CHAPTER VIII.

NÜRNBERG AND LÜTZEN.

The incidents of the campaign followed each other quickly, like wave after wave on a stormy sea, and history compressed into a narrow frame is obliged to pursue the same course. Hence we must hurry over these marvellous occurrences and into a still more extraordinary period, to find the thread of our story, "The King's Ring," which passes through ages and the destinies of great characters.

The terrible Wallenstein had become reconciled to the emperor, and gathering a formidable army, turned like a dark cloud upon the rich city of Nürnberg. Gustaf Adolf cut short his victorious career in Bavaria, and hurried to meet him; and here the two armies remained in entrenched camps facing each other for eleven weeks—the panther and the lion, ready to spring, sharply watched each other's movements. The surrounding country was stripped bare to provide for the wants of the two hosts, and foraging parties were constantly dispatched to more remote places to get supplies. Among the Imperialists those mostly employed in this task were Isolani's Croats; the Swedes generally sent Taupadel's dragoons and Stälhandske's Finnish cavalry.

Famine, heat, and plague, and the plundering German soldiers, spread want and misery everywhere. Gustaf Adolf, having united himself with Oxenstjerna's and Baner's forces, could now muster 50,000 men. On the 24th of August, 1632, he marched against Wallenstein, who stood behind impregnable entrenchments. Long before daylight the thunder of Torstensson's guns was heard against Alte Veste. In the darkness of the night 500 musketeers of the white brigade were climbing up the steep redoubts, and reached the tops under a terrible fire. For a moment victory seemed to reward their strenuous efforts; confusion reigned amongst the half-awakened enemy; the cries of the women, and the fire from the Swedes, added to the disorder, and made the attack easy. But Wallenstein, calm and unmoved, sent away the women, and directed a murderous fire on the assailants. The brave brigade was driven back with heavy losses. The king, however, would not give way; once more the white brigade renewed the attack; but in vain. Gustaf Adolf then called his Finns, for, as Schiller relates, "the courage of the Northmen puts the Germans to shame." It was the East Bothnians in the ranks of the Swedish brigade. Death stared them in the face in the form of hundreds of guns; with unsurpassed courage and determination they climbed up the entrenchments, slippery with rain and blood. But against these strong works and the deadly fire, nothing could prevail; in the midst of death and destruction they tried again to reach the top of the redoubts, but in vain; those who escaped the shot and pikes were hurled back; for the first time one saw Gustaf Adolf's Finns retreat; and the attempts made by the other troops were also in vain. The Imperialists hastened out in pursuit, but were driven back; again they sallied forth with the same result. With heavy losses on both sides the battle continued all day, and many of the bravest commanders were killed. The angel of death again sent a bullet towards the king, but it only touched the sole of his boot.

The Imperial cavalry fought with the Swedish on the left flank. Cronenberg, with his cuirassiers, clad in iron mail from head to feet, who were called "the invincibles," overthrew the Hessians. The Landgrave of Hessen remarked with anger that the king by the sacrifice of the German troops tried to save his own.

"Very well," said Gustaf Adolf, "I will send my Finns, and hope that the change of troops will bring a change of fortune."

Stälhandske, with the Finns, was now sent against Cronenberg and his invincibles. A grand contest, which will never be forgotten, then started between these two powerful forces; on the shore of the River Regnitz, which was covered with bushes, these troops met in conflict, man to man, horse to horse; swords were blunted on helmets, long pistols flashed, and many a brave horseman was driven into the river. The Finns' horses were hardier than the beautiful Hungarian chargers, and thus they shared in the victory. The brave Cronenberg fell, and his invincibles then fled from the Finns. In his place, Fugger appeared with a great force, and drew the Finns in continuous battle slowly towards the enemy in the forest. But here the Imperialists were met with the fire from the Swedish infantry. Fugger fell, and his horsemen were again routed by the exhausted Finns.

At the close of the day more than three thousand killed covered the hills and the fields. "In the battle at Alte Veste, Gustaf Adolf was considered worsted, because the attack failed," says Schiller. The following day he altered his position, and on the 8th of September he marched away to Bavaria. Forty-four thousand men, both friends and foes, had been destroyed by plague and war during these terrible weeks in and around Nürnberg.

* * * * *

The darkness of the autumn increased, and its fogs covered the blood-stained fields of Germany, and still the battles did not cease. Here it was ordained that only one great spirit should find everlasting rest, after many storms, and pass from life's dark night to eternal light. The angel of death came closer over Gustaf Adolf's noble head, and threw over him a gleam of light from a higher world, which is sometimes seen shining around the great souls of the earth in their last moments. The bystanders do not understand it, but the departing ones know what it means. Two days before his death, Gustaf Adolf received the homage of a god from the people of Naumburg, but through his soul fled the shadow of the coming change, and he said to the royal chaplain, Fabricius:

"Perhaps God will soon punish them for their foolishness, and myself also, the object of it; and show that I am only a weak mortal."

The king had marched into Saxony to follow the traces of the destructive Wallenstein. At Arnstadt he bade farewell to Axel Oxenstjerna; in Erfurt he said good-bye to the queen. There, and in Naumburg, one could see by his arrangements that he was prepared for what would come. Wallenstein, who thought he had gone into winter quarters, sent Pappenheim away to Halle with 12,000 men; he himself stood at Lützen with 28,000, and the king was in Naumburg with 20,000 men.

But on the 4th of November, when Gustaf Adolf heard of Pappenheim's departure, he broke up his camp and hurried to surprise his weakened enemy, in which he would have succeeded if he had made his attack on the 5th. But Providence had thrown in the way of his victorious career a small obstacle, the brook Rippach, which with many newly ploughed fields delayed his march. It was late in the evening on the 5th of November when the king approached Lützen; thus Wallenstein had time, and he knew how to make use of it. Along the broad road to Leipzig he deepened the ditches, and made redoubts on both sides, which he filled with his best sharpshooters, and it was decided that with their cross-fire they could destroy the attacking Swedes.

The king's war council advised him not to make the attack; Duke Bernhard was the only one who advised him to the contrary, and the king shared his opinion, "because," he said, "it is necessary to wash one's self perfectly clean once you are in the bath."

The night was dull and dark. The king spent it in an old carriage with Kniephausen and Duke Bernhard. His restless soul had time to think of everything, and then history says, he drew from the forefinger of his right hand a small copper ring, and gave it to Duke Bernhard, and asked him to give it to a young officer in his Finnish cavalry, in case anything should happen to himself.

Early in the morning Gustaf Adolf rode out to inspect the positions of his troops. He was dressed in a buff waistcoat made of elk's skin, and wore a grey great coat over it; when he was told to wear harness on a day like this, he replied:

"God is my armour."

