The king's ring

CHAPTER XI.

THE PRISONER OF STATE.

The room which we now enter is situated in the south tower of the castle, and is not very inviting. It is large and dark. Although with a sunny aspect, the narrow window, with its thick iron gratings, only admits a few of the winter's day sunbeams. A large open fire-place, with a granite hearth, occupies one corner of the room; a rough unpainted bed, a couple of benches, two chairs, a clothes-chest, a large table under the window, and a high cupboard next to it, make up the furniture of the room. All these things have a new appearance, which to some degree reconciles the eye to their coarseness.

But the room is a curious combination of kitchen and study. Learning has established its abode at the upper end nearest the window. The table is adorned with ink spots, and covered with old yellow manuscripts and large folios of parchments. The door of the cupboard is open, and shows its use as a library. The lower part of the room, near the fire-place, has a different appearance. Here stands a wash-tub by a sack of flour; a kettle is waiting to receive some dried pike and bits of salt pork, and leaves room for a bucket of water, and a shelf filled with coarse stone dishes.

Such was the habitation which Governor Wernstedt had assigned to the state prisoner, Johannes Messenius, his wife, and servant, instead of the horrible place where Messenius' tormentor, old Erik Hare, for so many years confined these unfortunate beings. The room was at least high and dry above the ground, and its furniture was likewise a friendly gift from the Governor. Messenius occupied the upper part, and the women of his household the lower.

By the large ink-spotted table sat a grey-haired man, with his body wrapped in furs, his feet clad with reindeer boots, and his head covered with a thick woollen cap. One who had seen this man in the days of his prosperity, when he occupied the rostrum in Upsala "Consistorium," or proud as a king on his throne, exercising sole control over all the historical treasures of the Swedish state archives, would scarcely now recognise in this withered form, bent by age and misfortune, the man with the arrogant mind, the opponent of Rudbeck and Tegel, the learned, gifted, haughty, Jesuit conspirator, Johannes Messenius.

But if one looked deep into those keen, restless eyes, which seemed constantly trying to penetrate the future as they had done the past, and read the words which his shaking hand had just penned—words full of egotism even to presumption—then one could divine that within this decayed tenement toiled a soul unbroken by time and events, proud as it had always been, ambitious as it could never cease to be.

The old man's gaze was fixed upon the paper long after he had laid down his pen.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully and reflectively, "so shall it be. During my lifetime they have trampled me like a worm in the dust; once I am dead they will know upon whom they have trodden. Gloria, gloria in excelsis! The day will arrive, even if it be a century hence, when the miserable prisoner who, now forgotten by the whole world, pines away in the wilderness, shall with admiration and respect be called the father of Swedish history....

"Then," he continued with a bitter smile, "they can do nothing more for me. Then I shall be dead ... Ah, it is strange! the dead man, whose bones have long mouldered in the grave, lives in his works; his spirit goes quickening and ennobling through the ages. All that he has endured while he lived, all the ignominy, all the persecutions, all the prison gratings are forgotten; they exist no longer, provided his name still shines like a star through the night of time, and posterity, with its short memory and its ingratitude, says, with thoughtless admiration, he was a great man!"

During this soliloquy the old woman, whose acquaintance we made in the castle yard, entered the room. She carefully opened the door, and walked on tip-toe, as if afraid of waking a sleeping babe. Then she carefully put down the wood she carried in her arms. A little noise, however, was unavoidable; the old man at the table, startled from his thoughts, began to upbraid the intruder:

"Woman!" he said, "how dare you disturb me! Have I not told you iterum iterumque, that you shall take away your penates procul a parnasso? Do you understand it ... lupa?"

"Dear Messenius, I am only bringing you a little wood. You have been so cold all these days. Do not be angry now. I shall make the room nice and warm for you; it is excellent wood..."

"Quid miki tecum. Go to the dogs. You vex me, woman. You are, as the late King Gustaf always said, Messenü mala herba; my wormwood, my nettle."

Lucia Grothusen was an extremely quick-tempered woman, angry and quarrelsome with the whole world; but this time she kept quite still. How strangely her domestic position had altered! She had always idolized her husband, but as long as he was in the full strength of his manhood and prosperity, she had bent his unquiet, vacillating spirit like a reed under her will. All that time the feared and learned Messenius was held in complete subjection. Now the rôles were changed. As his physical strength declined, indicating more and more that he approached the end of his life, his wife's idolatrous love came into conflict with her masterful disposition, and finally produced the extraordinary result of reducing this character to humble submission. She nursed him as a mother nurses her sick child, for fear of losing him. She bore everything patiently, and never had an angry word in reply to his querulous remarks. Even on this occasion, only a slight trembling of the lips gave evidence of the effort it cost her to check her anger.

"Never mind," she said kindly, as she went a few steps nearer, "do not feel angry about it, my dear, because it injures your health. I will not do it again; next time I will lay a mat under the wood, so that it will not disturb you. Now I will cook you a splendid leg of mutton for supper ... Believe me, I had trouble enough to get it. I almost had to take it by force from the Governor's kitchen."

"What, woman! have you dared to beg beneficia from tyrants? By Jupiter, do you think me a dog, that I should eat the crumbs from their tables? And then you limp. Why do you do that? Answer me; why do you limp? I suppose you have been running around like a gossiping old woman, and tripped on the stairs."

"Do I limp?" repeated Lucia, with a forced smile. "I really believe I have hurt my foot ... Ungrateful!" added she silently to herself; "it is for your sake that I suffer."

"Go your way, and let me finish my epitaph."

But Lucia did not go; she came closer to him. Her eyes filled with tears, and she folded both her arms around the old man's neck.

"Your epitaph!" she repeated in a voice so mild that one would never have expected it from those withered lips, used so very often for hard words and invective only.

"Oh, my God!" she continued in a low tone, "shall, then, all that is great and glorious on earth finally become dust? But that day is still far distant, my friend; yes, it must be so. Let me see the epitaph of the great Johannes Messenius!"

"Certainly," said the old man, consoled by her sincere flattery, "you are decidedly the true persona executrix who ought to read my epitaphium, as you are also the one who will have to engrave it on my tombstone. Look, my dear; what do you think of this?

"Here lie the bones of Doctoris Johannes Messenii. His soul is in God's kingdom, but his fame is all over the world!"

"Never," said Lucia, weeping, "have truer words been placed over a great man's grave. But let us say no more about it. Let us speak of your great work, your Scondia. Do you know I have a feeling that its glory will in a short time prepare freedom for you..."

"Freedom!" repeated Messenius, in a melancholy tone. "Yes, you are right; the freedom of the grave to decay wherever one chooses."

"No," replied Lucia with eagerness and enthusiasm, "you shall yet receive the honour that is due to you. They will read your great Scondia illustrata, they will have it printed ... with your name in gilded letters on the title-page ... the whole world will say, full of admiration: 'never has his equal existed in the North'!"

