For the next few days Rolf kept a close watch upon the proceedings of the pirates, and saw enough of their thievery to be able to lay informations against them, if ever he should again make his way to a town or village, and see the face of a magistrate. He was glad of the interest and occupation thus afforded him,—of even this slight hope of being useful; for he saw no more probability than on the first day, of release from his prison. The worst of it was that the season for boating was nearly at an end. The inhabitants were day by day driving their cattle up the mountains, there to remain for the summer; and the heads of families remained in the farm-houses, almost alone, and little likely to put out so far into the fiord as to pass near him. So poor Rolf could only catch fish for his support, swim round and round his prison, and venture a little further, on days when the water felt rather less cold than usual. To drive off thoughts of his poor distressed Erica, he sometimes hammered a little at his skiff; but it was too plain that no botching that he could perform in the cave would render the broken craft safe to float in.

One sunny day, when the tide was flowing in warmer than usual, Rolf amused himself with more evolutions in bathing than he had hitherto indulged in. He forgot his troubles and his foes in diving, floating, and swimming. As he dashed round a point of the rock, he saw something, and was certain he was seen. Hund appeared at least as much bewitched as the island itself, for he could not keep away from it. He seemed irresistibly drawn to the scene of his guilt and terror. Here he was now, with one other man, in the schooner's smallest boat. Rolf had to determine in an instant what to do, for they were within a hundred yards, and Hund's starting eyes showed that he saw what he took for the ghost of his fellow-servant. Rolf raised himself as high as he could out of the water, throwing his arms up above his head, fixed his eyes on Hund, uttered a shrill cry, and dived, hoping to rise to the surface at some point out of sight. Hund looked no more. After one shriek of terror and remorse had burst from his white lips, he sank his head upon his knees, and let his comrade take all the trouble of rowing home again.

This vision decided Hund's proceedings. Half-crazed with remorse, he left the pirates that night. After long consideration where to go, he decided upon returning to Erlingsen's. He did not know to what extent they suspected him; he was pretty sure that they held no proofs against him. Nowhere else could he be sure of honest work,—the first object with him now, in the midst of his remorse. He felt irresistibly drawn towards poor Erica, now that no rival was there; and if, mixed with all these considerations, there were some thoughts of the situation of houseman being vacant, and needing much to be filled up, it is no wonder that such a mingling of motives took place in a mind so selfish as Hund's.



CHAPTER NINE.

HUND'S REPORT.

Hund performed his journey by night,—a journey perfectly unlike any that was ever performed by night in England. He did not for a moment think of going by the fiord, short and easy as it would have been in comparison with the land road. He would rather have mounted all the steeps, and crossed the snows of Sulitelma itself, many times over, than have put himself in the way a second time of such a vision as he had seen. Laboriously and diligently, therefore, he overcame the difficulties of the path, crossing ravines, wading through swamps, scaling rocks, leaping across water-courses, and only now and then throwing himself down on some tempting slope of grass, to wipe his brows, and, where opportunity offered, to moisten his parched throat with the wild strawberries which were fast ripening in the sheltered nooks of the hills. It was now so near midsummer, and the nights were so fast melting into the days, that Hund could at the latest scarcely see a star, though there was not a fleece of cloud in the whole circle of the heavens. While yet the sun was sparkling on the fiord, and glittering on every farm-house window that fronted the west, all around was as still as if the deepest darkness had settled down. The eagles were at rest on their rocky ledge, a thousand feet above the waters. The herons had left their stand on the several promontories of the fiord, and the flapping of their wings overhead was no more heard. The raven was gone home; the cattle were all far away on the mountain pastures; the goats were hidden in the woods which yielded the tender shoots on which they subsisted. The round eyes of a white owl stared out upon him here and there, from under the eaves of a farm-house; and these seemed to be the only eyes besides his own that were open. Hund knew as he passed one dwelling after another,—knew as well as if he had looked in at the windows,—that the inhabitants were all asleep, even with the sunshine lying across their very faces.

Every few minutes he observed how his shadow lengthened, and he longed for the brief twilight which would now soon be coming on. Now, his shadow stretched quite across a narrow valley, as he took breath on a ridge crossed by the soft breeze. Then, the shadow stood up against a precipice, taller than the tallest pine upon the steep. Then the yellow gleam grew fainter, the sparkles on the water went out, and he saw the large pale circle of the sun sink and sink into the waves, where the fiord spread out wide to the south-west. Even the weary spirit of this unhappy man seemed now to be pervaded with some of the repose which appeared to be shed down for the benefit of all that lived. He walked on and on; but he felt the grass softer under his feet,—the air cooler upon his brow; and he began to comfort himself with thinking that he had not murdered Rolf. He said to himself that he had not laid a finger on him, and that the skiff might have sunk exactly as it did, if he had been sitting at home, carving a bell-collar. There could be no doubt that the skiff had been pulled down fathoms deep by a strong hand from below; and if the spirits were angry with Rolf, that was no concern of Rolf's human enemies.—Thus Hund strove to comfort himself; but it would not do. The more he tried to put away the thought, the more obstinately it returned, that he had been speeding on his way to injure Rolf when the strange disappearance took place; and that he had long hated and envied his fellow-servant, however marvellously he had been prevented from capturing or slaying him. These thoughts had no comfort in them; but better came after a time.