A heavy mist delayed the attack. At dawn the whole army sang a hymn. The fog continued, and the king began another hymn, which he had written himself just before. He then rode along the lines, calling out:

"To-day, boys, we shall put an end to all our trouble;" and his horse stumbled twice as he said this.

The fog did not clear off till eleven o'clock through a strong breeze. The Swedish army at once advanced to the attack; under the king in the right wing was Stälhandske and the Finns, next came the Swedish troops; in the centre were the Swedish yellow and green brigades, commanded by Nils Brahe; on the left wing the German cavalry, under Duke Bernhard. Against the duke was Colloredo, with his strong cavalry, while in the centre was Wallenstein, with four heavy columns of infantry and seven cannon in front; against Stälhandske stood Isolani, with his wild but brave Croats. The war-cries on both sides were the same as at Breitenfeld. When the king ordered the attack he clasped his hands, and cried out:

"Jesus, help me to-day to fight for the glory of Thy Holy Name!"

The Imperialists started firing, and the Swedish army advanced and suffered heavy losses from the beginning. At last the Swedish centre passed the redoubts, took the seven guns, and routed the two first brigades of the enemy. The third was preparing for flight when Wallenstein rallied them. The Swedish left wing was attacked by the cavalry, and the Finns, who had sent the Croats and the Polacks flying, had not yet reached the redoubts. The king then rushed to the front with the troops from Smaländ; but only a few were well-mounted enough to follow him. It is said that an Imperial musketeer fired at him with a silver bullet; it is true that the king's left arm was smashed, and that he tried to conceal his wound; but soon he became so weak from loss of blood, that he asked the Duke of Lauenburg, who was riding by his side, to bring him unseen out of the battle.

In the midst of the conflict Gotz's cuirassiers rushed forward, and at the head of them was Moritz von Falkenberg, who recognised the king and fired point-blank at him, crying out:

"I have long sought for you!"

Soon afterwards Falkenberg himself fell from a bullet. The king was shot underneath the heart, and reeled in his saddle; he told the duke to save his own life; the latter had placed his arm around the king's waist to support him, but the next moment the rush of the enemy had separated them. The duke's hair was singed by the close discharge of a pistol, and the king's horse was wounded in the throat and staggered. The king sunk from the saddle, and was dragged a short distance along the ground; his foot caught in the stirrup. The young page, Leubelfingen, from Nürnberg, offered him his horse, but could not raise him up. Some of the Imperialists now came to the spot, and inquired who the wounded man was, and when Leubelfingen would not reply, one of them ran him through with a sword-thrust, while another shot the king through the head; others then shot at them, and both remained on the field. But Leubelfingen lived for a few days afterwards, to relate for the benefit of future generations the never-to-be-forgotten sad death of the great hero, Gustaf Adolf.

In the meantime the Swedish centre was driven back, the battlefield was covered with thousands of mutilated corpses, and they had not yet gained a foot of ground. Both the armies occupied nearly the same positions as before the battle. The king's wounded horse was then seen galloping between the lines, with an empty saddle, covered with blood.

"The king has fallen!"

As Schiller has so beautifully put it, "Life was not worth anything, when the most holy of all lives had ceased to exist; death no longer had any terror for the lowliest, since it had not spared this royal head."

Duke Bernhard flew from line to line, saying, "Swedes, Finns, and Germans, yours, ours, and Freedom's protector has fallen. Well then, those who love the king will rush forward to avenge his death."

The first to obey this order was Stälhandske, with the Finns; with great difficulty they crossed the ditches and drove the enemy in front of them; before their terrific onslaught all fell or fled. Isolani turned back and attacked the baggage train, but was again routed. The centre of the Swedish army advanced under Brahe, and Duke Bernhard, disregarding his wounded arm, took one of the enemy's batteries. The whole of the Imperial army was broken by this terrible attack; its ammunition wagons exploded; Wallenstein's orders, and brave Piccolomini's efforts, could not stay the rout. Just then a joyful cry arose from the battlefield: "Pappenheim is here!" and this leader, the bravest of the brave, appeared with his horsemen; his first question was, "Where is the King of Sweden?" Someone pointed to the Finns, and Pappenheim rushed to the spot. Here began a terrible battle. The Imperialists, filled with new courage, turned back and attacked on three sides at once. Not a man of the Swedes gave ground. Brahe died with the yellow brigade, who fell nearly to the last man; Winckel with the blue, died in the same order, man for man, as they stood in the ranks. The rest of the Swedish infantry slowly retreated, and victory seemed to smile on the destructive Pappenheim.

But he, the Ajax of his time, the man of a hundred scars, did not live to see success. In the first attack on the Finns, a falconet bullet smashed his hip; and two musket balls pierced his chest; it was also said that Stälhandske wounded him with his own hand. He fell, but still in death rejoiced over Gustaf Adolf's fall, and the news of his loss spread consternation amongst the Imperialists.

"Pappenheim is dead; everything is lost!"

Once more the Swedes advanced; Duke Bernhard, Kniephausen, and Stälhandske, performed prodigies of valour. But Piccolomini, with six wounds, mounted his seventh horse, and fought with more than mortal valour; the Imperialist centre held its ground, and only the darkness stopped the battle. Wallenstein retired, and the exhausted Swedish army encamped on the battlefield. Nine thousand slain covered the field of Lützen.

The result of this battle was disastrous to the Imperialists. They had lost all their artillery; Pappenheim and Wallenstein had lost their invincible names. The latter raged with anger; he executed the cowards with the same facility as he bestowed gold on the brave. Ill and disheartened he retired with the rest of his army to Bohemia, where the stars were his nightly companions, and treacherous plans his only solace; and his death from Buttler's hand was the end of his glorious life.

A thrill of joy passed over the whole Catholic world, because the faith of Luther and the Swedes had lost a great deal more than their enemies.

The arm was paralyzed which had so powerfully wielded the victorious sword of light and freedom; the grief of the Protestants was deep and universal, mixed with fear for the future. It was not for nothing that the Te Deum was sung in the churches of Vienna, Brussels, and Madrid; twelve days' bull-fighting gratified Madrid on account of the dreaded hero's fall. But it is said that the Emperor Ferdinand, who was greater than the men of his time, shed bitter tears at the sight of his slain enemy's bloody buff waistcoat.

Many stories circulated about the great Gustaf Adolf's death. Duke Franz Albert of Lauenburg, Richelieu, and Duke Bernhard, were all said to have had a share in his fall; but none of these surmises have been verified by history. A later German author tells the following popular story:

"Gustaf Adolf, King of Sweden, received in his youth, from a young woman whom he loved, a ring of iron, which he ever afterwards wore. The ring was composed of seven circles, which formed the letters Gustaf Adolf. Seven days before his death he missed the ring."