"And never will exist again!" added Messenius, with confidence. "Oh! who will restore me my freedom—freedom that I may behold my work and triumph over my enemies. Hear me, Lord, I stretch out my hands before Thy face. Save me from misery, for Thou hast said: 'I will prostrate thine enemies, to be trampled under thy feet.' Who will give me freedom—freedom and ten years of life to witness the fruits of my labour?"

"I," answered a muffled voice at the lower end of the room.

At the sound of this voice both Messenius and his wife looked around with superstitious terror. The loneliness of the prison, and the associations of this wild country, which in all ages has been the fruitful soil of superstition, had in both increased the belief in superhuman things to a perfect conviction. More than once had Messenius' brooding spirit been on the point of plunging into the enticing labyrinth of the Kabala and practical Magic; but his zealous labours and his wife's religious exhortations had held him back. Now came an unexpected answer to his question ... from Heaven or the abyss, no matter which, but an answer, nevertheless—a straw for his drowning hopes.

The short winter day had drawn to a close, and twilight already spread its shadows over that part of the room which lay nearest the door. From this obscurity advanced a man, in whose sallow features one recognised the same person who two hours before had gained an entrance to the castle, under the name of Albertus Simonis. He had probably, in his capacity of physician, obtained permission to see the prisoner, for the whole medical faculty of the castle consisted of a barber, who practised chirurgery, and an old soldier's widow, whose skill in curing internal diseases was highly commended, especially when it was assisted by luvut, or incantations, which, although forbidden by the Church, were still used in the vapour-baths as powerful magical aids.

"Pax vobiscum!" said the stranger with a certain solemnity, and coming nearer the window.

"May the Lord be with you also!" answered Messenius, in the same tone, and with curiosity mingled with inquietude.

"May the woman's tongue be far from the consultation!" continued the stranger also in Latin.

Lucia, in whose youth the daughters of learned men knew Latin better than those of the nineteenth century read French, did not wait for a further reminder, and left the room with an inquisitive glance at the mysterious stranger.

Messenius made a sign to his visitor to take a seat near him. The whole conversation was conducted in Latin.

"Receive my greeting, great man, whom misfortune has only been able to elevate!" began the stranger, with artful discrimination attacking Messenius' weakest point.

"Be welcome, you who do not disdain to visit the forsaken!" replied Messenius with unusual courtesy.

"Do you recognise me, Johannes Messenius?" said the stranger, as he let the light fall on his pale face.

"It seems to me that I have seen your face before," replied the prisoner hesitatingly; "but it must have been a long time ago."

"Do you remember a boy in Braunsberg, some years younger than yourself, who was educated with you in the school of the holy fathers, and afterwards in your company visited Rome and Ingolstadt?"

"Yes, I remember ... a boy who gave great promise of one day becoming a pillar of the church ... Hieronymus Mathiæ."

"I am Hieronymus Mathiæ."

Messenius felt a shudder run through his frame. Time, the experiences of life, and the soul destroying doctrines of the Jesuits, had completely changed the features of the once blooming boy. Pater Hieronymus observed this impression, and hastened to add:

"Yes, my revered friend, thirty-five years' struggle for the welfare of the only saving Church has caused the roses in these cheeks to fade for ever. I have laboured and suffered in these evil times. Like you, great man, but with much lesser genius, I have dug in the vineyard, without any reward for my toil but the prospect of the holy martyr's crown in Paradise. You were very kind to me in my youth; now I will repay it so far as it lies in my power. I will restore you to freedom and life."

"Ah, reverend father," replied the old man, with a deep sigh, "I am not worthy of this; you, the son of the holy Church, extending your hand to me, a poor apostate? You do not know, then, that I have renounced our faith; that I, with my own hand and mouth, have embraced the accursed Lutheran religion, which I abhor in my heart; nay, even in my time persecuted your holy order with several godless libels."

"Why should I not know all this, my honoured friend; have not the great Messenius' work and deeds flown on the wings of fame throughout Germany? But what you have done, has been done as a blind, so as to work in secret for the highest good of our holy Roman Church. Do not the Scriptures teach us to meet craft with craft in these godless times? 'Ye shall be as wily as serpents.' The Holy Virgin will give you her absolution as soon as you have worked for her sake. Yes, esteemed man, even had you seven times abjured your faith, and seven times seventy sinned against all the saints and the dogmas of the Church, it shall all be accounted to you for reward, and not for condemnation, provided you have done it with a mental reservation, and with the design of thereby serving the good cause. Even if your tongue has lied, and your hand killed, it shall be deemed a pious and holy work, when it was for the purpose of bringing back the stray sheep. Courage, great man, I absolve you in the name of the Church."

"Yes, good father, these teachings which the worthy Jesuit fathers, in Braunsberg so eloquently instilled into my young mind, I have faithfully followed in my life. But now, in my old age, it sometimes seems to me as if my conscience raised some opposition in the matter..."

"Temptations of the devil! nothing else. Drive them away!"

"That may well be, pious father! Yes, to calm my conscience, I have written a formal confession, in which I openly declare my profession of the Lutheran faith a hypocritical act, and as openly proclaim my adherence to the Catholic Church."

"Hide this confession, show it not to any mortal eye!" interrupted the Jesuit quickly. "Its time will yet come."

"I do not understand your reasons, pious father."

"Listen attentively to what I have to say! Do you think, old man, that I, without important reasons, have ventured up here in the wilderness, daily exposed to hunger, cold, wild beasts, and the still wilder people in this country, who would burn me alive if they knew who I was, and what I was about? Do you think I would have left the wide field in my native land, had I not hoped to accomplish more here? Well, then, I will briefly explain to you my point ... Can anyone hear us? Perhaps there are private passages in these walls."

"Be sure no mortal can hear us."

"Know, then," continued the Jesuit in a low voice, "that we have again before us the never-abandoned plan of bringing heretic Sweden back to the bosom of the Roman Church. There are only two powers which can any longer resist us, and the saints be praised, these powers are becoming day by day more harmless. The House of Stuart, in England, is surrounded by our nets, and in secret does everything for our cause. Sweden still lies stunned by the terrible blow at Nördlingen, and cannot, without fresh miracles, retain its dominant position in Germany. The time has come when our plans are fully matured; we must avail ourselves of our enemies' powerlessness. In a few years England will fall into our hands like a ripe fruit. Sweden, still proud of former victories, shall be forced to do the same. The means to this end will be a change of dynasty."

"Christina, King Gustaf's daughter..."

"Is a nine-year-old child, and besides a girl! We are not without allies in Sweden, who still remember the expelled royal family. The weak Sigismund is dead; Uladislaus, his son, stretches out his hands, with all the impatience of youth, for the crown of his forefathers. It shall be his."

CHAPTER XII.

THE TEMPTER.

"Uladislaus on the Swedish throne? I doubt whether we shall ever live to see that day," said Messenius incredulously.

"Hear me to the end," continued the Jesuit, engrossed by the stupendous plan his scheming head had concocted. "You, Messenius, are the only one who can perform this miracle."

"I ... a miserable prisoner! Impossible."

