and the noble bailiff had built a fine house here, and lived like a prince in the wilderness; and then, as I told you, the peasants came and set fire to the place in the night-time, destroying both people and cattle, with the exception of the young 'Lady,' whom your father saved and afterwards took for his wife. It is very certain that he had a finger in that pie."

"And so the farm was never built up again."

"You may depend upon it that the fields were a fat slice, and so there were plenty of people ready to move here and bid defiance to the devil. But the old Evil One was too artful for them; he began to make such a rumpus here with supernatural performances day and night, so that no one was sure of his life, much less of his sinful soul. If they sat in their homes, the chairs were pulled from under them, and the porridge-bowl rolled of its own accord down on the floor; the stones were torn from the walls and were showered around people's ears. If they went out in the woods they were no better off; they had to keep a sharp look-out that the trees did not come crashing down upon their heads, although the weather might be perfectly quiet, and that the ground did not open under their feet, and draw them down into a bottomless pit. And when I think that we are now travelling through the same woods ... Oh, oh, I am sinking..."

"You fool, it is only the pure snow!—and then you say people could not stand it any longer?"

"They all moved away, so that there was not even a cat left, except an old cottager, but I suppose he died long ago. The whole settlement was again deserted, the ditches filled up, the fields became covered with moss, and the pine-woods spread over the former grain lands. It is now forty years since that time..."

And Pekka, who was not in the habit of making long speeches, seemed astonished at his own loquacity, and came to a sudden stop as he reigned in his horse.

"What is it now?" asked Bertel impatiently.

"I don't see a glimpse of the light."

"Neither do I. It is hidden by the trees."

"No, dear master, it is not concealed by the trees; it has sunk into the earth after decoying us here into the depths of the forest. Did not I tell you that it would be so? We shall never get out of this alive."

"For the devil's sake ride on and do not stop, else both man and beast will stiffen with the cold. It seems to me I see something like a hut over there."

"Fine hut; it is nothing but a granite rock with grey sides, from which the wind has blown away the snow. It is all over with us."

"Hold your tongue, and ride on! Here we have an open space with young woods; I caught a glimpse of something there between the snow-drifts."

"All the saints be with us! We are now on the very spot where the house stood. Do you not see the old fire-place sticking out through the snow? Not a step farther, master!"

"I am not mistaken ... it is the hut."

Bertel and his companion found themselves on very rough ground, where the horses stumbled at every step over large stones, or sank into great hollows covered with snow. Deep snow-drifts and fallen trees made it worse still, as if to obstruct the passage to a dilapidated peasant's hut, which by design or chance was hidden behind two spreading firs, with branches hanging to the ground. The only window of the hut had a shutter, which was at one moment blown open by the wind and then slammed to again, thus causing the light within to show itself and disappear by turns.

Bertel dismounted from his horse, tied it to a branch of the fir, and approached the window to throw a glance inside. A secret hope gave wings to his feet. He took it for granted that unless the fugitives had gone in a northerly direction, they could not have followed the main highway, but had sought to escape their pursuers on the side roads. But in this part of the plain of East Bothnia hundreds of small roads crossed each other at that time, all leading to the new settlements in the East. Who told him that the fugitives would select just this road?

Still his heart beat faster when he approached the window. Of the four small panes two were of horn, which was formerly used in default of glass; one of them was broken and stopped up with moss; only the fourth was of glass, but so covered with ice and snow that at first nothing could be seen. Bertel breathed on the glass, but found to his vexation that the frost on the inside defied his curiosity. Just then his horse neighed.

It seemed ridiculous to Bertel to stand spying into a poor peasant's hut. He was already on the point of knocking at the door, when at that instant a shadow obscured the light, and the frost on the inside of the glass was quickly melted by the breath of a human being, as eager to look out as he was to look in. Bertel was soon able to discern a face with burning eyes, which stared out close to the window, to discover the cause of a horse's neighing so late at night in the wilderness.

The sight of this face had the effect of an electric shock upon the inquisitive captain. With his thoughts on the beautiful Regina, Bertel had expected a sight not involving so great a contrast. But instead he beheld a corpse-like face surrounded by a black tight-fitting, leather hood, and this dark frame made the pale face seem still paler.