The reader knows that the threads of this story are tied to the same ring, but we have several reasons for saying that this ring was made of copper.

On the evening after the battle, Duke Bernhard sent his soldiers with torches to find the king's body; and they found it plundered and hardly recognisable under heaps of slain. It was taken to the village of Meuchen, and there embalmed. The soldiers were all allowed to see the dead body of their king and leader. Bitter tears were here shed, but tears full of pride, for even the lowest considered it an honour to have fought by the side of such a hero.

"See," said one of Stälhandske's old Finns, loudly sniffing, "they have stolen his golden chain and his copper ring; I still see the white mark on his forefinger."

"Why should they care about a copper ring?" asked a Scotchman, who had lately joined the army, and had not heard the stories which passed from man to man.

"His ring!" said a Pomeranian. "Be sure that the Jesuits knew what is was good for. The ring was charmed by a Finnish witch, and as long as the king wore it, he could not be hurt by steel or lead."

"But see to-day he has lost it, and therefore—you understand."

"What is that fruit-eating Pomeranian saying?" said the Finn angrily. "The power of the Almighty, and nothing else, has protected our great king, but the ring was given to him long ago by a young Finnish girl, whom he loved in his youth; I know more about this than you do."

Duke Bernhard, who, sad and sorrowful, was watching the king's pale features, turned round at these words; he put his sound hand underneath his open buff waistcoat, and said to the Finn:

"Comrade, do you know one of Stälhandske's officers named Bertel?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Is he alive?"

"No, your grace."

The duke turned to another and gave several orders abstractedly. A few moments later, when he again looked at the king, he seemed to remember something.

"Was he a brave man?" he asked.

"He was one of Stälhandske's horsemen!" said the Finn with great pride.

"When did he fall, and where?"

"In the last struggle with the Pappenheimers."

"Go and search for him."

The duke's order was promptly obeyed by these exhausted soldiers, who had reason to wonder why one of the youngest officers should be searched for this night, when Nils Brahe, Winckel, and many other old leaders were lying uncared for in their blood on the battlefield. It was nearly morning when the searchers returned and reported that Bertel's dead body could not be found anywhere.

"Hum!" said the duke discontentedly; "great men have sometimes funny ideas. What shall I now do with the king's ring?"

The November sun rose blood-red over the field of Lützen. A new time had come; the Master had left, and the disciples had now to carry out his work alone.

II.—THE SWORD AND THE PLOUGH.

Silence reigned after the conclusion of the narrative; everyone was thinking of the great hero's fall, and not realising that the tale was ended. The old grandmother sat on the stuffed sofa in her brown woollen shawl, and near her the schoolmaster, Svenonius, with his blue handkerchief and brass spectacles. Captain Svanholm, the postmaster, who had lost a finger in the last war, was on the right; on the left pretty Anne Sophie, eighteen years old, with a high tortoise-shell comb in her long brown hair; and around them, on the floor or on stools, sat six or seven playful children, with mouths now wide open, as if they had heard a ghost story.

The first to disturb the silence was Anne Sophie, who sprang with a cry from her chair, stumbled, and fell into the schoolmaster's arms.

The entranced company, who were still at Lützen, were as much disturbed by this interruption as if Isolani's Croats had suddenly broken into the room. The postmaster, still in the midst of the battle, sprang up and trod heavily upon old grandma's sore foot with his iron heel. The schoolmaster was quite upset, not at all realising the value of the burden in his arms—perhaps the first and also the prettiest in his whole life; the children fled in all directions, and some crept behind the surgeon's high chair. But Andreas, who had just followed the Finnish cavalry in their charge over the trenches, seized the surgeon's silver-headed Spanish cane, and prepared to receive the Croats at the point of the bayonet. Old Bäck was undisturbed; he produced his tobacco box, bit off a piece, and mildly said, "What is the matter with you, Anne Sophie?" The latter freed herself, blushing and embarrassed, from the schoolmaster's arms, and declaring that someone had pricked her with a pin, looked around for the culprit.

Old grandma, always quick to scent out mischief, immediately practised a method, and discovered that Jonathan had inserted a pin at the top of his rattan, and therewith upset his eldest sister, with the results just indicated. The punishment, like that under martial law, was quick and short, and Jonathan had then to retire to the nursery, and learn an extra lesson for the next day.

When the principal power had thus restored order without bloodshed, the company began to talk of the surgeon's story.

"It is too violent a tale, my dear cousin," said the old grandmother, whilst looking at the teller with one of those mild and speaking glances, which captured all hearts with their expression of intelligence and sympathy; "altogether too turbulent. It seems to me that I still hear the noise of the cannon. War is frightful and detestable, when we consider all the blood shed on the battlefield, and all the tears at home. When will the day arrive when men, instead of destroying each other, will share the earth and our Lord's good gifts together in Harmony and Universal Brotherhood?"

Now the postmaster's martial spirit rose in arms.

"Peace? Share? No war? Pshaw! cousin, pshaw! would you make an ant's nest of the world? What a state of things! Scribblers would smother everything with ink; cowards and petty tyrants would sit on honest men; and when one nation domineered over another, people would lowly bow, thank them, and act like sheep. No; the devil take me! men like Gustaf Adolf and Napoleon move nations and things; they tap a little blood which has been spoilt by gross living, and then the world improves. I still remember the 21st of August, at Karstula; Fieandt stood on the left, and I at the right——"

"If I may interrupt the speech of my honoured brother," said the schoolmaster, who had heard this story one hundred and seventy times before, "I would prove that the world would progress much better through spilling ink than blood. Inter arma silent leges. In war times we could not sit here by the fire, and drink our toddy in Bäck's room; we should be serving a cannon on the ramparts; linstock in hand, instead of a glass; powder in our pouches, and not even a pinch of snuff. Ink has made you, brother, a postmaster; in ink you live and have your being; ink brings your daily bread, and what would you be with blood alone, and no ink, may I ask?

"What should I be? Devils and heretics ... I?"

"Cousin Svanholm!" said the old grandmother, with a warning glance at the children.

The postmaster stopped at once. The surgeon saw the necessity of re-establishing peace and concord.

"I think," he said, "that nations go through the world like the individuals of which they are composed. In youth they are wild and passionate, fight, rage, and tear each other to pieces. When older and wiser, they invent gunpowder, place host against host, and let them destroy each other in cold blood at long distances. Finally the world comes to reason, and seizes the pen which is very sharp when necessary. And then begins the reign of universal knowledge, which is certainly the best, according to my mind."