"To the saints and genius nothing is impossible. The Swede is now well disposed towards royalty. The example of his kings leads him to good or evil. He has especially a great reverence for old King Gustaf Vasa. If it could now be proved that the said king on his death-bed, with repentance, declared the Lutheran doctrine to be heterodox, that he had abjured and cursed the Reformation, and that he had charged his youngest son, the papistical Johan, to atone for his great errors..."

"What do you dare to say?" burst out Messenius, with undisguised surprise. "Such an obvious lie is in direct opposition to Gustaf Vasa's last words at death, all of whose utterances have been so faithfully recorded..."

"Calm yourself, revered friend," interrupted the Jesuit coldly. "Supposing it could be further demonstrated that the second founder of Lutheranism, Carolus IX., likewise on his death-bed declared the Reformation to be a blasphemy and a misfortune...?"

Messenius regarded the Jesuit with dismay.

"And if it can finally be proven that even Gustaf Adolf, before giving up the ghost at Lützen, was struck by a sudden inspiration, and died a heretic's death, under the greatest torment and anguish of soul...?"

Messenius' pale cheeks were covered with a flush.

"Then," continued the Jesuit, with the same composed daring, "there remains of the Vasa dynasty only the demented Erik XIV., the admitted papist, Johan III., and the professed Catholic, Sigismund, with all of whom we need not trouble ourselves in the least. Once convinced that all of their greatest kings either have been papistical, or have become so in their last moments, the scales will fall from the eyes of the Swedish people; they will penitently confess their guilt, and at last fall back into the bosom of the only saving Roman Catholic Church.

"But how will you, revered father, in the face of all the facts, convince the Swedes of the apostasy of their kings?"

"I have already told you," replied the Jesuit flatteringly, "that such a great and meritorious mission can only be accomplished by the gifted Johannes Messenius. All know that you are Sweden's most learned man and greatest historian. They know that you possess and hold in your care more historical documents and secrets than anyone else in the whole kingdom. Use these advantages skilfully and judiciously; compile documents that never existed; describe events that never happened..."

"What do you dare to say?" exclaimed Messenius with burning cheeks.

The Jesuit misunderstood his excitement.

"Yes," continued the Jesuit, "the undertaking is a bold one, but far from impossible. A hasty flight to Poland will secure your safety."

"And it is to me ... to me that you make this proposal?"

"Yes," added the monk, in the same tone. "I realise that Gustaf Adolf will cause you the most trouble, and therefore I will be responsible for him. You will have therefore Gustaf I. and Carl IX. as your share, to present in such a light as will best serve the cause of the holy Church."

"Abi a me, male spiritus!" burst out Messenius in a fit of rage, which the Jesuit with all his sagacity was far from expecting. "You arch-villain! you liar! you infamous traitor, to lay your hand on the holiest; do you think that I, Johannes Messenius, have worked for long years to become Sweden's greatest historian, to all of a sudden, in such an infamous way, violate the historical truth which I have re-established with such long and continuous efforts? Be off this moment, quick ... away, to Gehenna!" ... and with these words the old scholar, wild with rage, flung everything that he could get hold of at the Jesuit's head—books, papers, inkstand, sand-box—with such violence that the monk started. The latter's face became still paler ... then he took a few steps backwards, rose to his full height, and opened the plaited Spanish doublet which covered his breast. A crucifix of flashing diamonds, surmounted by a crown of thorns set with rubies, glittered suddenly in the gathering twilight.

This sight seemed to have a magical effect upon Messenius. His excited voice was suddenly hushed ... his rage changed immediately to fear ... his knees trembled; he staggered, and was on the point of falling, but supported himself with difficulty against the chair at the table. The Jesuit again advanced slowly, and looked steadily at the prisoner with his piercing eyes, which were like those of the rattlesnake.

"Have you forgotten, old man," he said, in a measured and commanding tone, whilst every word was followed by a pause to increase its effect, "the penalty which the Church and the laws of our holy order inflict for sins like yours? For apostasy: death ... and you have seven times apostatized! ... For blasphemy: death ... and you have seven times blasphemed! ... For disobedience: death ... and you have seven times disobeyed! ... For sin against the Holy Ghost: damnation ... and who has sinned like you? ... For heresy: the stake ... and who has merited it like you? ... For offence and disrespect against the holy ones of the Lord: the eternal fire ... and who has given offence like you?"

"Grace, holy father, grace!" exclaimed Messenius, while he writhed like a worm under the Jesuit's terrible threats.

But Father Hieronymus continued:

"The celebrated Nicolaus Pragensis went over to Calvin's false doctrines, and dared to defy the Head of our order. He fled to the farthest corner of Bohemia, but our revenge found him. The dogs tore his body to pieces, and the spirits of hell obtained his soul..."

"Grace! mercy!" sighed the prisoner, completely crushed.

"Well, then," added the Jesuit in a haughty tone or superiority, "I have given you the choice between glory and perdition; I will once more place it before you, although you are undeserving. Do you imagine, miserable apostate, that I, the head of the German and Northern Jesuits, who do not acknowledge any superior except the Holy Father at Rome—do you believe that I, who have braved myriads of dangers to seek you here in your miserable corner, will allow you to stop me, the invisible ruler of the whole North, with your disobedience and irresolution? I ask you once more, in the name of our holy order, if you, Johannes Messenius, will be faithful to the oath you swore in your youth, and implicitly obey the behests and commands which I, your superior and judge, enjoin upon you?"

"Yes, holy father," answered the trembling captive; "yes, I will."

"Hear, then, the penalty I impose. You say that for your whole life you have striven for a single aim; that of gaining the name of the greatest historian in the North, and you think that you have at last attained your desire?"

"Yes, holy father, that has been my object, and I have obtained it."

"Your aim is evil!" exclaimed the Jesuit in stern tones, "and it is that of the devil, for you have worked for your own glory, and not for that of the holy Church, as you have sworn. Therefore, I command you to destroy, with your own hands, the idol of your life—your great fame with posterity—by perverting history and writing it, not as it is, but as it ought to be. I order you to cast away fame, to serve the cause of the Roman Church in the North. You shall write the history of Gustaf I. and Carl IX. in such a manner that all they have done for the Reformation may redound as a ruin and curse both to them and their kingdom. And I will that you base this new history on such reliable documents, that in the eyes of the people they will be above suspicion ... documents which do not exist, but which you shall manufacture ... documents of which the falsity may possibly be discovered in a future generation, but which will at present produce the desired effect."

"And thus," said Messenius, in a voice trembling with the most varied emotions—fear, anger, and humiliation—"I shall stand before posterity as a base falsifier, an infamous perverter of historical truth."

"Yes, and what then?" continued the Jesuit with a sardonic smile; "what matters it, if you, miserable tool, sacrifice your name, provided the Church gains its great victory? Of what advantage is the praise of men, if your soul burns in the eternal fires of hell; and what matters humanity's contempt, if you, through this sacrifice, gain the martyr's crown in Heaven?"

"But the cause of truth ... the inflexible judgment of posterity."