He had to pass very near M. Kollsen's abode; and it crossed his mind that it would be a great relief to open his heart to a clergyman. He halted for a minute, in sight of the house, but presently went on, saying to himself that he could not say all to M. Kollsen, and would therefore say nothing. He should get a lecture against superstition, and hear hard words of the powers he dreaded; and there would be no consolation in this. It was said that the Bishop of Tronyem was coming round this way soon, in his regular progress through his diocese, and everybody bore testimony to his gentleness and mercy. It would be best to wait for his coming. Then Hund began to calculate how soon he would come; for aching hearts are impatient for relief; and the thought how near midsummer was, made him look up into the sky,—that beautiful index of the seasons in a northern climate. There were a few extremely faint stars—a very few,—for only the brightest could now show themselves in the sky where daylight lingered so as never quite to depart. A pale-green hue remained where the sun had disappeared, and a deep-red glow was even now beginning to kindle where he was soon to rise. Just here, Hund's ear caught some tones of the soft harp music which the winds make in their passage through a wood of pines; and there was a fragrance in the air from a new thatch of birch-bark just laid upon a neighbouring roof. This fragrance, that faint vibrating music, and the soft veiled light were soothing; and when, besides, Hund pictured to himself his mind relieved by a confession to the good bishop—perhaps cheered by words of pardon and of promise, the tears burst from his eyes, and the fever of his spirit was allayed.

Then up came the sun again, and the new thatch reeked in his beams, and the birds shook off sleep, and plumed themselves, and the peak of Sulitelma blushed with the softest rose-colour, and the silvery fish leaped out of the water, and the blossoms in the gardens opened, though it was only an hour after midnight. Every creature except man seemed eager to make the most of the short summer season,—to waste none of its bright hours, which would be gone too soon;—every creature except man; but man must have rest, be the sun high or sunk beneath the horizon: so that Hund saw no face, and heard no human voice, before he found himself standing at the top of the steep rocky pathway, which led down to Erlingsen's abode.

Hund might have known that he should find everything in a different state from that in which he had left the place; but yet he was rather surprised at the aspect of the farm. The stable-doors stood wide; and there was no trace of milk-pails. The hurdles of the fold were piled upon one another in a corner of the yard. It was plain that herd, flock, and dairy-women were gone to the mountain: and, though Hund dreaded meeting Erica, it struck upon his heart, to think that she was not here. He felt now how much it was for her sake that he had come back.

He half resolved to go away again: but from the gallery of the house some snow-white sheets were hanging to dry; and this showed that some neat and busy female hands were still here. Next, his eye fell upon the boat which lay gently rocking with the receding tide in its tiny cove; and he resolved to lie down in it and rest, while considering what to do next. He went down, stepping gently over the pebbles of the beach, lest his tread should reach and waken any ear through the open windows, lay down at the bottom of the boat, and, as might have been expected, fell asleep as readily as an infant in a cradle.

Of course he was discovered; and, of course, Oddo was the discoverer. Oddo was the first to come forth, to water the one horse that remained at the farm, and to give a turn and a shake to the two or three little cocks of hay which had been mown behind the house. His quick eye noted the deep marks of a man's feet in the sand and pebbles, below high-water mark, proving that some one had been on the premises during the night. He followed these marks to the boat, where he was amazed to find the enemy (as he called Hund) fast asleep. Oddo was in a great hurry to tell his grandfather (Erlingsen being on the mountain); but he thought it only proper caution to secure his prize from escaping in his absence.

He summoned his companion, the dog which had warned him of many dangers abroad, and helped him faithfully with his work at home; and nothing could be clearer to Skorro than that he was to crouch on the thwarts of the boat, with his nose close to Hund's face, and not to let Hund stir till Oddo came back. Then Oddo ran, and wakened his grandfather, who made all haste to rise and dress. Erica now lived in Peder's house. She had taken her lover's place there, since his disappearance; as the old man must be taken care of, and the house kept; and her mistress thought the interest and occupation good for her. Hearing Oddo's story, she rushed out, and her voice was soon heard in passionate entreaty, above the bark of the dog, which was trying to prevent the prisoner from rising.

"Only tell me," Erica was heard to say, "only tell me where and how he died. I know he is dead,—I knew he would die; from that terrible night when we were betrothed. Tell me who did it,—for I am sure you know. Was it Nipen?—Yes, it was Nipen, whether it was done by wind or water, or human hands. But speak, and tell me where he is. O, Hund, speak! Say only where his body is, and I will try—I will try never to speak to you again—never to—"

Hund looked miserable; he moved his lips; but no sound was heard mingling with Erica's rapid speech.

Madame Erlingsen, who, with Orga, had by this time reached the spot, laid her hand on Erica's arm, to beg for a moment's silence, made Oddo call his dog out of the boat, and then spoke, in a severe tone, to Hund.

"Why do you shake your head, Hund, and speak no word? Say what you know, for the sake of those whom, we grievously suspect, you have deeply injured. Say what you know, Hund."

"What I say is, that I do not know," replied Hund, in a hoarse and agitated voice. "I only know that we live in an enchanted place, here by this fiord, and that the spirits try to make us answer for their doings. The very first night after I went forth, this very boat was spirited away from me, so that I could not come home. Nipen had a spite against me there, to make you all suspect me. I declare to you that the boat was gone, in a twinkling, by magic, and I heard the cry of the spirit that took it."

"What was the cry like?" asked Oddo, gravely.

"Where were you that you were not spirited away with the boat?" asked his mistress.

"I was tumbled out upon the shore, I don't know how," declared Hund:—"found myself sprawling on a rock, while the creature's cries brought my heart into my mouth as I lay."

"Alone?—were you alone?" asked his mistress.

"I had landed the pastor some hours before, madame; and I took nobody else with me, as Stiorna can tell; for she saw me go."

"Stiorna is at the mountain," observed madame, coolly.

"But, Hund," said Oddo, "how did Nipen take hold of you when it laid you sprawling on the rock? Neck and heels? Or, did it bid you go and harken whether the pirates were coming, and whip away the boat before you came back? Are you quite sure that you sprawled on the rock at all before you ran away from the horrible cry you speak of? Our rocks are very slippery, when Nipen is at one's heels."