"It would be ... seven devils ... all right, cousin, I will be as quiet as a wall," said the postmaster. "I only ask what kind of a man was Gustaf Adolf? What kind of a man was Napoleon? Were they only birthday eaters of sweetmeats? What do you think? Were they fools or savages? I pray you. Do you hear, cousin? I do not swear, cousin; you should have heard Fieandt, how devilishly he swore at Karstula."

The surgeon continued, without paying any attention to the postmaster.

"Therefore, the youthful history of all nations begins with war, and the first soldier in the world's company was called Cain. But as war is as old as the world, it is likely to exist as long as it lasts. I do not believe in the new ideas about a perpetual peace. I believe that as long as human hearts retain selfish desires, the curse of war will prevail. Eternal peace consists in no longer fighting blindly, slavishly, as before, but with glad courage comprehending the reason why, and for a righteous cause; then one can hack away with right goodwill."

"Then we should always fight for an idea," said the schoolmaster thoughtfully.

"That's it, for an idea. It is to the honour of the Finnish soldier that with one exception he has always fought for the defence of his fatherland. Then he has gone out to fight on foreign soil; and our Lord has mercifully chosen that this should be for the greatest and most righteous cause of all, namely, to defend the pure Protestant faith and freedom of conscience for the whole world. The Finn was proud to know this in the Thirty Years' War. He felt within himself that his heart was the same as Gustaf Adolf's, who, I think, was the greatest general who ever lived, whilst he fought and won victories for one of the few causes that are worth bleeding for."

"Tell us more about Gustaf Adolf!" exclaimed Andreas, who could think only of that one name.

"Dear uncle, a little more about Gustaf Adolf," chimed in the rest of the children, who, with the greatest trouble, had been held in check by grandma's admonitions and sister Anne Sophie.

"Thank you. No. The great king is dead, and we will allow him to peacefully slumber in the royal vault of the church at Riddarholm, Stockholm. And if the story in future loses something from this, it will also gain something, namely, that the other characters will become more prominent. Hitherto, we have been compelled to almost exclusively fix our eyes on the heroic king, and grandmother was right in saying that we have been deafened by the thunder of the cannon. Thus, Lady Regina, and the Jesuit, and especially Bertel, who is the real hero, have all been kept in the background."

"And Ketchen," said the grandmother; "for my part, I would like much to know more of the good, charming child. I will leave Regina alone, but this I will maintain that such a black-eyed wild cat, who would tear one's eyes out at any moment, cannot come to any good."

"And the lordly Count of Lichtenstein, whom we have not heard of lately," added Sophie. "I am certain he will become Regina's betrothed."

"Aha! little cousin listens with delight to that part of it," said the postmaster with a sly smile. "But say, brother Bäck, do not busy yourself with sentimentalities; let us hear more about Stälhandske, the stout little Larsson, and the Tavastlander Vitikka. How the d——l did the man get along without ears? I remember to this day, that on the 21st of August, there was a corporal at Karstula——"

"Brother Bäck," interrupted the schoolmaster, "who has justitia mundi, the sword of justice in his hand, will not fail to hoist the Jesuit Hieronymus up to the top of the highest pine on the Hartz mountains."

"Take care, brother Svenonius," retorted the post-master maliciously, "the Jesuit was very learned, and knew a heap of Latin."

"I will tell you what I know about the Finns," said the surgeon; "but I assure you beforehand that it is altogether too little. Wait ten or twenty years longer, when some industrious man will take the trouble to glean from the old chronicles our brave countrymen's exploits."

"And what became of the king's ring?"

"Why, that we shall hear to-morrow evening."

CHAPTER I.

A MAN FROM THE PEASANTS' WAR.

Beyond the fertile plains of Germany a wild sea extends itself towards the north, whose shores are annually covered with the ice of winter, and whose straits have sometimes borne entire armies on their ice-bridges. For ages the surrounding nations have fought for the possession of this sea; but at the time of our story the greatest power in the north triumphed over nine-tenths of its wide shores, the Baltic had almost become a Swedish lake; stretching its mighty blue arms north and east, it folded in its embrace a daughter of the sea, a land which had arisen from its bosom, and elevated its granite rocks high above its mother's heart. Finland is the most favoured child of the Baltic; she empties her treasures into the lap of her mother, and the great sea does not disdain the offering, but withdraws lovingly and tenderly like an indulgent mother, that her daughter may develop, and every season clothes the shores with grass and flowers. Fortunate the land which lulls to sleep in its bosom the waters of a thousand lakes, and stretches one hundred and forty Swedish miles along the shore. The sea bears power, freedom, and enlightenment; the ocean is an active civilising element in the world; and a sea communicating nation can never stagnate in need and under oppression except by its own fault.

Far away in the north of Finland a region exists which more than any other is the fostered child of the sea, for from time unknown it has risen with a gentle slope from the waters. Numerous green isles rise along this coast. "In my youth," says the grey-haired old salt, "fine ships floated where now the water is quite shallow, and in a few years the cattle will graze on the former sea-bottom. The playing child launches its little boat from the beach; look around you, little one, and see well the point where the waters trace their edges; when you become a man, you will look in vain for your present strand—beyond the green fields you will hear their distant murmur; and when you are an old man, a village may appear on the spot once occupied by the waves." A strange region, where the towns built hard by deep sounds and tributaries, are twelve miles from the waters in two hundred years, while the keels and anchors of vessels are drawn up from the bogs fifty miles inland.

This region is East Bothnia; greater than many kingdoms, and extending to the verge of Lapland in the north, where the sun never sets at midsummer, and never rises during the Christmas darkness.

Nature is awake for three months of the year in an unbroken day, and then at midnight you can read the finest print; three months of night, but a night of moonlight and glittering snow—clear, cold, and solemn. The flower's beauty perishes sooner there than human joy; for seven months the plains are covered with snow and the lakes with solid ice; but never is spring more delightful than such a winter; still a melancholy mingles with this joy, which the heart well understands.

Two races live on the coasts of this land, unmixed and unlike; a variegated picture of national and local peculiarities of language and habits; one parish sharply contrasting with another. Certain common traits exist, however, which all present. It is not a historical accident that the greatest and bloodiest battles of Finland have been fought on the soil of East Bothnia.

Twenty-five miles east of Vasa, on the banks of Kyro River, is the rich Storkyro parish—the granary of East Bothnia. Here grows the well-known rye-seed, which is exported in large quantities to Sweden. The parish presents a plain of waving grain-fields, from which arose the saying, "that Storkyro fields and Limingo meadows have no equals in length and breadth." The people are Finns, of Tavastlandish origin in remote times. Their old church, built in 1304, is one of the oldest in the country.

