Chapter XIX

_Theodore._ Tristam, let us be gone.
_Tristam._ This is a strange disgrace.
_Theodore._ Did any one see us?
_Tristam._ I know not, but I fear they did.
LOPE DA VEGA: _The Gardener’s Dog_.

Benignus Spiagudry found it hard to guess the motives which led a youth of fine appearance, and apparently likely to live for many long years, to become the voluntary antagonist of the much-dreaded Hans of Iceland. He had frequently and with much ingenuity broached the question since they started on their travels; but the young adventurer preserved a stubborn silence as to the cause of his journey. Nor was the poor fellow any more successful in satisfying his curiosity concerning various other details as to his strange comrade. Once he ventured to ask a question about his young master’s family and his name. “Call me Ordener,” was the reply; and this very unsatisfactory answer was given in a tone which forbade further question. He was forced to submit; every one has his secrets, and good Spiagudry himself carefully concealed in his wallet, under his cloak, a certain mysterious casket, any inquiry as to which he would certainly have considered very disagreeable and greatly out of place.

Four days had passed since they left Throndhjem, but they had made little progress, owing to the bad state of the roads after the storm, and the multiplicity of crosscuts and roundabout routes which the runaway keeper thought it prudent to take in order to avoid too thickly settled regions. Leaving Skongen on their right, toward evening of the fourth day they reached the shores of Lake Sparbo.

The vast stretch of water reflecting the last gleams of daylight and the first stars of coming night set in a frame of tall cliffs, black firs, and lofty oaks, presented a gloomy but magnificent picture. The sight of a lake at evening sometimes produces, at a certain distance, a peculiar optical illusion; it seems as if a vast abyss, cleaving the earth from side to side, revealed the heavens beneath our feet.

Ordener paused to contemplate the old Druidical forests, which cover the steep shores of the lake as with a garment, and the chalky huts of Sparbo, scattered over the slope like a stray flock of white goats. He listened to the distant clink of the forges,[11] mingled with the dull roar of the weird forests, the intermittent cry of wild birds, and the solemn music of the waves. To the north a huge granite bowlder, still gilded by the rays of the sun, rose majestically above the little village of Oëlmœ, its summit bending beneath a mass of ruined towers, as if the giant were weary of his load.

When the soul is sad, it delights in melancholy scenes; it adds to them its own gloom. Let an unhappy man be thrown among wild, high mountains beside some black lake in the heart of a dark forest, at the close of day, and he will see this solemn scene through a funereal veil; he will not feel that the sun is setting, but that it is dying.

Ordener lingered, motionless and mute, until his companion exclaimed: “Capital, sir! You do well to ponder thus beside the most miasma-laden lake in Norway.”

This remark and the gesture which accompanied it, would have brought a smile to the lips of any but a lover parted from his mistress perhaps never again to meet her. The learned keeper added:--

“And yet I must rouse you from your meditations to remind you that day is drawing to a close, and we must make haste if we would reach Oëlmœ village before twilight overtakes us.”

The observation was correct. Ordener resumed his journey, and Spiagudry followed him, continuing his unheeded reflections upon the botanic and physiologic phenomena which Lake Sparbo affords the naturalist.

“Mr. Ordener,” said he, “if you will listen to your devoted guide, you will give up your fatal enterprise; yes, sir, and you will take up your abode upon the shores of this most curious lake, where we can devote ourselves to all sorts of learned research; for instance, to the study of the _stella canora palustris_,--a singular plant, which many scholars consider to be fabulous, but which Bishop Arngrimmsson asserts that he both saw and heard on the shores of Lake Sparbo. Added to this, we shall have the satisfaction of feeling that we dwell upon soil which contains more gypsum than any other in Europe, and where the hired assassins of Throndhjem are least likely to find their way. Doesn’t it attract you, young master? Come, renounce your senseless journey; for, not to offend you, your scheme is dangerous, without being profitable,--_periculum sine pecunia_; that is to say, senseless, and conceived at a moment when you might better have been thinking of other things.”

Ordener, who paid no attention to the poor man’s words, merely kept up the conversation by those occasional meaningless monosyllables which great talkers are ready to accept in lieu of answers. Thus they reached Oëlmœ village, where they found an unusual bustle and stir.

The inhabitants--hunters, fishers, and blacksmiths--had left their houses, and hastily collected about a central mound occupied by a group of men, one of whom blew a horn and waved a small black-and-white banner over his head.

“Probably some quack doctor,” said Spiagudry,--“_ambubaiarum collegia, pharmacopolœ_; some scamp who turns gold into lead and wounds into sores. Let us see. What invention of the Evil One will he sell these poor rustics? It would be bad enough if these impostors confined themselves to kings, if they all imitated Borch the Dane and Borri of Milan, those alchemists who so completely duped our Frederic III.;[12] but they are just as greedy for the peasant’s mite as for the prince’s million.”