Hund stared at Oddo, and his voice was yet hoarser when he said that he had long thought that boy was a favourite with Nipen; and he was sure of it now.

Erica had thrown herself down on the sand, hiding her face on her hands, on the edge of the boat, as if in despair of her misery being attended to,—her questions answered. Old Peder stood beside her, stroking her hair tenderly; and he now spoke the things she could not say.

"Attend to me, Hund," said Peder, in the grave, quiet tone which every one regarded. "Hear my words, and, for your own sake, answer them. We suspect you of being in communication with the pirates yonder: we suspect that you went to meet them when you refused to go hunting the bears. We know that you have long felt ill-will towards Rolf,—envy of him,—jealousy of him;—and—"

Here Erica looked up, pale as ashes, and said, "Do not question him further. There is no truth in his answers. He spoke falsehood even now."

Peder saw how Hund shrank under this, and thought the present the moment to get truth out of him, if he ever could speak it. He therefore went on to say—

"We suspect you of having done something to keep your rival out of the way, in order that you might obtain the house and situation,—and perhaps something else that you wish."

"Have you killed him?" asked Erica, abruptly, looking full in his face.

"No," returned Hund, firmly. From his manner everybody believed this much.

"Do you know that anybody else has killed him?"

"No."

"Do you know whether he is alive or dead?"

To this Hund could, in the confusion of his ideas about Rolf's fate and condition, fairly say "No:" as also to the question, "Do you know where he is?"

Then they all cried out, "Tell us what you do know about him."

"Ay, there you come," said Hund, resuming some courage, and putting on the appearance of more than he had. "You load me with foul accusations; and when you find yourselves all in the wrong, you alter your tone, and put yourselves under obligation to me for what I will tell. I will treat you better than you treat me; and I will tell you plainly why. I repent of my feelings towards my fellow-servant, now that evil has befallen him—"

"What? O what?" cried Erica.

"He was seen fishing on the fiord, in that poor little worn-out skiff. I myself saw him. And when I looked next for the skiff, it was gone,— it had disappeared."

"And where were you?"

"Never mind where I was. I was not with him, but about my own business. And I tell you, I no more laid a finger on him or his skiff than any one of you."

"Where was it?"

"Close by Vogel islet!"

Erica started, and, in one moment's flush of hope, told that Rolf had said, he should be safe at any time near Vogel islet. Hund caught at her words so eagerly as to make a favourable impression on all, who saw, what was indeed the truth, that he would have been glad to know that Rolf was alive. Their manner so changed towards Hund, that if Stiorna had been there, she would have triumphed. But the more they considered the case, the more improbable it seemed that Rolf should have escaped drowning.

"Mother, what do you think?" whispered the gentle Orga.

"I think, my dear, that we shall never forgive ourselves for letting Rolf go out in that old skiff."

"Then you think,—you feel quite sure,—mother, that Nipen had nothing to do with it."

"I feel confident, my dear, that there is no such being as Nipen."

"Even after all that has happened?—after this, following upon Oddo's prank that night?"

"Even so, Orga. We suffer by our own carelessness and folly, my love: and it makes us neither wiser nor better to charge the consequence upon evil spirits;—to charge our good God with permitting revengeful beings to torment us, instead of learning from his chastisements to sin in the same way no more."

"But, mother, if you are right, how very far wrong all these others are!"

"It is but little, my child, that the wisest of us knows: but there is a whole eternity before us, every one, to grow wise in. Some," and she looked towards Oddo, "may outgrow their mistakes here; and others," looking at old Peder, "are travelling fast towards a place where everybody is wiser than years or education can make us here. Your father and I do wish, for Frolich and you, that you should rest your reverence, your hopes and fears, on none but the good God. Do we not know that not even a sparrow falleth to the ground without his will?"

"Poor Erica would be less miserable if she could think so," sighed Orga. "She will die soon, if she goes on to suffer as she does. I wish the good bishop would come: for I do not think M. Kollsen gives her any comfort. Look now! what can she have to say to Hund?"

What Erica had to say to Hund was, "I believe some of the things you have told. I believe that you did not lay hands on Rolf."

"Bless you! Bless you for that!" interrupted Hund, almost forgetting how far he really was guilty in the satisfaction of hearing these words from the lips that spoke them.

"Tell me, then," proceeded Erica, "how you believe he really perished.— Do you fully believe he perished?"

"I believe," whispered Hund, "that the strong hand pulled him down—down to the bottom."

"I knew it," said Erica, turning away.

"Erica,—one word," exclaimed Hund. "I must stay here—I am very miserable, and I must stay here, and work and work till I get some comfort. But you must tell me how you think of me—you must say that you do not hate me."

"I do hate you," said Erica, with disgust, as her suspicions of his wanting to fill Rolf's place were renewed. "I mistrust you, Hund, more deeply than I can tell."

"Will no penitence change your feelings, Erica? I tell you I am as miserable as you."

"That is false, like everything else that you say," cried Erica. "I wish you would go,—go and seek Rolf under the waters—"

Hund shuddered at the thought, as it recalled what he had seen and heard at the islet. Erica saw this, and sternly repeated, "Go and bring back Rolf from the deeps; and then I will cease to hate you. Ah! I see the despair in your face. Such despair never came from any woman's words where there was not a bad conscience to back them."

Hund felt that this was true, and made no reply.

As Erica slowly returned into Peder's house, Oddo ran past, and was there before her. He closed the door when she had entered, put his hand within hers, and said, "Did Rolf really tell you that he should be safe anywhere near Vogel islet?"