We now ask our reader to follow us there. At the time of our story this region was badly cultivated, compared with later times. The ravages of the Peasants' War had retarded its growth, so that for a generation traces of this disastrous struggle were visible, whilst other wars, with heavy conscriptions, prevented time from healing these wounds. Hence, in the summer of 1632, many farmhouses still stood empty; the grain-fields did not spread far from the river banks, and unhealthy fogs covered the country when the nights were cool. The forests, then already thinned, still yielded fuel for the tar pits; part of the peasantry fished among the Michel Islands, and the worthy pastor, Herr Georgius Thomoe Patur, had not then, like his present successor, a yearly income of 4,000 silver roubles. Therefore the eye lingered with delight on Bertila's farmhouse close to the church, finer and better built than any of the others, and surrounded by the most fertile fields.

The summer had advanced to the middle of August, and the harvesting had just begun. More than sixty persons, men, women, and children—for the East Bothnian peasant women work the whole summer out of doors—were busily cutting the golden rye, which they gathered into sheaves and placed with skilful hands in high, handsome ricks. The day was hot, and the stooping posture of the work wearisome; so it often happened that the petted boys amongst the reapers threw longing glances at the soft grass round the edge of the field, which evidently seemed intended for a resting-place. At the same time they did not forget to look for the overseer, an old man in a loose, grey homespun jacket. Whenever anyone stopped, he heard his neighbour whisper, "Larsson is coming!" which had an instantaneous effect, like the stroke of a whip.

But Larsson, a small man, between whose bushy head and eyebrows a good-hearted look glanced forth, was now concerned with one of the women, who, on account of the heat and work, had sunk to the ground.

Judging from her features this woman was no longer young; perhaps about thirty-six; but to look at her slender figure, and the mild sympathetic expression of her blue eyes, she seemed no more than twenty. She exhibited a rare but prematurely faded beauty, with much suffering and resignation. She wore a fine white flannel jacket, which being thrown aside on account of the sun, showed sleeves of the finest linen, a red bodice, like the peasantry wore, with a short striped woollen skirt, and a little plaid handkerchief tied around her head, to support her long flaxen hair. She had worked hard, but her strength was insufficient; she had fallen with her scythe in her hand, and those nearest to her, with respect and love, had carried her to the soft turf, and tried with fresh water from the spring to bring her back to life.

"There now, Meri!" said old Larsson with fatherly sympathy, as he held the fainting woman's head on his knees and bathed her forehead with cold water; "there, my child, don't be foolish enough to die and leave your old friend; what joy would he then have on earth? ... She cannot hear me, poor child! Who ever had such a father as hers? To compel this delicate thing to work in such heat! ... Drink a little—that's right ... it is very good of you; now open your lovely eyes once more. Do not trouble, Meri; we will go to the house, and you shall not work any more to-day."

The pale and delicate creature endeavoured to rise and seize her sickle.

"Thank you, Larsson," she said in a low but melodious voice, "I am better now. I will work; father washes it."

"Father wishes it!" exclaimed the old man testily. "You see, I do not; I forbid you to work. Even if your father turned me out of doors, and I had to beg my bread, you should not work any more to-day. Well, well, my child, don't take it so hard; your father is not so foolish. He knows that you are not strong; you are like your dead mother, who was a lady by birth, and from your education in Stockholm ... There, there; let us go home; don't be obstinate now, Meri!"

"Let me go, Larsson; see, he comes himself!" cried Meri, tearing herself free and grasping the scythe, with which she again tried to mow the golden rye. But as she stooped down, it grew dark before her eyes, and for the second time she sank fainting between the waving stalks.

At that instant the efforts of all the workers redoubled; he approached in person, the severe and dreaded owner of Bertila farm. Like a gloomy shadow he came slowly along the path—a tall old man of seventy, but little bent by age. His costume was the same as that of the peasants in summer: wide shirt-sleeves, a long red-striped vest, short linen pantaloons, blue stockings, and bark-shoes. He wore a high pointed cap of red yarn on his white head, which made his tall figure still more imposing. In spite of his simple costume, his whole bearing was commanding. The decided carriage, sharp penetrating look, resolute expression, love of authority around the tightly drawn upper lip, indicated the former political leader and the rich and powerful land-owner, accustomed to rule over many hundreds of subordinates. Seeing this old man, one understood why he was known in many neighbouring parishes as the Peasant King.

Cold and calm, old Aron Bertila approached the spot where his only daughter lay in a dead faint.

"Put her in the hay-wagon and take her up to the house," he said. "In two hours she will be back to her work."

"But, Bertila!" exclaimed Larsson excitedly.

Bertila looked round with a glance before which the other quailed; then he stalked on through the field as if nothing had occurred, observing with a keen eye the labours of the reapers; here and there breaking off an ear and closely examining the number and weight of the seeds. From the barn the whole harvest-field was visible; it was new, and more than a hundred acres in extent. The old man looked with great pride on the waving sea of golden ears; his carriage became more erect, his breast expanded, as he beckoned Larsson to him.

"Do you remember this tract thirty-four years ago, when Fleming's cavalry scoured the country like savages, the village lay in ruins, and the fields were trampled down by the horses' hoofs. Here, close to the village, was the desert; naked, charred stumps stood between mud puddles and quagmires; no road or path led here, and even the forest wolves avoided the desolate spot."

"I remember it well," said Larsson in a monotonous tone.

"Look now around, old friend, and say. Who rebuilt this village, more lovely than ever before? Who tilled this wilderness, made roads and paths, measured the land, drained the morass, ploughed this fertile soil, and sowed this great field which now waves in the breeze, and will soon supply hundreds of human beings with its harvest? Say, Larsson, who is the man who did this mighty work?" and the old man's eyes flamed with enthusiasm.

But the little, plump person at his side seemed to be possessed with quite another feeling. He humbly took off his old hat, clasped his hands, and earnestly said,

"Nothing is he who sows; nothing is he who waters; God alone gives the growth!"

Bertila, absorbed in thought, heeded him not, and continued,

"Yes, by God! I have seen evil times, days of want, misery, and despair, which the sword brought upon earth, and I have myself drawn the weapon to destroy my enemies. I have had victory and defeat, both to my injury. Hence I can rejoice in the work of peace. I know the fruit of the sword, and what the plough produces. In the sword lurks a spirit of evil, which revels in blood and tears; the sword kills and destroys, but the plough gives life and happiness. You see, Larsson, the plough has made this field. Over at Korsholm is the Finnish coat of arms, a lion with a naked sword. Were I king, I would say, Away with the sword and take the plough. The latter is the true weapon of Finland; if we possess bread we have plenty of arms; with arms we can drive our enemies from our homes. But without bread, Larsson, what use is steel and powder to us?"