Spiagudry was mistaken. As they approached the mound they recognized by his black gown and round, pointed cap, the mayor, surrounded by a number of bowmen. The man blowing the horn was the town crier.

The fugitive keeper, somewhat disturbed, muttered: “Truly, Mr. Ordener, I did not expect to stumble upon the mayor when I came into this hamlet. Great Saint Hospitius, protect us! What does he say?”

His uncertainty was of brief duration, for the crier’s shrill voice was quickly raised, and religiously heeded by the little group of villagers.

“In the name of his Majesty and by order of his Excellency, General Levin de Knud, governor, the lord mayor of Throndhjem notifies the inhabitants of all cities, towns, and villages in the province, that a reward of one thousand crowns is offered for the head of Hans, a native of Klipstadur, in Iceland, a murderer and incendiary.”

A vague murmur ran through the crowd. The crier continued:--

“A reward of four crowns is offered for the head of Benignus Spiagudry, ex-keeper of the Spladgest at Throndhjem, accused of necromancy and sacrilege. This proclamation shall be published throughout the province by the mayors of all cities, towns, and villages, who will see that it is carried out.”

The mayor took the proclamation from the crier’s hands, and added in a lugubrious and solemn voice:--

“The life of these men is offered to whosoever will take it.”

The reader will readily believe that this reading was not heard unmoved by our poor, unfortunate Spiagudry. No doubt, the unusual signs of terror which he showed would have roused the attention of the bystanders, had it not just then been wholly absorbed by the first clause of the proclamation.

“A reward for the head of Hans!” cried an old fisherman, who had hastened to the spot, trailing his wet nets behind him. “They might as well, by Saint Usuph, set a price upon the head of Beelzebub!”

“To keep up a proper balance between Hans and Beelzebub,” said a hunter, recognizable by his chamois-skin jerkin, “they should only offer fifteen hundred crowns for the head and horns of the latter fiend.”

“Glory be to the holy mother of God!” cried an old woman, her bald head shaking as she twirled her distaff. “I only wish I might see the head of that Hans, so that I might make sure if his eyes are really live coals, as they say.”

“Yes, to be sure,” replied another old woman; “it was just by looking at it that he set Throndhjem cathedral on fire. Now I should like to see the monster whole, with his serpent’s tail, cloven foot, and broad wings like a bat.”

“Who told you such nonsense, good mother?” broke in the hunter, with a self-satisfied air. “I’ve seen this Hans of Iceland with my own eyes in the gorges of Medsyhath; he is a man like ourselves, only he is as tall as a forty-year-old poplar.”

“Indeed!” said a voice from the crowd, with singular emphasis.

This voice, which made Spiagudry shudder, proceeded from a short man whose face was hidden by the broad felt hat of a miner, his body wrapped in rush matting and sealskin.

“Faith!” cried, with a coarse laugh, a smith who wore his heavy hammer slung across his shoulder, “they may offer one thousand or ten thousand crowns for his head, and he may be four or forty feet tall, but I’ll not offer to go in search of him.”

“Nor I,” said the fisherman.

“Nor I; nor I,” repeated every voice.

“And yet any one who may feel tempted,” rejoined the little man, “will find Hans of Iceland to-morrow at the ruins of Arbar, near Lake Miösen; the day after that at Walderhog cave.”

“Are you sure, my good man?”

This question was asked at one and the same time by Ordener, who listened to this scene with an interest easily understood by any one but Spiagudry, and by another short and tolerably stout man, dressed in black, with a merry countenance, who had issued from the only inn which the village contained, at the first sound of the crier’s horn.

The little man with the broad-brimmed hat seemed to be studying them both for a moment, and then answered in hollow tones: “Yes.”

“And how can you be so certain?” asked Ordener.

“I know where Hans of Iceland is, just as well as I know where Benignus Spiagudry is; neither of them is far off at this instant.”

All the poor keeper’s terrors were revived, and he scarcely dared look at the mysterious little man. Fancying that his French periwig had failed to disguise him, he began to pluck at Ordener’s cloak and to whisper: “Master, sir, in Heaven’s name, have mercy! have pity let us be off! let us leave this accursed suburb of hell!”

Ordener, although equally surprised, carefully examined the little man, who, turning his back to the light, seemed anxious to conceal his face.

“I’ve seen that Benignus Spiagudry,” cried the fisherman, “at Throndhjem Spladgest. He’s a tall fellow. They offer four crowns for him.”

The hunter burst out laughing.

“Four crowns! I shan’t go a-hunting for him. I can get more for the skin of a blue fox.”