"Yes," sighed Erica,—"safe from the pirates. That was his answer when I begged him not to go so far down the fiord: but Rolf always had an answer when one asked him not to go into danger. You see how it ended;—and he never would believe in that danger."

"I shall never be happy again, if this is Nipen's doing," said Oddo. "But, Erica, you went one trip with me, and I know you are brave. Will you go another? Will you go to the islet, and see what Rolf could have meant about being safe there?"

Erica brightened for a moment; and perhaps would have agreed to go: but Peder came in; and Peder said he knew the islet well, and that it was universally considered that it was now inaccessible to human foot, and that that was the reason why the fowl flourished there as they did in no other place. Erica must not be permitted to go so far down among the haunts of the pirates. Instead of this, her mistress had just decided that, as there were no present means of getting rid of Hund,—as indeed his depressed state of spirits seemed to give him some title to be received again,—and as Erica could not be expected to remain just now in his presence, she should set off immediately for the mountain, and request Erlingsen to come home. This was only hastening her departure by two or three days. At the seater she would find less to try her spirits than here: and when Erlingsen came he would, if he thought proper, have Hund carried before a magistrate; and would, at least, set such inquiries afloat through the whole region as would bring to light anything that might chance to be known of Rolf's fate.

Erica could not deny that this was the best plan that could be pursued, though she had no heart for going to the seater, any more than for doing anything else. Under Peder's urgency, however, she made up her bundle of clothes, took in her hand her lure [Note 1], with which to call home the cattle in the evenings, bade her mistress farewell privately, and stole away without Hund's knowledge, while Oddo was giving him meat and drink within the house. Old Peder listened to her parting footsteps; and her mistress watched her up the first hill, thinking to herself how unlike this was to the usual cheerful departure to the mountain dairies. Never, indeed, had a heavier heart burdened the footsteps of the wayfarer, about to climb the slopes of Sulitelma.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The Lure is a wooden trumpet, nearly five feet long, made of two hollow pieces of birch-wood, bound together, throughout the whole length, with slips of willow. It is used to call the cattle together on a wide pasture; and is also carried by travelling parties, to save the risk of any one being lost in the wilds. Its notes, which may be heard to a great distance, are extremely harsh and discordant; having none of the musical tone of the Alp-horn,—(the cow-horn used by the Swiss for the same purpose,)—which sounds well at a distance.



CHAPTER TEN.

SEEKING THE UPLANDS.

Now that the great occasion was come,—that brightest day of the year,— the day of going to the seater, how unlike was it to all that the lovers had imagined and planned! How unlike was the situation of the two! There was Rolf, cooped up in a dim cave, his heart growing heavy as his ear grew weary of the incessant dash and echo of the waters! And here was Erica on the free mountain side, where all was silent, except the occasional rattle of a brook over the stones, and the hum of a cloud of summer flies. The lovers were alike in their unhappiness only: and hardly in this, so much the most wretched of the two was Erica.

The sun was hot; and her path occasionally lay under rocks which reflected the heat upon the passenger. She did not heed this, for the aching of her heart. Then she had to pass through a swamp, whence issued a host of mosquitoes, to annoy any who intruded upon their domain. It just occurred to Erica that Rolf made her pass this place on horseback last year, well veiled, and completely defended from these stinging tormentors: but she did not heed them now. When, somewhat higher up, she saw in the lofty distance a sunny slope of long grass undulating in the wind, like the surface of a lake, tears sprang into her eyes; for Rolf had said that when they came in sight of the waving pasture, she would alight, and walk the rest of the way with him. Instead of this, and instead of the gay procession from the farm, musical with the singing of boys and girls, the lowing of the cows, and the bleating of the kids, all rejoicing together at going to the mountain, here she was alone, carrying a widowed heart, and wandering with unwilling steps further and further from the spot where she had last seen Rolf!

She dashed the tears from her eyes, and looked behind her, at the entrance of a ravine which would hide her from the fiord and the dwelling she had left. Thor islet lay like a fragment of the leafy forest cast into the blue waters; but Vogel islet could not be seen. It was not too far down to be seen from an elevation like this; but it was hidden behind the promontories by which the fiord was contracted. Erica could see what she next looked for,—knowing, as she did, precisely where to look. She could see the two graves belonging to the household,—the two hillocks which were railed in behind the house: but she turned away sickening at the thought that Rolf could not even have a grave; that that poor consolation was denied her. She looked behind her no more; but made her way rapidly through the ravine,—the more rapidly because she had seen a man ascending by the same path at no great distance, and she had little inclination to be joined by a party of wandering Laplanders, seeking a fresh pasture for their reindeer; still less by any neighbour from the fiord, who might think civility required that he should escort her to the seater. This wayfarer was walking at a pace so much faster than hers, that he would soon pass; and she would hide among the rocks beside the tarn [small lake upon a mountain] at the head of the ravine till he had gone by.

It was refreshing to come out of the hot, steep ravine upon the grass at the upper end of it. Such grass! A line of pathway was trodden in it straight upwards, by those who had before ascended the mountain; but Erica left this path, and turned to the right, to seek the tarn which there lay hidden among the rocks. The herbage was knee-deep, and gay with flowers,—with wild geranium, pansies, and especially with the yellow blossoms which give its peculiar hue and flavour to the Gammel cheese, and to the butter made in the mountain dairies of Norway. Through this rich pasture Erica waded till she reached the tarn which fed the stream that gambolled down the ravine. The death-cold unfathomed waters lay calm and still under the shelter of the rocks which nearly surrounded them. Even where crags did not rise abruptly from the water, huge blocks were scattered; masses which seemed to have lain so long as to have seen the springing herbage of a thousand summers.