"Bah! what is historical truth? Well, is it the obedient slave who follows at the heels of human errors ... the parrot which thoughtlessly repeats all their folly? Or is it not rather truth, such as it ought to be, purified from error, freed from crime and folly ... God's kingdom on earth, as wise as it is almighty, as good as it is holy and wise?"

"But is it then we who dictate to God what is good and right? Has He not Himself told us that truth, such as it is?"

"Ha! vacillating apostate, you still dare to argue with your superior about right and wrong. Choose, obey or disobey! Choose on one side temporal and eternal death, and on the other the joys of Paradise and the glory of the saints. Yet a word, and upon this depends your weal or woe. Will you obey my commands?"

"Yes, I will obey," answered the crushed and terrified prisoner. And the Jesuit went away silent and cold, with a ruler's nod that the slave had his good grace.

CHAPTER XIII.

AVAUNT, EVIL SPIRIT.

About a week had passed since the private conversation to which we last listened. The Jesuit during this time had not left the prisoner to himself. He was seen to enter Messenius' room every day, under the pretext of medical attendance, and spent some hours with him. He was too acute to rely upon the prisoner's promise. No one in the castle knew what they did together, and the Governor was unsuspicious. The remote situation of Kajajneborg, far from the rest of the world, had lulled Wernstedt into security; he rather found pleasure in the society of the learned and experienced foreign doctor.

There was one, however, who with a constant and vigilant eye followed every motion of the stranger, and this was Lucia Grothusen, Messenius' wife. A Catholic by education and conviction, she had always strengthened her husband in his faith; the Jesuit well knew this, and therefore felt sure of her co-operation, although he carefully avoided confiding his plans to the mercy of female gossip. But the most artful plans are often frustrated by those hidden springs and motives in the human heart, especially in a woman's heart, which work in quite a different direction from that of cold reason. The Jesuit, in spite of his astuteness, was mistaken in our Lucia. He did not know that when the fanaticism in her mind shouted, push on! love cried still louder in her heart, hold back! and love in women always gets the upper hand.

Lucia was a very penetrating person; she had looked through the Jesuit before he knew it. She saw the ruinous inward strife which raged in Messenius; a struggle for life and death between fanaticism on the one hand, which bade him sacrifice fame and posterity for the victory of the Church, and ambition on the other, which continually pleaded to him not to sacrifice with his own hand his whole life's work? "Will you," it said, "blindly desecrate the sanctuary of history? Will you expose to contempt the brilliant name, which in the night of captivity still constitutes your wealth and pride?"

Lucia saw all this with the discernment of love; she saw that the man for whom she lived an entire life of self-denial and restraint, would sink under this terrible internal battle, and she resolved to save him with a bold and decisive stroke.

Late one evening the lamp still burned on Messenius' writing-table, where he and the Jesuit had been working together ever since the morning. Lucia had received permission to retire to her bed, which stood at the other end of the room near the door, and pretended to be asleep. The two men had finished their work, and were conversing together with low voices, in Latin, which Lucia well understood.

"I am satisfied with you, my friend," said the Jesuit approvingly. "These documents, which bear the stamp of truth, will be sufficient to prove the conversion of King Gustaf Vasa and King Carl, and this preface, signed by you, will further confirm their veracity. I will now return to Germany through Sweden, and have these prayers printed, through our adherents in Stockholm, or if that is impossible, in Lübeck or Leyden."

Messenius involuntarily stretched out his hand, as if to snatch back a precious treasure from a robber's hands.

"Holy father," he exclaimed with visible consternation, "is there no reprieve? My name ... my reputation ... have mercy upon me, holy father, and give me back my name!"

The Jesuit smiled.

"Do I not give you a name," he said, "far greater and more abiding than the one you lose—a name in the chronicles of our holy order; a name among the martyrs and benefactors of the Church; a name which may one day be counted amongst the saints?"

"But, in spite of all this, a name without honour, a liar's, a forger's name!" burst out Messenius, with the despair of a condemned man, who is shown the glory of Heaven obscured by the scaffold.

"Weak, vain man, you do not know that great aims are never won by the fear or praise of humanity!" said the Jesuit in a contemptuous tone. "You might have taken back your word and forfeited your claims to the gratitude of all Christendom. But happily it is now impossible. These documents"—and he extended his hand triumphantly with the papers—"are now in a hand which will know how to keep them, and, against your will, use them for the glory of the Church, the victory of the faith, and your soul's eternal welfare."

Father Hieronymus had hardly uttered these words when a hand behind him swiftly and suddenly seized the papers, which he had so elatedly waved, crumpled them together, tore them in a hundred pieces, and strewed the bits over the floor. This move was so unlooked for, and the Jesuit was so far from divining anything of the kind, that he lost his usual presence of mind for a moment, and thus gave the daring hand time to complete its work of destruction. When the fragments lying around convinced him of the reality of his loss, he bit his lips with rage, raised his arms aloft, and with the ferocity of a wild beast, fell upon the presumptuous being who had dared to extinguish his plans at the very moment of consummation.

Lucia—for she owned the intruding hand—met the monk's outbreak of fury with the great courage which distinguishes a woman when she struggles for the holiest she possesses. In her youth she had been one of those who could take a man by the collar; and this more than womanly strength of arm had gained practice during her constant squabbles with the rude soldiers of the castle. She hastily clasped her sinewy fingers around the monk's outstretched arms, and held them fast as in a vice.

"Well," she said in a mocking tone, "three paces from death, sir; what do you wish?"

"Mad woman!" screamed the Jesuit, foaming with rage, "you do not know what you have done! Miserable thief, you have stolen a kingdom from your Church, and Paradise from your husband."

"And from you I have stolen your booty; his secure prey from the wolf; is it not so?" replied Lucia, whose voice began to glow with the fire of her hasty temper. "Monk," she added, violently shaking the eminent Jesuit, who in vain tried to escape, "I know a vile thief, who, in the sheep's clothing of the Church, comes to steal the fame of a great man; also the history of a nation; and from a poor, forsaken woman, her sole pride; her husband's peace, honour, and life. Tell me, holy and pious monk, what punishment such a thief deserves? Would not Ämmä fall be shallow enough for his body, and the eternal fires cool enough for his soul?"

The Jesuit looked out of the window with a hasty movement towards the mighty torrent which descended with a terrible roar in the winter's night.

"Ha!" exclaimed Lucia with a bitter smile, "you fear me, you, the powerful one, who rules kingdoms and consciences. You fear lest I conceal a man's arm under my grey frock, which could hurl you into the cataract's abyss. Be reassured. I am only a woman, and fight with a woman's arms. You see ... I do not throw you out of the window ... I will be content with chaining up the wild beast. Tremble, monk, I know you! Lucia Grothusen has followed your steps; you are betrayed, and she has done this."

"Betrayed!" echoed the Jesuit; he well realised what this statement meant. At a time so full of hate, when two great religions fought for worldly and spiritual supremacy, when the plots of the Jesuits irritated the Swedes to the highest extent, a member of this order, discovered in disguise, in the kingdom, was lost beyond redemption. But the dire peril restored the equilibrium of this powerful character.