"Bertila," said Larsson, "you are a singular man. You hate war, but that I understand; in war they burnt your farm, and drove your first wife and her little children into the woods to perish. You yourself have fought at the head of the peasantry, and barely escaped the blood bath on Ilmola's ice. Such things are not easily forgotten; but what I cannot comprehend is, that you, a friend of the peasants, a soldier hater, first took me, an old starving soldier, as overseer on your farm, then equipped my Lasse—God bless the boy—for the war, and finally sent your own grandson, Meri's child, little Gösta,* yet beardless, to the field among the king's cavalry."

* From Gustaf.

Old Bertila's look darkened. Some sensitive chord had been touched, and he glanced around as if he feared a listener behind the barn walls.

"Who dares to speak to me of Meri's child?" he said in a low tone. "I know none other than my son Gösta, born of my second wife during the journey to Stockholm; and God be merciful unto you if ever ... Let us forget that matter. Why I took you? Why I sent your boy into the field? H'm! it does not concern anyone."

"Well, keep it to yourself; I know too much already."

"Tell me, if you can, Larsson, what constituents are required for an honest Christian Government?"

Larsson looked at him with surprise.

"I will tell you. The sword has two parts, the blade and the handle. Two forces are likewise necessary for the plough: one that draws and one that drives. And two forces united form a Christian Government, namely, the people and the king. But that which comes between brings discord and ruin; it arrogates to itself the king's power and the people's property. It is a monster."

"I know you hate the nobles."

"And therefore," Bertila laid an emphasis on his words, and uttered them with an almost ironical smile, which seemed to turn his meaning into a jest, "you see, my son must either be peasant or king; nothing more or less!"

Larsson looked at him with dismay. He had not imagined the depth of ambition which had hitherto glowed concealed in the old peasant's heart. He thought it the extreme of crazy presumption.

"You can certainly never hope," he timidly said, "that Meri's son, with his birth——"

The old man's eyes flashed, but the words were inaudible that came from his lips, as if he tried to struggle against an inner impulse, to express for the first and perhaps for the last time, the bold idea which had already for many years grown in his tempestuous soul.

"King Gustaf Adolf has only a daughter," he said finally, with a peculiar look.

"Princess Christina ... Yes."

"But the kingdom at war with half the world, after his death, needs a man upon the throne."

"Bertila, what do you mean?"

"I mean that in my childhood I heard King Erik's son, in spite of his peasant wife, Karin, declared the successor to the crown."

"Are you in your senses?"

Again an ironical smile played around the old man's lips.

"Do you not understand," he coldly said, "how it is possible to hate soldiers and aristocrats, and yet send one's son to war as the nearest road to distinction, under a king's eyes?"

"I beg of you, Bertila, put aside such wild fancies; you are a reasonable man when the demon of pride does not get possession of your restless mind. Your plan will fail; it must fail."

"It cannot fail."

"What! Not fail!"

"No! Have I not told you that Gösta must be either king or peasant? Either. I do not care. If he wishes to remain a peasant, so be it."

"But if he will not remain a peasant? Supposing he wishes to fight for a coat of arms, and becomes a nobleman? Remember, you have started him on the right road for that end; as an officer he is already an equal of the nobility."

Bertila seemed to be cogitating.

"No!" he cried, "it is impossible. His blood ... his education ... my will."

"His blood! Then you no longer remember that nobility is in it from both sides? His education! and you sent him to Stockholm at twelve, and allowed him to grow up amongst young aristocrats, whom he has constantly heard express themselves with contempt about the peasantry. Your will! foolish father to think that you can bend a youth's desires from the direction given to them by such powerful influences."

The old man remained silent for a time, then he said, coldly,

"Larsson, you are a credulous fool; I joke, and you take it seriously. I will answer for the youth. Let us say no more about it; but take care, not a word of what has passed! Do you understand?"

"I am your old friend, Bertila. Since the time when I, a horseman with Svidje Klas, helped you to escape from Ilmola, you have repaid me the service many times over; I shall never betray you. But, you see, I love your children as my own, and cannot bear to see you make the boy unhappy; and Meri ... are you a father, Bertila? How do you treat your child, your only daughter, who attends to your lightest wish, and does everything to atone for the fault of her youth? You treat her worse than any of your servants; you allow her frail and weak body to perform the hardest work; she sinks to the ground, and you do not raise her. You are cruel, Bertila; you are an inhuman father."

"You do not understand the matter," answered the morose old man. "You are too tender-hearted to comprehend what it means to go straight ahead without compunction. Meri, like her mother, has the fine lady in her, and that must be uprooted. She cannot become a queen; well, then, she shall be a thorough peasant. I have said what I think about the intermediate class, and now you know the reason for my actions. Come, let us return to the labourers."

"And Meri ... spare her to-day, at least."

"She shall work with the rest this afternoon."

CHAPTER II.

ASHAMED OF A PEASANT'S NAME.

The log-house of the East Bothnian peasant is now always more roomy, lighter, and more pretentious in its whole appearance than in any other part of Finland. It sometimes consists of two storeys, or has at least a garret; the windows are of good size; it it almost always painted red or yellow, with white corners, and occasionally possesses window shutters. The whole bears evidence of mechanical skill and comfort. The East Bothnian never builds such large and fine villages as the Tavastlander and the Abo peasants do, but in cases of necessity constructs good solitary farmhouses. At the time of our story the smoke-huts were in use by nearly the whole Finnish population; only peasants of Swedish origin used fire-places and regular chimneys. But even then one could see in East Bothnia, close to the coast, some buildings constructed in a more modern style, copied from their Swedish neighbours.

The newly settled towns had attracted the country people to the coast, and they had already begun to be accustomed to greater comfort; and the wealthier the peasant, the quicker his house and person assumed a more civilised aspect. It is true that the luxury, against which the laws of the sixteenth century so severely protested, was found only on the estates of the nobility and among the wealthy Abo burghers—but the home-brewed ale foamed over in the tankards of the peasants, and the Holland spices were produced from his cupboards for festive occasions.

Since the fires of the Peasants' War had destroyed the huts of Storkyro village, one could often see the Swedish and Finnish styles of building side by side. Bertila's farm was the largest and the richest in the village, and was built in the new style, with steps and a small verandah, and two small chambers beside the large room; one for the master of the family and one for his daughter. The rest of the people on the farm lived together in the large room, but in summertime the younger ones slept out of doors in the sheds and some in the lofts.