In the shadow of one of these blocks, Erica sank down into the grass. There she, and her bundle, and her long lure were half-buried; and this, at last, felt something like rest. Here she would remain long enough to let the other wayfarer have a good start up the mountain; and by that time she should be cool and tranquillised:—yes, tranquillised; for here she could seek that peace which never failed when she sought it as Christians may. She hid her face in the fragrant grass, and did not look up again till the grief of her soul was stilled.—Then her eye and her heart were open to the beauty of the place which she had made her temple of worship; and she gazed around till she saw something that surprised her. A reindeer stood on the ridge, his whole form, from his branching head to his slender legs, being clearly marked against the bright sky. He was not alone. He was the sentinel, set to watch on behalf of several companions,—two or three being perched on ledges of the rock, browsing,—one standing half-buried in the herbage of the pasture, and one on the margin of the water, drinking as it would not have dreamed of doing if the wind had not been in the wrong quarter for letting him know how near the hidden Erica was.

This pretty sight was soon over. In a few moments the whole company appeared to take flight at once, without her having stirred a muscle. Away they went, with such speed and noiselessness that they appeared not to touch the ground. From point to point of the rock they sprang, and the last branchy head disappeared over the ridge, almost before Erica could stand upright, to see all she could of them.

She soon discovered the cause of their alarm. She thought it could not have been herself; and it was not. The traveller, who she had hoped was now some way up the mountain, was standing on the margin of the tarn, immediately opposite to her, so that the wind had carried the scent to the herd. The traveller saw her at the same moment that she perceived him; but Erica did not discover this, and sank down again into the grass, hoping so to remain undisturbed. She could not thus observe what his proceedings were; but her ear soon informed her that he was close by. His feet were rustling in the grass.

She sat up, and took her bundle and lure, believing now that she must accept the unwelcome civility of an escort for the whole of the rest of the way, and thinking that she might as well make haste, and get it over. The man, however, seemed in no hurry. Before she could rise, he took his seat on the huge stone beside her, crossed his arms, made no greeting, but looked her full in the face.

She did not know the face, nor was it like any that she had ever seen. There was such long hair, and so much beard, that the eyes seemed the only feature which made any distinct impression. Erica's heart now began to beat violently. Though wishing to be alone, she had not dreamed of being afraid till now: but now it occurred to her that she was seeing the rarest of sights—one not seen twice in a century; no other than the mountain-demon. Sulitelma, as the highest mountain in Norway, was thought to be his favourite haunt; and considering his strange appearance, and his silence, it could hardly be other than himself.

The test would be whether he would speak first; a test which she resolved to try, though it was rather difficult to meet and return the stare of such a neighbour without speaking. She could not keep this up for more than a minute: so she sprang to her feet, rested her lure upon her shoulder, took her bundle in her hand, and began to wade back through the high grass to the pathway, almost expecting, when she thought of her mother's fate, to be seized by a strong hand, and cast into the unfathomable tarn, whose waters were said to well up from the centre of the earth. Her companion, however, merely walked by her side. As he did not offer to carry her bundle, he could be no countryman of hers. There was not a peasant in Nordland who would not have had more courtesy.

They walked quietly on till the tarn was left some way behind. Erica found she was not to die that way. Presently after, they came in sight of a settlement of Lapps,—a cluster of low and dirty tents, round which some tame reindeer were feeding. Erica was not sorry to see these; though no one knew better than she the helpless cowardice of these people; and it was not easy to say what assistance they could afford against the mountain-demon. Yet they were human beings, and would appear in answer to a cry. She involuntarily shifted her lure, to be ready to utter a call. The stranger stopped to look at the distant tents, and Erica went on, at the same pace. He presently overtook her, and pointed towards the Lapps with an inquiring look. Erica only nodded.

"Why you no speak?" growled the stranger, in broken language.

"Because I have nothing to say," declared Erica, in the sudden vivacity inspired by the discovery that this was probably no demon. Her doubts were renewed, however, by the next question.

"Is the bishop coming?"

Now, none were supposed to have a deeper interest in the holy bishop's travels than the evil spirits of any region through which he was to pass.

"Yes, he is coming," replied Erica. "Are you afraid of him?"

The stranger burst into a loud laugh at her question: and very like a mocking fiend he looked, as his thick beard parted to show his wide mouth, with its two ranges of teeth. When he finished laughing, he said, "No, no—we no fear bishop."

"'We!'" repeated Erica to herself. "He speaks for his tribe, as well as himself."

"We no fear bishop," said the stranger, still laughing. "You no fear—?" and he pointed to the long stretch of path—the prodigious ascent before them.

Erica said there was nothing to fear on the mountain for those who did their duty to the powers, as it was her intention to do. Her first Gammel cheese was to be for him whose due it was; and it should be the best she could make.

This speech she thought would suit, whatever might be the nature of her companion. If it was the demon, she could do no more to please him than promise him his cheese.

Her companion seemed not to understand or attend to what she said. He again asked if she was not afraid to travel alone in so dreary a place, adding, that if his countrywomen were to be overtaken by a stranger like him, on the wilds of a mountain, they would scream and fly; all which he acted very vividly, by way of making out his imperfect speech, and trying her courage at the same time.

When Erica saw that she had no demon for a companion, but only a foreigner, she was so much relieved as not to be afraid at all. She said that nobody thought of being frightened in summer time in her country. Winter was the time for that. When the days were long, so that travellers knew their way, and when everybody was abroad, so that you could not go far without meeting a friend, there was nothing to fear.

"You go abroad to meet friends, and leave your enemy behind."