"My daughter, betrayed by you," he said once more, as his arms relaxed, and his features assumed an expression of doubt and mild grief. "That is impossible."

Lucia regarded him with hate and suspicion.

"I your daughter!" she exclaimed, as she pushed the monk from her with repulsion. "Falsehood is your daughter, and deceit your mother. These are thy relatives."

"Lucia Grothusen," said the Jesuit with much suavity, "when you were a child, and followed your father, Arnold Grothusen, who was expelled with King Sigismund, you came one day as an exile in need, and surrounded by enemies, to a peasant's hut. They refused you a refuge, and threatened to deliver you up. Then your youthful eyes discovered an image of the Virgin in a corner of the hut, a relic from former times, and now profaned as a plaything for children. You took the image and kissed it; you held it up before the harsh inmates of the hut, and said to them, 'See, the Virgin Mary is here, she will succour us!'"

"Well, what then?" said Lucia reluctantly in a softer voice.

"Your childish trust ... no, what do I say? The Holy Virgin moved the stern peasants, they gave you shelter, and placed you all in security. Still more, they gave you the image, which you have carefully preserved as your guardian angel, and there it hangs on your wall. What you formerly said, you still say: 'The Virgin Mary is here, she will protect me!'"

Lucia tried in vain to struggle against her emotions. She bit her lip and made no reply.

"You are right," continued the astute monk. "I am a Catholic like you; persecuted like you; if they penetrated my disguise they would kill me. My life is in your hands; denounce me; I flee not; I die for my faith, and I forgive you my death."

"Fly from here," said Lucia, half vanquished; "I give you till to-morrow, but only on condition that you do not see my husband again."

"Well, then," said the Jesuit sadly, "I fly and leave behind my beautiful dream of a glorious future. Ah, I had imagined that the great Messenius and his noble wife would reinstate the Catholic Church in the North; I saw the time when millions of people would say: we were in darkness and blindness, until the historical light of the great Messenius revealed to us the falseness of the Reformation."

"If it could be done without injury to the truth," exclaimed Lucia, whose ardent spirit was more and more elevated by the future, which the Jesuit so skilfully placed before her in perspective.

"The truth!" repeated the Jesuit persuasively. "Oh, my friend, truth is our faith, falseness is the heretic's faith. If you are convinced that I ask only the truth itself from your husband, will you assist instead of trying to destroy your Church?"

"Yes, I will!" answered Lucia warmly and earnestly.

"Then listen..." added the Jesuit, but was just then interrupted by Messenius, who, hitherto stunned and crestfallen, now seemed to awaken from a horrible dream.

"Abi, male spiritus!" he frantically exclaimed, as if he feared that the Jesuit's serpent tongue would once more triumph. "Abi, Abi! you are not a human being, you are the prince of lies himself, you are the tempter in Paradise! Get ye gone, ye foul spirit, to the eternal fire, your abiding place, to the kingdom of lies, your realm!" he said in Latin. And with this he pushed the Jesuit towards the door, without Lucia's making the least attempt to prevent it.

"Insanit miser!" ("the miserable raver") muttered the Jesuit as he disappeared.

"Thanks, my dear!" said Lucia, with a lightened heart, as if freed from a dangerous spell.

"Thanks, Lucia!" replied Messenius, with a milder manner than he had for a long time assumed towards his wife.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE JUDGMENT OF THE SAINTS.

Early the next morning Father Hieronymus entered the room that was occupied by Lady Regina von Emmeritz and old Dorthe. Pale from watching and suffering, the beautiful young girl sat by the bedside of her faithful servant. When the Jesuit entered, Regina rose quickly.

"Save Dorthe, my father!" she impetuously exclaimed ... "I have looked for you everywhere, and you have abandoned me!"

"Hush!" said the Jesuit whispering. "Speak low, the walls have ears. So ... actually? ... Dorthe is sick? Poor old woman, it is too bad, but I cannot help her. They have penetrated our disguise. They suspect us. We must fly this day—this moment."

"Not before you have made Dorthe well again. I beseech you, my father; you are wise, you know all the remedies; give her an immediate restorative, and we will follow you wherever you choose.

"Impossible, we have not a moment to lose. Come!"

"Not without Dorthe, my father! Holy Virgin, how could I abandon her, my nurse, my motherly friend?"

The Jesuit went to the bed, took the old woman's hand, touched her forehead, and pointed to it in silence, with an air which Regina understood but too well.

"She is dead!" cried the young girl with dismay.

"Yes, what then?" replied the Jesuit, a marked sinister smile on his lips fighting with the air of regret he tried to assume.

"You see, my child," he added, "that the saints have wished to spare our faithful old friend a toilsome journey, and have taken her instead to heavenly glory. There is nothing more to be done here. Come!"

But Regina had perceived the malignant smile through her tears, and it struck her with an indescribable horror. She seemed to detect a dark secret.

"Come!" he repeated hastily. "I will give Messenius' wife, who is a Catholic, the charge of burying our friend."

Regina's dark eyes looked on the monk with fear and aversion.

"At seven o'clock yesterday evening," she said, "Dorthe was in good health. Then she drank the beverage of strengthening herbs which you have prepared for her every evening. At eight o'clock she was taken ill ... ten hours afterwards she has ceased to live."

"The fatigue of the long journey ... a cold, an inflammation ... nothing more is wanted. Come!" said the monk uneasily.

But Regina did not move.

"Monk," she said in a voice trembling with disgust and horror, "you have poisoned her."

"My child, my daughter, what are you saying? Grief has clouded your reason; come, I forgive you."

"She was a burden to you ... I saw your impatience on our journey here. And now you wish me to place myself in your power without protection. Holy Virgin, save me! I will not go with you!"

The Jesuit's mobile features instantly changed their expression, and assumed that commanding air which had made Messenius yield.

"Child," he said, "do not draw upon yourself the anger of the saints by listening to the voice of the tempter. Remember where you are, unfortunate, and who you are. A moment's delay, and I leave you here a prey to want, captivity, and death; a target for the heretic's scorn, a lost sheep abandoned by the Holy Virgin. Here perdition and misery ... there in your Fatherland the favour of the saints. Choose quickly, for the sleigh stands waiting; the morning dawns, and day must not find us in this nest of heretics."

Regina hesitated.

"Swear," she said, "that you are innocent of Dorthe's death!"

"I swear it!" exclaimed the Jesuit, "by the cross and by the holy Loyola's bones. May the firm ground open under my feet, and the abyss swallow me alive, if I have ever given this woman any drink but what was healthful and medicinal."

"Well, then," said Regina, "the saints have heard your oath, and written it down in the book of judgment. Farewell, my mother, my friend! Come, let us go!"

Both hurried out.

It was still dark. A pale ray of light appeared over the dark firs on the edge of Koivukoski fall. The horses stood harnessed. The sleepy guard at the castle gate gave a free passage to the physician, who was well known to all.

The Jesuit already thought himself in safety, when a sleigh from the mainland met the fugitives on the narrow bridge, and drove close up to them in the darkness. The monk's sleigh turned on the edge, and was only hindered by the half-rotten railing from upsetting into the depths.