This comparison, which at any other time would have greatly offended the learned keeper, now comforted him. Still, he was about to address another prayer to Ordener to persuade him to continue his journey, when the latter, having learned all that he wished to know forestalled him by making his way out of the crowd, which was beginning to disperse.

Although when they entered Oëlmœ village they had intended passing the night there, they quitted it, as if by common consent, without even alluding to the motive for their abrupt departure. Ordener was moved by the hope of a more speedy meeting with the brigand, Spiagudry by a desire to get away from the archers as speedily as might be.

Ordener was in too serious a mood to laugh at his comrade’s misadventures. He broke the silence in kindly tones.

“Old man, what is the name of the ruin where Hans is to be found to-morrow, according to that little man who seemed to know everything?”

“I don’t know; I didn’t quite catch the name, noble master,” replied Spiagudry, who uttered no falsehood in so saying.

“Then,” continued the young man, “I must make up my mind not to meet him until the day after to-morrow at Walderhog cave.”

“Walderhog cave, sir! Indeed, that is Hans of Iceland’s favorite haunt.”

“Let us take that road,” said Ordener.

“We must turn to the left, behind Oëlmœ cliff. It will take us at least two days to get to Walderhog cave.”

“Do you know, old man,” cautiously observed Ordener, “who that odd fellow was, who seemed to be so well acquainted with you?”

This question again awakened Spiagudry’s fears, which had been lulled to sleep as the village of Oëlmœ faded in the distance.

“No, truly, sir,” he answered, in trembling accents. “But he had a very strange voice.”

Ordener tried to encourage him.

“Fear nothing, old man; serve me well, and I will protect you. If I return victorious over Hans, I promise you not only a pardon, but I will also give you the thousand crowns reward offered by the officers of the law.”

Honest Benignus dearly loved his life, but he also loved gold. Ordener’s promises sounded like magic in his ears; they not only banished all his terrors, but they excited in him a kind of garrulous mirth, which found vent in lengthy discourses, queer gestures, and learned quotations.

“Mr. Ordener,” said he, “if I should ever have occasion to discuss the subject with Over-Bilseuth, otherwise called ‘the Babbler,’ nothing shall prevent me from maintaining that you are a wise and honorable young man. What more worthy and more glorious, in fact, _quid cithara, tuba, vel campana dignius_, than nobly to risk your life to free your country from a monster, a brigand, a demon, in whom all demons, brigands, and monsters seem to be combined? Nobody need tell me that you are moved by mercenary motives. Noble Lord Ordener yields the price of his conflict to the companion of his journey, to the old man who only guided him within a mile of Walderhog cave; for I am sure, young master, that you will allow me to await the result of your illustrious enterprise at the village of Surb, situated in the forest within a mile of Walderhog, will you not? And when your glorious victory is made known, sir, all Norway will thrill with joy like that of Vermund the Refugee, when from the summit of this same Oëlmœ cliff, which we just now passed, he saw the great fire kindled by his brother Halfdan on Munkholm tower in token of his deliverance.”

At these words Ordener interrupted him eagerly.

“What! is Munkholm tower visible from the top of this rock?”

“Yes, sir; twelve miles to the south, between the mountains which our fathers called Frigga’s Footstools. At this hour you should be able to see the light in the tower distinctly.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Ordener, fired by the idea of another glimpse of the seat of all his happiness. “Old man, of course there is a path leading to the top of the rock, is there not?”

“Yes, to be sure; a path which begins in the wood that lies just before us, and rises by a gentle slope to the bare crown of the cliff, whence it is continued by steps cut in the rock by Vermund’s companions, as far as the castle, where it ends. Those are the ruins which you see in the moonlight.”

“Well, old man, you shall show me the path; we will spend the night in those ruins,--in those ruins from which Munkholm tower is visible.”

“Can you really mean it, sir?” asked Benignus. “The fatigues of the day--”

“Old man, I will support your steps; my footing was never more secure.”

“Sir, the brambles that block the path, which has long been deserted, the fallen stones, the darkness--”

“I will take the lead.”

“There may be some savage beast, some unclean animal, some hideous monster--”

“I did not undertake this journey to avoid monsters.”

The idea of halting so near Oëlmœ was very unpleasant to Spiagudry; the thought of seeing Munkholm light, and possibly the light in Ethel’s window, enraptured and transported Ordener.

“Young master,” urged Spiagudry, “give up this scheme; take my advice. I have a presentiment that it will bring us bad luck.”

This plea was as nothing in the face of Ordener’s longing.

“Come,” said he, impatiently, “you must remember that you agreed to serve me faithfully. I insist upon your showing me the path; where is it?”

“We shall come across it directly,” said the keeper, forced to obey.

In fact, they soon saw the path. They entered it; but Spiagudry observed, with surprise mixed with fright, that the tall grass was broken and trampled, and that Vermund the Refugee’s old footpath seemed to have been recently trodden.