Bertel had seen these features before, and when he searched his memory, the picture of a terrible night in the Bavarian woods rose before his mental vision. Involuntarily he drew back, and hesitated for a moment. This motion was observed by Pekka, who had remained on his horse so as to be ready to fly.

"Quick, away from here!" he cried. "I have told you that nobody but the devil himself lives in these woods."

"Yes, you are right," said Bertel, now smiling at his own fears, and what he considered to be the offspring of his heated fancy. "If ever the Prince of Darkness has assumed a human form, then he resides in this hut. But that is just the reason why we will look the worthy gentleman in the face, and force him to give us lodgings for the night. Hullo, there! open the door to some travellers."

These words were accompanied by some heavy blows on the door.

CHAPTER IX.

DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man looked at him with an unchanging countenance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A monk has been in your hut?"

"Yes, sir, one of ours."

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

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

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

"In the garret. Yes, your grace."

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

"I do not deny that it is so."

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

"Anything—death, perhaps."

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

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

"And you do not fear the torture?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wretch! you have sent my horses away?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think they went on horseback."

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

With these words Bertel hurried out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.

KAJANEBORG.

Far away in the North roar the mighty waters of the sea under vaults of ice; the fors never freezes, the green of the pine never withers, and the grey rocks, which confine the foaming floods in narrow ravines, never shake. Here the powers of nature have pursued their incessant warfare for centuries without rest, without reconciliation; the flood never tires of battling with the rocks, and these persist in resisting the stream; the hills never seem to grow old, and the immense morasses defy cultivation; the frosty transparent atmosphere quivers as of old in the northern light, and the winter sky looks down with its imperturbable, majestic calm upon the scattered huts on the banks of the streams.

This is the home of night and terror; this is the shadow of Finnish poetry's golden pictures. Here the light-shunning Black Art spins its webs around human beliefs; here are the graves of heroes; here the last giants spent their rude strength in the mountain wilderness; here stood Hüsis ancient fortress, of which the steps were each six feet in height; here the spirit of the middle ages brooded over its darkest thoughts; here it receded, step by step, before the light of a newer time, and here it has bled in its impotent rage; heathenism, fallen from its greatness, steals outlawed from place to place, in the sheep's clothing of Christendom, going restlessly around the country, and performing its miserable mummeries in churchyards at night.

Before the great northern waters, irritated by their battles in hundreds of forssar* go to seek a brief repose in Uleä Sea, they once more pour out their anger into the two mighty waterfalls of Koivukoski and Ämmä, near the little Kajana. Like two immense surfs the torrents throw themselves headlong down the narrow pass, and so violent is their fall that human daring, accustomed to struggle with nature and conquer in the end, has here stopped with dismay and acknowledged its powerlessness. Up to the latest times the boats which have steered down the forssar in their course towards Uleäborg, have always been obliged to land here and be drawn by horses through the streets of Kajana.**

* Plural of fors.

** After the surgeon's time, a lock was completed here at each fall, and the boats now continue on their way without much delay.

In the stream, right between the two falls, Koivukoski and Ämmä, lies a flat rock, to which bridges are attached from both sides. Here stand the grey walls of an ancient fortress, now in ruins, and constantly bathed by the waves of the flood. This fortress of Kajaneborg was founded in 1607, during Carl IX.'s time, as a protection against Russian invasion. Perhaps the time may come in our stories when we shall speak more of it.

It is now 1635, and the castle stands in its original strength. Its form resembles an arrow with the point turned towards the stream. Unless famine occurs, or the enemy can bring heavy artillery to the heights, it is considered impregnable. But how can a hostile army find any road to Kajaneborg? In the immense wilderness all around there is not a single road where a wheel can run. In summer the traveller follows the narrow paths, and in winter the Laplander, with his reindeer and sleigh, drives over the frozen lakes.

It is winter; a thick crust of ice on the shores and over the walls of the castle shows that the cold has been severe, though it has not been able to bind the fors in its rapid course.