At the moment, he turned to look back. Erica could not now help watching him, and she cast a glance homewards too. They were so high up the mountain that the fiord and its shores were in full view; and more;—for the river was seen in its windings from the very skirts of the mountain to the fiord, and the town of Saltdalen standing on its banks. In short, the whole landscape to the west lay before them, from Sulitelma to the point of the horizon where the islands and rocks melted into the sea.

The stranger had picked up an eagle's feather in his walk; and he now pointed with it to the tiny cove in which Erlingsen's farm might be seen, looking no bigger than an infant's toy, and said, "Do you leave an enemy there, or is Hund now your friend?"

"Hund is nobody's friend, unless he happens to be yours," Erica replied, perceiving at once that her companion belonged to the pirates. "Hund is everybody's enemy; and, above all, he is an enemy to himself. He is a wretched man."

"The bishop will cure that," said the stranger. "He is coward enough to call in the bishop to cure all. When comes the bishop?"

"Next week."

"What day, and what hour?"

Erica did not choose to gratify so close a curiosity as this. She did not reply; and while silent, was not sorry to hear the distant sound of cattle-bells, and Erlingsen's cattle-bells too. The stranger did not seem to notice the sound, even though quickening his pace to suit Erica's, who pressed on faster when she believed protection was at hand. And yet the next thing the stranger said brought her to a full stop.— He said he thought a part of Hund's business with the bishop would be to get him to disenchant the fiord, so that boats might not be spirited away almost before men's eyes; and that a rower and his skiff might not sink like lead one day, and the man be heard the second day, and seen the third, so that there was no satisfactory knowledge as to whether he was really dead. Erica stopped, and her eager looks made the inquiry which her lips could not speak. Her eagerness put her companion on his guard, and he would explain no further than by saying that the fiord was certainly enchanted, and that strange tales were circulating all round its shores—very striking to a stranger;—a stranger had nothing more to do with the wonders of a country than to listen to them. He wanted to turn the conversation back to Hund. Having found out that he was at Erlingsen's, he next tried to discover what he had said and done since his arrival. Erica told the little there was to tell—that he seemed full of sorrow and remorse. She told this in hope of a further explanation about drowned men being seen alive; but the stranger stopped when the bells were heard again, and a woman's voice singing, nearer still. He complimented Erica on her courage, and turned to go back the way he came.

"Stay," said Erica. "Do come to the dairy, now you are so near."

The man walked away rapidly.

"My master is here close at hand; he will be glad to see a stranger," she said, following him, with the feeling that her only chance of hearing something of Rolf was departing. The stranger did not turn, but only walked faster and with longer strides down the slope.

The only thing now to be done was to run forwards, and send a messenger after him. Erica forgot heat, weariness, and the safety of her property, and ran on towards the singing voice. In five minutes she found the singer, Frolich, lying along the ground and picking cloud-berries with which she was filling her basket for supper.

"Where is Erlingsen?—quick—quick!" cried Erica.

"My father? You may just see him with your good eyes,—up there."

And Frolich pointed to a patch of verdure on a slope high up the mountain, where the gazer might just discern that there were haycocks standing, and two or three moving figures beside them.

"Stiorna is there to-day, besides Jan. They hope to finish this evening," said Frolich; "and so here I am, all alone: and I am glad you have come to help me to have a good supper ready for them. Their hunger will beat all my berry-gathering."

"You are alone?" said Erica, discovering that it was well that the pirate had turned back when he did. "You alone, and gathering berries, instead of having an eye on the cattle! Who has an eye on the cattle!" [Note 1.]

"Why, no one," answered Frolich. "Come now, do not tease me with bidding me remember the Bishop of Tronyem's cattle. The underground people have something to do elsewhere to-day; they give no heed to us."

"We must give heed to them, however," said Erica. "Show me where the cattle are, and I will collect them, and have an eye on them till supper is ready."

"You shall do no such thing, Erica. You shall lie down here and pick berries with me, and tell me the news. That will rest you and me at the same time; for I am as tired of being alone as you can be of climbing the mountain.—But why are your hands empty? Who is to lend you clothes? And what will the cows say to your leaving your lure behind, when you know they like it so much better than Stiorna's?"

Erica explained that her bundle and lure were lying on the grass, a little way below; and Frolich sprang to her feet, saying that she would fetch them presently. Erica stopped her, and told her she must not go: nobody should go but herself. She could not answer to Erlingsen for letting one of his children follow the steps of a pirate, who might return at any moment.

Frolich had no longer any wish to go. She started off towards the sleeping-shed, and never stopped till she had entered it, and driven a provision-chest against the door, leaving Erica far behind.

Erica, indeed, was in no hurry to follow. She returned for her bundle and lure: and then, uneasy about the cattle being left without an eye upon them, and thus confided to the negligence of the underground people, she proceeded to an eminence where two or three of her cows were grazing, and there sounded her lure. She put her whole strength to it, in hope that others, besides the cattle, might appear in answer; for she was really anxious to see her master.

The peculiar and far from musical sounds did spread wide over the pastures, and up the slopes, and through the distant woods, so that the cattle of another seater stood to listen, and her own cows began to move,—leaving the sweetest tufts of grass, and rising up from their couches in the richest herbage, to converge towards the point whence she called. The far-off herdsman observed to his fellow that there was a new call among the pastures; and Erlingsen, on the upland, desired Jan and Stiorna to finish cocking the hay, and began his descent to his seater, to learn whether Erica had brought any news from home.

Long before he could appear, Frolich stole out trembling, and looking round her at every step. When she saw Erica, she flew over the grass, and threw herself down in it at Erica's feet.

"Where is he?" she whispered. "Has he come back?"

"I have not seen him. I dare say he is as far off by this time as the Black Tarn, where I met with him."