Regina gave a cry of terror.

At the sound of this cry a man sprang from the other sleigh and approached the fugitives.

"Regina!" cried a well-known voice, which trembled from surprise.

"You are mistaken, my friend," the Jesuit hastened to say in a disguised voice. "Give way to Doctor Albertus Simonis, army physician in the service of his Royal Majesty."

"Ha! it is you, accursed Jesuit!" cried the stranger. "Guard, to arms! To arms! and seize the greatest villain on earth." And so saying, he grasped the monk by his fur cloak.

For an instant Hieronymus tried to disengage the sleigh and escape through the speed of the horses. But when he found that this was impossible, he left his fur cloak behind him, wriggled from his enemy's grasp, and, throwing himself quickly over the railing of the bridge, jumped down on the ice, which, in the terrible cold, had formed between the castle island and the mainland. He soon vanished in the dim morning light.

Alarmed by the cry, the castle gate guard discharged his musket after the fugitive, but without effect. Some of the soldiers seemed inclined to pursue him on the ice.

"Do not do that, boys!" cried a bearded sergeant, "it has thawed during the night, and the stream has cut the ice underneath; I think it will break up to-day."

"But the fellow jumped down there!" cried some.

"The devil will get him," replied the sergeant, calmly lighting his morning pipe. "I guess by this time he is not far from Ämmä."

"What did you say?" cried the driver of the sleigh in alarm.

"I say that the old woman* has got her breakfast to-day," answered the sergeant with perfect composure. "Just listen, she barks like a chained dog; now she is satisfied."

* The Finnish word ämmä means old woman.

All listened, appalled, to the din of the waters. It seemed to them as if the mighty fall roared more wildly, more terribly than before, in the dreary winter dawn. The sergeant was right, it was like the howl of an angry dog, when they have thrown him his prey.

CHAPTER XV.

BERTEL AND REGINA.

We left our wandering knight of La Mancha asleep in a peasant's house at Ylihärmä. We found him again just now at Kajaneborg castle, vainly trying to secure the feared and hated Jesuit, whom he had seen through the window-pane of the wretched hut. Bertel's circuitous course during the days between can be perhaps imagined. Led on a false scent in his chase after the fugitives, he had scoured all the roads in East Bothnia, and even went as far up as Uleiborg, and only when he had lost every sign of them did he resolve as a last resource to seek the runaways in the far-off Kajana desert. Why the young cavalier pursued them with such unconquerable perseverance will soon be manifest.

Some hours after the scene on the bridge we find Bertel in the apartment which the Governor had assigned to Lady Regina, under the protection of one of his female relatives. More than three years have passed since they last met in Frankfurt-on-the-Main, in the presence of the great king.

Bertel was then an inexperienced youth of twenty, and Regina an equally untrained girl of sixteen. Both had gone through many trials since then; in each case the burning enthusiasm of youth had been cooled by struggles and sufferings.

The distance between the prince's daughter and the lieutenant had been lessened by Bertel's military fame and lately acquired coat of arms; nay, at this moment, she, the abandoned prisoner, might consider herself honoured by a knight's attentions. But the distance between their convictions, their sympathies, their hearts—had it been diminished by these trials, which generally steel a conviction instead of destroying it?

Bertel approached the young girl with all the perfect courtesy which the etiquette of his time had retained as an inheritance from the chivalry of past centuries.

"My lady," he said in a slightly tremulous voice, "since my hope of finding you at Korsholm failed, I have pursued you through forest and wilderness, as one pursues a criminal. Perhaps you divine the cause that prompted me to do so."

Regina's long black eyelashes were slowly lifted, and she looked inquiringly at Bertel.

"Chevalier," she replied, "whatever has animated you, I am convinced that your reasons were noble and chivalrous. You cannot have meant to take an unhappy young maiden back to prison; you have only wished to snatch her from a man whom the poor deceived one has ever since childhood regarded as a holy and pious person, and whose deeply concealed wickedness she has now, for the first time, learned to know and abhor."

"You are mistaken," said Bertel warmly. "It is true I shuddered when I found that you were under the escort of this villain, whose real character I knew before you, and I then redoubled my efforts to deliver you from his hands. But before I imagined any danger from that quarter, I flew to find you with the glad tidings of a justice ... late, but I hope not too late."

"A justice, you say?" repeated Regina, with an emotion which sent the blood to her cheeks.

"Yes, my lady," continued Bertel, as he regarded her dazzling beauty with delight; "at last, after several years of fruitless efforts, I have succeeded in undoing this undeserved penalty. You are free! you can now return to your Fatherland under the protection of the Swedish arms, and here"—with these words Bertel bent one knee and handed Regina a paper with the regency's seal attached—"is the document which ensures your freedom."

Regina had controlled her first emotion, and received the precious paper with almost haughty dignity.

"Herr chevalier," she said in short measured tones, "I know that you do not desire my thanks for having acted like a man of honour before any of your compatriots."

Bertel arose, confused by this pride, which he, however, ought to have expected.

"What I have done," he said, with a touch of coldness, "I have done to efface a wrong which might have thrown a shadow upon the memory of a great king. Each and all of my countrymen would have done the same as I, had not the exigencies of war made them forget the reparation you had a right to demand. First of all would the noble King Gustaf Adolf himself have hastened to repair a moment's indiscretion, had not Providence so suddenly cut short his career. But," said Bertel, breaking off, "I forget that the king I love and admire, you, my lady, hate!"

At these words the bright and beautiful colour again rose to Regina's cheeks. Bertel had unknowingly touched one of the most sensitive chords in this ardent heart. A new discovery, a wonderful resemblance in figure, voice, gesture, nay, in thought—a likeness which she had never before observed, and which these three years had developed in Bertel's whole personality, made an indescribable impression upon the young Southerner's soul. It seemed to her as if she saw him himself, the greatest among mortals, the pride of her dreams, her life's delight and misery; he, the beloved and feared, her country's, her faith's, and her heart's conqueror ... and as if he himself had said to her in the well-remembered tones: "Regina, you hate me!"

This impression came so swiftly, so strongly, and with such a surprising power, that Regina suddenly grew pale, staggered, and was compelled to lean on Bertel's outstretched arm.

"Holy Virgin!" she whispered, bewildered, and not knowing what she uttered, "should I hate you ... you, whom I lo ...?"

Bertel caught this half incomprehensible word, so full of meaning, with a surprise as sudden and unexpected as Regina's. Beside himself with amazement, fear, and hope, he was still too chivalrous to avail himself of an involuntary confession. Mute and respectful, he led the young girl to her protectress, in whose care she soon recovered from her sudden prostration, an effect of long-suppressed emotions, which sought vent.

Bertel had obtained permission to escort Lady Regina to Stockholm, from whence she could return to her Fatherland, at the first open waters. He was, therefore, at liberty to remain at Kajaneborg until she was ready for the journey, and this was again delayed through lack of a fitting female companion for the high-born prisoner.

