Chapter XXI

The voice of thy slain brother’s blood cries out,
Even from the ground, unto the Lord!
_Cain: A Mystery._

“Yes, Count; it was this very day, in Arbar ruin, that we were told he might be found. Countless circumstances lead me to believe in the truth of this valuable information which I accidentally picked up yesterday, as I told you, at Oëlmœ village.”

“Are we far from this Arbar ruin?”

“It is close by Lake Miösen. The guide assures me that we shall be there before noon.”

These words were spoken by two horsemen muffled in brown cloaks, who early one morning were pursuing one of the many narrow, winding paths which run in every direction through the forest lying between Lakes Miösen and Sparbo. A mountain guide, provided with a huntinghorn and an axe, led the way upon his little gray pony, and behind the travellers rode four men armed to the teeth, toward whom these two persons occasionally turned, as if afraid of being overheard.

“If that Iceland thief is really lurking in Arbar ruin,” said one rider, whose steed kept a respectful distance behind the other, “it is a great point gained; for the difficulty hitherto has been to find this mysterious being.”

“Do you think so, Musdœmon? And suppose he declines our offers?”

“Impossible, your Grace! What brigand could resist gold and a free pardon?”

“But you know that this is no common scoundrel. Do not judge him by yourself. If he should refuse, how can you keep your promise of night before last to the three leaders of the insurrection?”

“Well, noble Count, in that case, which I regard as impossible if we are lucky enough to find our man, has your Grace forgotten that a false Hans of Iceland awaits me two days hence at the hour and place appointed for meeting the three chiefs, at Blue Star, a place, moreover, conveniently near Arbar ruin?”

“You are right, my dear Musdœmon, as usual,” said the count; and each resumed his own particular line of thought.

Musdœmon, whose interest it was to keep his master in good humor, for the purpose of diverting him, asked the guide a question.

“My good man, what is that ruined stone cross yonder, behind those young oaks?”

The guide, a man with fixed stare and stupid mien, turned his head and shook it several times, as he said: “Oh, master, that is the oldest gallows in Norway; holy king Olaf had it built for a judge who made a compact with a robber.”

Musdœmon saw by his patron’s face that the guide’s artless words had produced an effect quite contrary to that which he hoped.

“It is a curious story,” the guide added; “good Mother Osia told it to me. The robber was ordered to hang the judge.”

The poor guide, in his simplicity, did not suppose that the incident with which he meant to entertain his employers was almost an insult to them. Musdœmon stopped him.

“That will do,” said he; “we have heard the story before.”

“Insolent fellow!” muttered the count, “he has heard the story before. Ah, Musdœmon, you shall pay for your impudence yet.”

“Did your Grace speak to me?” obsequiously asked Musdœmon.

“I was thinking how I could obtain the Order of the Dannebrog for you. The marriage of my daughter Ulrica and Baron Ordener would be an excellent opportunity.”

Musdœmon was profuse in protestations and thanks.

“By the way,” added his Grace, “let us talk business. Do you suppose that the temporary recall which we sent him has reached the Mecklenburger?”

The reader may remember that the count was in the habit of thus designating General Levin de Knud, who was indeed a native of Mecklenburg.

“Let us talk business!” thought the injured Musdœmon; “it seems that my affairs are not ‘business.’ Count,” he replied aloud, “I think that the viceroy’s messenger must be in Throndhjem by this time, and therefore General Levin must be getting ready to start.”

The count assumed a kindly tone.

“That recall, my dear fellow, was one of your masterstrokes,--one of your best planned and most skilfully executed intrigues.”

“The credit belongs as much to your Grace as to me,” replied Musdœmon, careful, as we have already remarked, to mix the count in all his machinations.

The master understood this secret desire of his confidant, but chose to seem unconscious of it.

He smiled.

“My dear private secretary, you are always modest; but nothing can make me depreciate your most eminent services. Elphega’s presence and the Mecklenburger’s absence assure my triumph in Throndhjem. I am now at the head of the province; and if Hans of Iceland accepts the command of the rebels, which I intend to offer him in person, to me will fall, in the eyes of the king, the glory of putting down this distressing insurrection and capturing this terrible brigand.”

They were chatting thus in low voices when the guide rode back to them.

“Masters,” said he, “here on our left is the hillock upon which Biorn the Just had the double-tongued Vellon beheaded in the presence of his entire army, the traitor having driven off the king’s allies and summoned the enemy to the camp, that he might have the appearance of saving Biorn’s life.”

All these reminiscences of old Norway did not seem to be to Musdœmon’s taste, for he hurriedly interrupted the guide.

“Come, come, good man, be silent and go your way, without turning back so often. What do we care about the foolish stories of which these ruins and dead trees remind you? You annoy my master with your old wives’ tales.”