"The Black Tarn! And do you mean that—no, you cannot mean that you came all the way together from the Black Tarn hither. Did you run? Did you fly? Did you shriek? Oh, what did you do?—with a pirate at your heels!"

"By my side," said Erica. "We walked and talked."

"With a pirate! But how did you know it was a pirate? Did he tell you so?"

"No: and at first I thought,"—and she sank her voice into a reverential whisper,—"I thought for some time it was the demon of this place. When I found it was only a pirate, I did not mind."

"Only a pirate! Did not mind!" exclaimed Frolich. "You are the strangest girl! You are the most perverse creature! You think nothing of a pirate walking at your elbow for miles, and you would make a slave of yourself and me about these underground people, that my father laughs at, and that nobody ever saw.—Ah! you say nothing aloud; but I know you are saying in your own mind, 'Remember the Bishop of Tronyem's cattle.'"

"You want news," said Erica, avoiding, as usual, all conversation about her superstitions. "How will it please you that the bishop is coming?"

"Very much, if we had any chance of seeing him. Very much, whether we see him or not, if he can give any help,—any advice... My poor Erica, I do not like to ask, but you have had no good news, I fear."

Erica shook her head.

"I saw that in your face, in a moment. Do not speak about it till you tell my father; he may help you—I cannot; so do not tell me anything."

Erica was glad to take her at her word. She kissed Frolich's hand, which lay on her knee, in token of thanks, and then inquired whether any Gammel cheese was made yet.

"No," said Frolich, inwardly sighing for news. "We have the whey, but not sweet cream enough till after this evening's milking; so you are just in time."

Erica was glad, as she could not otherwise have been sure of the demon having his due.

"There is your father," said Erica. "Now do go and gather more berries, Frolich; there are not half enough, and you cannot be afraid of the pirate, with your father within call. Now do go."

"You want me not to hear what you have to tell my father," said Frolich, unwilling to depart.

"That is very true. I shall tell him nothing till you are out of hearing; he can repeat to you what he pleases afterwards, and he will indulge you all the more for your giving him a good supper."

"So he will, and I will fill his cup myself," observed Frolich. "He says the corn-brandy is uncommonly good, and I will fill his cup till it will not hold another drop."

"You will not reach his heart that way, Frolich. He knows to a drop what his quantity is, and there he stops."

"I know where there are some manyberries [Note 2] ripe," said Frolich, "and he likes them above all berries. They lie this way, at the edge of the swamp, where the pirate will never think of coming."

And off she went, as Erica rose from the grass to curtsey to Erlingsen on his approach.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. It is a popular belief in Norway that there is a race of fairies or magicians living underground, who are very covetous of cattle; and that, to gratify their taste for large herds and flocks, they help themselves with such as graze on the mountains; making dwarfs of them to enable them to enter crevices of the ground, in order to descend to the subterranean pastures. This practice may be defeated, as the Norwegian herdsman believes, by keeping his eye constantly on the cattle.

A certain Bishop of Tronyem lost his cattle by the herdsmen having looked away from them, beguiled by a spirit in the shape of a noble elk. The herdsmen, looking towards their charge again, saw them reduced to the size of mice, just vanishing through a crevice in the hill-side. Hence the Norwegian proverb used to warn any one to look after his property, "Remember the Bishop of Tronyem's cattle."

Note 2. The Molteboeer, or Manyberries, so called from its clustered appearance. It is a delicious fruit, amber-coloured when ripe, and growing in marshy ground.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

DAIRY-MAIDS' TALK.

It may be supposed that Erlingsen was anxious to be at home, when he had heard Erica's story. He was not to be detained by any promise of berries and cream for supper. He put away the thought even of his hay, yet unfinished on the upland, and would not hear nothing that Frolich had to say of his fatigue at the end of a long working day. He took some provision with him, drank off a glass of corn-brandy, kissed Frolich, promised to send news, and, if possible, more helping hands, and set off, at a good pace, down the mountain.

The party he left behind was a dull one. When Jan came in to supper he became angry that he was left to get in the hay alone; even Stiorna could not help him to-morrow, for the cheese-making had already been put off too long while waiting for Erica's arrival, and it must now be delayed no longer. It was true some one was to be sent from below, but such an one could not arrive before the next evening, and Jan would meanwhile have a long day alone, instead of having, as hitherto, his master for a comrade. Stiorna, for her part, was offended at the wish, openly expressed by all, that Hund might not be the person sent; she was sure he was the only proper person, but she saw that he would meet with no welcome, except from her.

Scarcely a word was spoken till Erica and Frolich were about their cheese-making the next morning. Erica had rather have kept the cattle, but Frolich so earnestly begged that she would let Stiorna do that, as she could not destroy the cattle in her ill-humour, while she might easily spoil the cheese, that Erica put away her knitting, tied on her apron, tucked up her sleeves, and prepared for the great work.

"There! let her go!" cried Frolich, looking after Stiorna, as she walked away slowly, trailing her lure after her. "She may knit all her ill-humour into her stocking, if she likes, as Hund is to wear it, and that is better than putting it into our cheese. Erica," said the kind-hearted girl. "You are worth a hundred of her. What has she to disturb her, in comparison with you?—and yet you do just what I ask you, and work at our business as if nothing was the matter. If you chose to cry all day on the two graves down there at home, nobody could think it unreasonable."

Erica was washing the bowls and cheese-moulds in juniper-water at this moment; and her tears streamed down upon them at Frolich's kind words.

"We had better not talk about such things, dear," said she, as soon as she could speak.

"Nay, now, I think it is the best thing we can do, Erica. Here, pour me this cream into the pan over the fire, and I will stir, while you strain some more whey. My back is towards you, and I cannot see you; and you can cry as you like, while I tell you all I think."