Weeks passed in waiting, and during this time entirely new relations were formed, which one could hardly have predicted after Regina's proud coldness towards her deliverer. Ah! this coldness was the ice over a glowing volcano; every day it grew thinner and melted away; every day the foundations of Regina's pride gradually became weaker, and finally only one barrier remained, the strongest one of all, it is true, namely, that of religious convictions. Vain wall! It, too, finally crumbled before the fire of a southern passion, and before these weeks were ended, the girl of nineteen, and the young man of twenty-three, had forgotten the great differences of faith and rank, and sworn each other fidelity for life.

Did Bertel know that he had to thank the memory of Gustaf Adolf for his beautiful, proud, black-eyed bride?

A singular destiny wished to seal this union in an unexpected and wonderful manner. With a secret apprehension for his future happiness, Bertel had tried in vain to discover the Jesuit's fate.

Since the morning when he leaped over the railing of the bridge, no one had heard or seen anything of him, until, three weeks afterwards, a peasant reported that on opening a hole in the ice, a little below Ämmä fall, they had discovered the body of a man without ears, clothed in a foreign garb, which the peasant brought with him, and which were recognised as those of Father Hieronymus. In addition, the honest Paldamo peasant produced a small copper ring, which had been found hanging by a cord on the dead man's neck.

Bertel looked at this ring with astonishment and delight.

"At last I have you!" he exclaimed, "the ring I have so long sought ... and with you the certainty of this terrible man's death."

"The judgment of the saints on the perjurer!" exclaimed Regina, awe-struck.

"The judgment of the saints, which confirms our happiness!" rejoined Bertel, and he placed on Regina's finger the King's Ring.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE KING'S RING—THE SWORD AND THE
PLOUGH—FIRE AND WATER.

Again we return to Storkyro, to Bertila's farm, and the old peasant king.

It is a March day, in the year 1635. The spring sun is already melting the snow, and the roofs drip on the sunny side; the icy crust bears one's weight on the north side of the hill, but breaks on the south. Aron Bertila has just come home from church with all his folks, his grey head is bent, and he leans on Meri's arm. At his side walk two sturdy, thick-set figures—old Larsson, and his newly arrived son, the brave and learned captain, the faithful image of his father, except in age. On the captain's arm is his young, light-hearted, and pretty little wife, whose features we recognise. It is no other than Ketchen, the courageous and merry girl, whose soft hand once made the gallant captain lose his wits. Since that day he has sworn by all the Greek and Roman authors, whom he formerly read in Abo Cathedral School, that the soft-handed novice among the Würzburg sisters of charity should some day become his. And when the vicissitudes of war again brought them together, when Ketchen was without protection, and besides, had nothing against an honest, jovial soldier, this cheerful pair were formally wedded in the autumn at Stralsund, and then went to visit their kind-hearted father in Storkyro, where they were warmly welcomed, and received like children in the house.

It must be added that Larsson had obtained his discharge from the service after much trouble, and without having a rise in rank. It is to be regretted that he had not gathered a farthing from the booty in Germany, like many of his comrades. All that he had earned—and if we can believe him, it must have amounted to millions—had taken wings; but where? At Nördlingen, he says. By no means. But in revels and sprees with jolly fellows like himself. Now he meant to be as regular and steady as a gate-post; to succeed his father as inspector of Bertila's large farms; to plough, sow, harvest, and pro modulo virium prolen copiosam in lucem proferre, as those in olden times so truly said.

Old Bertila treats him with apparent favour. Significant words have escaped the old man, and he has just given his will into the hands of the judge.

As for Meri, she has withered like a flower without roots, and clings to life only by one heart-thread: the banished, rejected Gustaf Bertel, now ennobled to Bertelskold.

This domestic circle, composed of such differing elements, both light and shadows, are now gathered in the large "stuga," surrounded by the numerous field hands, and old Larsson now tries, in secret alliance with Meri, to bring the stern peasant king to a better state of mind towards Bertel. But all their prayers and reasons break against the old man's unyielding firmness ... Larsson turns angrily away, and Meri conceals her tears in the darkest corner of the room.

Then sleigh-bells are again heard outside, as on Twelfth-day evening; a large sleigh stops in the yard, and two persons alight from it, an officer in his ample cloak, and a young and classically beautiful woman in a magnificent mantle of black velvet, lined with precious fur. Meri and old Larsson turn pale at this sight; Larsson tries to hasten out, but it is too late. Bertel and Regina enter the "stuga."

Both the Larssons and Meri surround Bertel with warm and apparently embarrassed greetings. Ketchen flies and throws herself, without thinking of the difference between her burgher dress and the costly velvet cloak, into Regina's arms, who, with emotion, clasps her faithful friend to her heart.

Bertel gently frees himself from Meri's embrace, and goes straight up to old Bertila with a firm step, who, cold and silent in his high chair at the end of the table, does not honour him with a word or glance.

All present await with dismayed looks the result of this decisive meeting. The young officer has taken off his cloak and hat, his long fair hair falls in beautiful waves around his open brow, his cheeks are very pale, but the expressive blue eyes regard the grey-haired man's iron face with a firm and steadfast look.

Bertel now, as before, bends a knee, and says in a voice at once humble and confident:

"My father!"

"Who are you? I know you not; I have no son!" said the old man in chilling tones.

"My father!" continued Bertel, without allowing himself to be checked, "I come here once more, and for the last time, to ask your forgiveness and blessing. Thrust me not from you! I am going to leave my Fatherland, to fight and perhaps die on German soil. It depends upon you whether I ever return. Remember, my father, that your blessing gives you back a son; that your curse drives him into exile for ever."

The features of the old man did not change their expression, but the tones of his voice indicated an internal struggle.

"My answer is short," he said. "I had a son; he became unworthy of me and all the principles which have governed my life. He abandoned the cause of the people to pay homage to the pernicious power which I hate and detest. I have no longer a son. I have to-day disinherited him."

The faces of all the hearers turn pale at these words. But Bertel colours slightly, and says:

"My father, I do not ask for your property. Give it to the one you consider more worthy than I. I only ask your forgiveness ... your blessing, my father."

All around the old man, except Regina, fell on their knees and exclaimed:

"Grace for Bertel! Grace for your son!"

"And if I had a son, do you believe he would for my sake give up his desire for the false distinctions of nobility? Do you think he would become a peasant like me, a man of the people, ready to live and die for their cause? Do you fancy that he would plough the earth with his fine-gloved hands and choose a wife from my station, a simple plain woman, befitting the spouse of a husbandman?"

"My father," replied Bertel, in a voice more tremulous than before, "what you ask is impossible on account of the education you have yourself bestowed on me. I honour and respect your station, but I have grown accustomed to the career of a soldier, which I neither can nor will abandon. To choose a wife to your mind is equally impossible. Here is my wife; she is a prince's daughter, but she has chosen a peasant's son for her husband; this is a proof that she will not blush to call you father."

At these words Regina humbly approached the old man as if to kiss his hand, and all rose except Bertel and his father. But the peasant king's former fiery temper now burst forth.