At this time one would not see the large clock, with its red and blue painted cover, which to-day is the chief ornament in every peasant's cottage. The long plain table with its high seat for the master, stood surrounded by benches on the sides towards the door. It was close to dinner-time, and in the big fire-place the porridge-kettle was boiling. The room was nearly empty, only a large cat purred on a bench, and a girl of fourteen stirred the porridge; and Meri was sitting by the fire with her work. Poor Meri had just recovered from her fainting attack, but she was still very pale. Her long golden hair fell down over her almost bare shoulders; her eyes were often shyly turned towards the door, as if she feared the sudden entrance of her father. She was knitting a girdle of the most beautiful colours, and sang at the same time an old Swedish song.

"This girdle with roses fair
Shall only my loved one wear,
When he from the perils of war
Returns to us from afar."

It has been said that Meri was no longer young. The traces which suffering had left on her finely formed features told of many a year of sorrow and pain; but at this moment as she watched the girdle, her face assumed an almost childish expression of delight. One could see that her work was a joy to her, and that she sang of someone much beloved and far away.

Her life with her severe father was full of hardship, and when she looked at the girdle she semed to read in its bright-coloured loops of a future full of joy and peace. In this girdle she lived, it was the same to her as the thought of her only joy—her idolized son.

Again she sang:

"I weave in beads so fine
For this dear beloved of mine,
And no king upon his throne
Shall the like of this girdle own."

Just then Bertila, her father, entered, followed by Larsson and all the rest of the working people. Old Bertila's looks were dark; he could not deny to himself that Larsson's predictions were only too likely to be true. His son a nobleman. This possibility was in his eyes a disgrace, and up to this time had not troubled his mind.

The last words of Meri's song had just died away. At her father's entrance she quickly concealed the girdle under her apron; but the suspicious eyes of the old man fathomed her secret.

"You are again sitting with your dreams, lazy thing, instead of serving out the porridge," he said in a sharp tone. "What have you underneath your apron? Out with it."

And Meri was obliged in the presence of them all to reveal the unfinished girdle—her dearest secret. Her father snatched it from her, looked at it for a moment with contempt, then tore it in two, and threw the pieces behind the oven.

"I have told you many a time," he said severely, "that an honest peasant woman has nothing to do with fancy work. Let us say grace."

The old man then clasped his hands in the usual way, and the rest followed suit. But before the prayer could be uttered, Larsson stepped to the middle of the floor, his naturally good-humoured face purple with rage.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bertila," he said, "to insult your own daughter in front of all the people! She works like a slave night and day, more than anyone of us, yet you call her a lazy thing! I tell you this straight in the face, that although you are my master, and I eat your bread, and without you I have nothing but the beggar's staff, that such an unrighteous father does not deserve to have such a good daughter; and rather than see this misery day after day, I will beg my bread. But you will have to answer before the Almighty for your children. And may you now say your grace, and let the food taste well to you if you can. Farewell, Bertila, I cannot stand this life any longer."

"Cast out the rascal who dares to speak against the master of the house," said Bertila with more than usual violence. No one moved. For the first time the peasant king saw his orders disobeyed.

"Dear master," began the oldest of the labourers, "we all think the same——"

A terrible blow from the master struck the speaker to the ground before he finished his remarks. In vain Larsson offered to go of his own accord; in vain Meri tried to mediate between the disputants. So strong were the principles of right in these people, that without consulting anything but their own convictions, they arrayed themselves as one man against the master's tyranny. Fourteen muscular men stood erect and resolute before the enraged Bertila, whose tall figure stood threateningly in the midst of the throng. One more blow, and they would all have left his service, and perhaps shut him up in his own little chamber until his anger had subsided; for the farther towards the north one goes, the more sensitive is the Finnish peasant to blows. Bertila, however, knew his people, and saw as a wise man that his anger had led him too far. He sought a means of getting out of the dilemma without too great a humiliation.

"What is it you want?" he asked with regained self-possession.

The workers looked at each other in silence for a moment.

"You are wrong, master," said one of the boldest at last. "You have insulted Meri for nothing. You wished to turn Larsson out of the house, and struck Simeon; you have done wrong."

"Meri, come here."

She did so.

"You are no longer a child, Meri. If you cannot endure to live with your aged father, then you are at liberty to stay on my farm at Ilmola. You are free—go, my child."

Bertila knew his daughter. These few words, "go, my child," pronounced in a milder tone than she was accustomed to hear, were sufficient to melt his daughter's heart.

"Do not reject me, father," she said, "I will never desert you."

These words made her defenders waver, and the old man saw his opportunity.

"Bring hither the catechism," he said in a commanding voice.

The fourteen-year-old Greta stepped forward as was the custom on sacred days, and read aloud:

"Ye servants obey your temporal masters with fear and trembling, in the simplicity of your hearts! Ye servants be submissive to your masters in all fear, not only the mild and good, but also the unworthy!"

These words, thus uttered at the right time, did not fail in their effect.

In these times the power and authority of father and master were at their zenith, and were not only by word, but in deed, a power by "God's mercy." The words of obedience heard from childhood, the old man's commanding tone, and Meri's example of ready submission to her father's authority, all combined to tone down the hot tempers of the rebels. They took their places at the table without another word. Only old Larsson stood sad and hesitating with his hand on the door-latch.

Suddenly the door was opened, and a stranger entered.

The new-comer was a soldier, in a broad-brimmed hat, decorated with a gracefully fastened eagle's plume. He wore a waistcoat of yellow wool, short top-boots, bore a cudgel in his hand, and a long sword hung at his side.

"By St. Lucifer," he said joyfully, "I have come at the right time. God's peace, peasants, make room at the table; I am as hungry as a monk during mass, and I am not able to go to the vicarage on this damned heath. Have you any ale?"

The old man in the high seat, who had not yet quite overcome his temper, although he appeared to be calm, rose from his chair, but at once sat down again.

"Sit down, countryman," said the old man softly; "Aron Bertila has room at his table for self-invited guests also."

"Very well," continued the new-comer, helping himself freely to the food, which seemed to be a familiar habit with him. "You are Bertila, then. I am glad to hear it, comrade. Confidence for confidence, I will now tell you that I am Bengt Kristerson, from Limingo, sergeant in his Majesty's brave East Bothnians. I am sent here to look after the conscripts. Some more ale in the tankard, peasants ... well, do not be afraid, girls, I will not bite you. Bertila," added the soldier with his mouth full, "what the deuce is this? Are you Lieutenant Bertel's father, peasant?"