Some soldiers, clad in sheep-skin jackets, with the fur side turned inwards, are busy drawing home wood from the adjacent forest. There is peace in the land, the drawbridge is down, and horses' feet thunder over the bridge. Then a violent squabble arises in the castle yard. An old woman, tall in stature, with rather disagreeable features, has taken possession of one of the loads of wood, and pushed away the soldiers, while she picks up as many pieces as she is able to carry, and commands another younger woman to do likewise.

The soldiers utter coarse oaths, but the woman with the keen eyes does not deign to reply.

A sub-officer, drawn there by the noise, informs himself of the cause, then addresses the woman with hard words, and orders her to return the wood she has taken. The woman refuses to obey; the sub-officer endeavours to use force; the woman plants herself back to the wall, raises a small log of wood in the air, and threatens to break the head of the first man who approaches her. The soldiers swear and laugh; the sub-officer hesitates; the old woman's courage holds them all in check.

Then an elderly man appears on the steps, to whom all give way with reverence. It is Governor Wernstedt. As soon as the old woman sees him, she leaves her hostile attitude, and relates with a torrent of words all the injustice she has suffered.

"Yes, gracious Excellency," she said, "that is the way they dare to treat a man who is the pride and ornament of Sweden. It is not sufficient to shut him up in this miserable out-of-the-way hole, but they let him freeze to death in the bargain. What wood have they given us? Great God! nothing but green and rotten chunks, which fill the room with smoke, and do not give out heat enough to thaw the ink on his table. But I tell you, Excellency, that I, Lucia Grothusen, do not intend to be imposed upon any longer. This wood is good, and I take it, as you see, Excellency, right before the face of these vagabonds, who deserve to all hang upon the highest pine in the Paldamo forest. Pack yourselves off, you lazy, good-for-nothing rascals, and look out how you act before me and the Governor. The wood is mine, and that is all to be said about it."

The Governor smiled.

"Let her keep the wood," he said to the soldiers, "or else there will be no peace in the castle. And you, Lucia, I warn you to hold your wicked tongue, which has already done so much mischief; otherwise it may happen that I shall again put you and your husband in that basement you know of, where Erik Hare kept you, and where the stream rolls right under the floor. Is this the thanks I get for the mild treatment I have bestowed upon you, that you are eternally exciting quarrels in the castle? The day before yesterday you gave rein to your tongue, because you did not receive enough soap for your washing; yesterday you took a leg of mutton by force from my kitchen, and to-day you make a noise about the wood. Take care, Lucia; my patience may be exhausted."

The woman looked the Governor right in the face.

"Your patience!" she repeated. "How long do you think that mine will last. I have stayed now nearly nineteen years in this owl's nest. For nineteen long years has it cast a stain upon Sweden that its greatest man is confined here like a criminal! ... Mark what I say: Sweden's greatest man; for the day will arrive when you, and I, and all these souls of lard, all these wandering ale-jugs, will be food for worms, and no more thought of than the hogs you killed to-day; but the glorious name of Johannes Messenius will shine for all time. Your patience! Have I, then, had none—I who in these long weary years have been fighting with you for a bit of bread, for firewood, for a pillow for this great man, whom you abuse? I, the only one who has kept his frail body alive, and strengthened his soul for the great work which he has now accomplished? Do you realise what it means to suffer as I have; to be snatched away from one's children, to go about with despair in the heart, and a smile on the lips, so as to seem to have a hope when none remains? ... Do you know, your Excellency, what all this means? And you stand there and talk about your patience!"

The soldiers' loud laughter all at once interrupted the voluble old woman. She now perceived for the first time that the Governor had chosen the wisest course, and gone his way. It was not the first time that Lucia Grothusen had put the commander of a fortress to flight. She felt able to drive a whole garrison to the woods. But it vexed her that she could not fully relieve her heart. She threw a stick of wood at the nearest and worst of her mockers, and then hurried with the wood in her arms, to reach a low back door. The soldier, struck in the leg, seized the stick with an oath, and flung it in his turn after the old woman. Lucia, hit in the heel, uttered a cry of pain and anger ... and then she disappeared through the door, followed by the soldiers' loud laughter.