"Did I not say so!" he shouted. "There stands the renegade who was born a peasant, and became the servant of lords. Ha! by God! I have in my day seen much strife and defiance between the sword and the plough, but a scene like this I have never beheld. The boy who calls himself my son dares to bring before my eyes his high-born harlot and call her his wife."

Bertel sprang up and supported Regina, who nearly sank to the floor at these words.

"Old man," he said in a voice full of anger, "thank your name of father and your grey head that you have been allowed to utter what no one else should have uttered and live an hour afterwards. Here is the ring I placed on the hand of my lawfully wedded wife"—with this he took the king's ring from Regina's finger—"and I swear that her hand is as pure and worthy as that of any other mortal to wear this ring, which has for so many years been worn by the greatest of kings."

Meri's eyes stared at the ring, her pale cheeks coloured with a deep flush, and she had a violent internal struggle. Finally she stepped nearer, took and pressed the ring with ecstasy to her lips, and said in a broken voice and with an emotion so strong that it dried her tears:

"My ring which he has worn ... my ring which has protected him ... you are innocent of his death; he gave you away, and then came the bullets and death. Do you know, Gustaf Bertel, and you, his wife, the power of this ring? In my youth I one day went into the wilderness, and there found a dying man, who was languishing from thirst. I gave him a drink from the spring, and cooled his tongue with the juice of berries. He thanked me and said: 'My friend, I die, and have no other recompense to give you than this ring. I found it in former days on an image of the Holy Virgin, which alone lay uninjured in the midst of the broken fragments of Popery in Storkyro Church; and when I took the ring from its finger the image fell to dust. The ring has both the power of the saints and that of magic, for with me the greatness of the ancient occult knowledge goes into the silence. He who wears this ring is secure against fire, water, steel, and all kinds of dangers, on the sole condition that he never swears a false oath, for that destroys the power of the ring; with this ring goes happiness in peace, and victory in war; love, honour, and wealth; and when it is worn by three successive generations, from father to son, then from that family shall come brilliant statesmen and generals...'"

Here Meri paused; all listened with intense expectation.

"But," she added, "if the ring is worn by six generations one after the other, then a mighty royal house will spring from that family. 'But,' said the old man to me, 'you ought to know that great dangers accompany great gifts. False oaths and family enmity will constantly tempt the owner of the ring, and thus endeavour to neutralise its power; pride and inordinate ambition will constantly work within him to prepare his fall, and a great steadfastness in the right path will be necessary, joined with a meek and humble heart, to vanquish these temptations. He who wears this ring will enjoy all the prosperity of the world, and only have to conquer himself; but he will also be the most formidable enemy of his own happiness. All this is signified: by the letters, R.R.R., which are engraved on the inside of the ring, and interpreted thus: Rex Regi Rebellis—the king rebellious against the king; the happiest, the mightiest among men, has to fear the greatest danger within himself.'"

"And this ring, O Regina, is ours!" exclaimed Bertel, with both fear and joy. "What a wealth and what a responsibility goes with this ring."

"Power! Honour! Immortality!" caed Regina with transport.

"Beware, my daughter!" said Meri sadly. "Behind these words lie the greatest dangers."

Old Bertila looked at the ring and the young people with a contemptuous smile.

"False gold!" he said. "Vanity! Useless ornament! False ambition! This is a worthy gift to go in inheritance from generation to generation among the nobility. Come, Larsson the younger, you, who are also of peasant origin, and who wish to return to your station, although you too have been a soldier. I will give you something which is neither gold or a useless ornament, but which will bring you more blessings than all the kings' rings in the world. Take my old axe with the oak handle from the wall there; yes, fear not, there is no magic in that; my father forged it with his own hand, in Gustaf Vasa's time. With it father and I have felled many a heavy tree in the forests, and cleared many a field. May it pass in inheritance within your family, and I promise you that he who possesses my axe shall be blessed with happiness and contentment of mind in his honest labour."

"Thanks, thanks, Father Bertila," answered the captain joyfully, and, with an air of importance, tried the edge of the old man's axe. "If we took a fancy to engrave any inscription on it, I should propose R.R.R., Ruris Rusticus Robustus, which is to say briefly: 'The deuce, what a big, bulky chopper! a very beautiful and intellectual saying among those in olden times."

Larsson the elder now considered the opportunity at hand to give the bitter contest a more amicable turn. He stepped up to old Bertila, leading by the hands the two newly married pairs, and said:

"Dear old friend, let us not meddle in the Lord's business. Your boy and mine are a couple of great rascals, that is granted; but are they to blame that our Lord created one of them of fire and the other of water? Bertel is like a flame—burning hot, ambitious, high-reaching, brilliant, ephemeral, and I will bet anything that his little wife is of the same sort. My boy, here, is of the purest water."

"Stop!" cried the captain. "Water has never been my weak side!"

"Hold your tongue! My boy is the clear water ... flowing and unstable, contentedly keeping itself to the ground, and created especially to put out the other youngster's poetical blaze with its prosaic philosophy. As for his wife, she is of the same stuff. Do you not see, Bertila, that our Lord has intended the boys for friends? ... the fire to warm the water, and the water to quench the fire ... and you would make them enemies by taking from one and giving to the other. No, Bertila, do not do it, this is my advice; give your son what belongs to him; my son will not starve for want of it."

Bertila remained silent for a moment. Then he said vehemently:

"Do not teach me the meaning of the Lord. Can you believe that he, the fresh-baked nobleman, whom you compare with the fire, could be induced to give away the ring and take the axe in its place?"

"Never!" excitedly exclaimed Bertel.

Meri seized his hand, and looked beseechingly at him.

"Give away the ring," she said. "You know some of its dangers, but there is still one which I, from anguish, have not mentioned. All who wear this ring will die a violent death."

"What then!" exclaimed Bertel. "The death of the soldier on the battlefield is grand, and full of honour. I do not ask a better one."

"Just listen to him," said Bertila bitterly. "I knew it; he runs after fame even to the grave. A peaceful death or a peaceful life is an abomination to him; but you, Larsson, tell me: have you a desire to give away the axe and take the ring?"

"H'm!" thoughtfully replied the captain; "if the ring were of gold, I might sell it in town and get a good cask of ale for the money. But as it is only of copper ... pshaw! I send it to the deuce, and keep the axe, which is at least useful for cutting wood."

"Well done!" said Bertila; "you are sprinkling water on fire, as your father said. It is not I who have made fire and water eternally hostile to each other. Come, Larsson, you, the sound, common-sense, practical man, be my son, and one day take my farms when I am no longer here. My blessing on you and your descendants. May they multiply, and work like ants on the land, and may there be eternal hostility between them and the nobility, the people with the fiery temperament. May there be war and not peace between them and you until the useless glitter disappears from humanity. May the axe and the ring live in open feud until both are melted in the same heat. When this happens after a century or more, then it will be time to say, class distinctions have seen their last days, and a man's merit is his only coat of arms."

"But, my father," exclaimed Bertel in an entreating voice, "have you then no blessing to give me, and my posterity, at the moment when we separate for ever?"