"I do not know that name," replied the old man, who was nettled by the soldier's impudent remarks.

"Are you mad, old man? You do not know Gustaf Bertel, who six months ago called himself Bertila?"

"My son! my son!" cried the old man in a voice of anguish. "I am an unfortunate father! He is ashamed of a peasant's name!"

"Peasant's name," said the soldier laughing, and striking the table violently, so that the tankards and dishes jumped. "Do ye peasants also have names? I think I will go without mine. You are a fine fellow, old man; tell me what the d——l you want with a name?"

He then looked at his host with such an air of naïve impudence, that the insulting words were somewhat modified in effect.

Old Bertila, however, scarcely honoured him with a glance.

"Fool that I was! I sent out a beardless boy and thought that I sent a man," he gloomily said to himself.

But the sergeant, who had indulged in many drinks before, and had now seen the bottom of the jug, did not seem inclined to drop the subject.

"Do not look so fierce, old boy," he said in the same aggravating tone. "You peasants associate so much with oxen and sheep, that you become just like them yourselves. If you were a bit civil you would send a pretty girl to fill my jug. It is now empty, you see; as empty as your cranium. But you turnip-peelers do not appreciate the honour which is conferred upon you, of having a royal sergeant for guest. You see, old fellow, a soldier in these times is everything; he has a name that rings because he has a sword that rings. But you, old ploughshare, have nothing but porridge in your head and a turnip in your breast; fill your mug, old fellow; here's to Lieutenant Bertel's success! So you refuse to drink the health of an honest cavalier? Out upon you, peasant."

And the sergeant, in the consciousness of his dignity, struck the table with his fist, so that the wooden bowls jumped and seemed disposed to make for the floor with all their contents.

The first effect of this martial joke was to induce six or seven of the men to rise from their benches, with the object of giving the uninvited guest a salutary lesson in politeness. But old Bertila stopped them. He rose composedly from his seat, approached the rowdy sergeant with a firm step, and without saying a word, grasped him by the neck with his left hand, and with his right on his back, he lifted the soldier from the bench, carried him to the door and threw him out on a heap of chips outside the steps. The funny sergeant was so surprised at this unexpected attack, that he did not move a muscle to defend himself. If he had, it was not likely that the seventy-year-old man would have gained the victory in the struggle.

"Go," cried Bertila after him, "and keep your treatment as a remembrance of the peasants in Storkyro."

Nothing impresses the multitude so much as resolute courage combined with a strong arm. When the old man entered the room again he was surrounded by his people, who now greatly admired him; and this feat destroyed the difference which had existed a few moments before between them.

The conflict between the sword and the plough is as old as the world. The Peasants' War was based on this rivalry, and served to keep it fresh and alive in the minds of all. These independent peasants had not been subjected to the tyranny of the landed proprietors. They witnessed with delight their honour defended against the soldier's outrageous insults; they forgot at the moment that they might shortly be compelled themselves to don the soldier's jacket, and fight for their country. Even the old peasant chief, elated at his exploit, had surmounted his bad temper.

For the first time in a long while they saw a smile on his lips; and when the meal was over, he began to relate to them some of his former adventures.

"Never shall I forget how we cudgelled the rascal Abraham Melchiorson, the man who, here in Kyro, seized our best peasants, and had them broken on the wheel like malefactors. With fifty men he had gone up north. It was winter time. He was a fine gentleman, muffled up from the cold, and rode so grandly in a splendid wolf-skin cloak. But when he approached Karleby church we placed ourselves in ambush, and rushing upon him like Jehu, beat twenty-two of his men to death, and pommelled him black and blue; but every time he expected a rap he drew the wolf-skin cloak over his ears, so that no club could disable the traitor. 'Wait,' said Hans Krank, from Limingo, who led us on that wolf hunt, 'we will whip him out of his skin yet'; with this he drubbed Abraham so soundly that he was obliged to let go of his fine fur. Krank had nothing on but a jacket, and it was cold enough, God knows; he thought the fur cloak a good thing, and drew it unobserved over his own shoulders. But, as all this occurred in the twilight, we others did not notice who was now in the wolf-skin, and we kept on belabouring the cloak; it is very certain that Krank had a very warm time of it that evening. But Abraham Melchiorson became so light and nimble after getting rid of his cloak, that he ran off to Huso farm; but there he was taken by Saka Jacob from Karleby, and the rascal was taken to Stockholm; but he did not get much time to mourn over the loss of his cloak, for the duke soon made him a head shorter."

"Yes," said Larsson, who always tried to defend Fleming and his people, "that time you had the best of it. Eleven soldiers remained alive, but seeming to be dead, you took all their clothes. And at midnight they crept half dead with cold to the vicarage, and were there taken in; but in the morning you wanted to put them in the water underneath the ice, alive, as you had done in Lappfjard's River. You were wolves and not human beings. The water was so low in the river that you had to push the men down with poles to keep them there; and when they tried to get up, the women knocked them on their heads with buckets."

"Keep quiet, Larsson, you do not know all that Svidje Klas did," said Bertila angrily; "I say nothing about all the men that he and his people have killed and broken on the wheel. Do you remember Severin Sigfridson at Sorsankoski? He surrounded the peasants, and ordered his subaltern to behead them one by one; but he was not able to kill more than twenty-four, and asked the nobleman to finish the rest himself. The gentleman got angry, and ordered the peasants to cut the subaltern into five parts, and then do the same to each other as long as one remained alive."

"But what did you do, you mad brutes, on Peter Gumse's farm? Your men destroyed the place, broke the windows, slaughtered all the cattle, and set their severed heads with wide open mouths in the windows as a scare. Then the beams of the house were cut three parts through, so that when the folk came home it would fall upon their heads; and when you caught a horseman you used him as a target for your arrows."

"It is not worth while, Larsson, to try to take Svidje Klas' part. Do you remember when Axel Kurk's men came and killed a woman's children before her eyes? The poor mother could not stand this, she and her half-grown daughter seized the brute by the waist, hit him on the head with a pole, and pushed him fainting in the water. Svidje Klas then came and had that same woman cut in two."

"Loose talk, which has never been proven," replied Larsson gruffly.

"The dead keep silent like good children. The 5,000 killed at Ilmola do not speak."

"Instead of molesting the sergeant, you should have asked him for news about your son and mine," said Larsson, to get away from their usual contentious subject—the fatal Peasant War.

"Yes, you are right. I must hear more about the boys and the war. I am going to Vasa to-morrow."

"Will he soon return?" asked Meri in a shy voice.

"Gösta. He will take his own time," said the father angrily. "He has now became a nobleman; he is ashamed of his old father .... he blushes for a peasant's name."