Erica found that this free leave to cry unseen was a great help towards stopping her tears; and she ceased weeping entirely while listening to all that Frolich had to say in favour of Rolf being still alive and safe. It was no great deal that could be said; only that Hund's news was more likely to be false than true, and that there was no other evidence of any accident having happened.

"My dear!" exclaimed Erica; "where is he now, then?—why is he not here? O, Frolich! I can hardly wonder that we are punished when I think of our presumption. When we were talking beside those graves on the day of Ulla's funeral, he laughed at me for even speaking of death and separation. 'What! at our age!' he said. 'Death at our age,—and separation!'—and that with Henrica's grave before our eyes!"

"Then, perhaps, this will prove to be a short and gentle separation, to teach him to speak more humbly. There is no being in the universe that would send death to punish light gay words, spoken from a joyful heart. If there were, I and many others should have been in our graves long since. Why, Erica! this is even a worse reason than Hund's word. Now, just tell me, Erica, would you believe anything else that Hund said?"

"In a common way, perhaps not: but you cannot think what a changed man he is, Frolich. He is so humbled, so melancholy, so awe-struck, that he is not like the same man."

"He may not be the better for that. He was more frightened than anybody at the moment the owl cried, on your betrothment night, when you fancied that Nipen had carried off Oddo. Yet never did I see Hund more malicious than he was half an hour afterwards. I doubt whether any such fright would make a liar into a truthful man, in a moment."

Erica now remembered and told the falsehood of Hund about what he was doing when the boat was spirited away:—a falsehood told in the very midst of the humiliation and remorse she had described.

"Why there now!" exclaimed Frolich, ceasing her stirring for a moment to look round; "what a capital story that is! and how few people know it! and how neatly you catch him in his fib! And why should not something like it be happening now with Rolf? Rolf knows all the ins and outs of the fiord: and if he has been playing bo-peep with his enemies among the islands, and frightening Hund, is it not the most natural thing in the world that Hund should come scampering home, and get his place, and say that he is lost, while waiting to see whether he is or not!—O dear!" she exclaimed after a pause, during which Erica did not attempt to speak, "I know what I wish."

"You wish something kind, dear, I am sure," said Erica, with a deep sigh.

"We have so many,—so very many nice, useful things,—we can go up the mountains and sail away over the seas,—and look far abroad into the sky. I only wish we could do one little thing more. I really think, having so many things, we might have had just one little thing more given us;—and that is wings. I grudge them to yonder screaming eagles, when I want them so much."

"My dear child, what strange things you say?"

"I do so very much want to fly abroad, just for once, over the fiord. If I could but look down into every nook and cove between Thor Islet and the sea, I would not be long in bringing you news. If I did not see Rolf, I would tell you plainly. Really, at such times it seems very odd that we have not wings."

"Perhaps the time may come, dear."

"I can never want them so much again."

"My dear, you cannot want them as I do, if I dared to say such bold things as you do. You are not weary of the world, Frolich."

"What! this beautiful world? Are you weary of it all, Erica?"

"Yes, dear."

"What! of the airy mountains, and the silent forests, and the lonely lakes, and the blue glaciers, with flowers fringing them? Are you quite weary of all these?"

"O that I had wings like a dove! Then would I flee away, and be at rest." Erica hardly murmured these words; but Frolich caught them.

"Do you know," said she, softly, after a pause, "I doubt whether we can find rest by going to any place, in this world or out of it, unless— if—The truth is, Erica, I know my father and mother think that people who are afraid of selfish and revengeful spirits, such as demons and Nipen, can never have any peace of mind. Really religious people have their way straight before them;—they have only to do right, and God is their friend, and they can bear everything, and fear nothing. But the people about us are always in a fright about some selfish being or another not being properly humoured, and so being displeased. I would not be in such bondage, Erica,—no, not for the wings I was longing for just now. I should be freer if I were rooted like a tree, and without superstition, than if I had the wings of an eagle, with a belief in selfish demons."

"Let us talk of something else," said Erica, who was at the very moment considering where the mountain-demon would best like to have his Gammel cheese laid. "What is the quality of the cream, Frolich? Is it as good as it ought to be?"

"Stiorna would say that the demon will smack his lips over it. Come and taste."

"Do not speak so, dear."

"I was only quoting Stiorna—"

"What are you saying about me?" inquired Stiorna, appearing at the door. "Only talking about the cream and the cheese? Are you sure of that? Bless me! what a smell of the yellow flowers! It will be a prime cheese."

"How can you leave the cattle, Stiorna?" cried Erica. "If they are all gone when you get back—"

"Well, come, then, and see the sight. I get scolded either way, always. You would have scolded me finely to-night if I had not called you to see the sight—"

"What sight?"

"Why there is such a procession of boats on the fiord, that you would suppose there were three weddings happening at once."

"What can we do?" exclaimed Frolich, dolefully looking at the cream, which had reached such a point as that the stirring could not cease for a minute without risk of spoiling the cheese.

Erica took the long wooden spoon from Frolich's hand, and bade her run and see where the bishop was going to land. The cream should not spoil while she was absent.

Frolich bounded away over the grass, declaring that if it was the bishop, going to her father's, she could not possibly stay on the mountain for all the cheeses in Nordland.—Erica remained alone, patiently stirring the cream, and hardly heeding the heat of the fire, while planning how the bishop would be told her story, and how he would examine Hund, and perhaps be able to give some news of the pirates, and certainly be ready with his advice. Some degree of hope arose within her as she thought of the esteem in which all Norway held the wisdom and kindness of the bishop of Tronyem: and then again she felt it hard to be absent during the visit of the only person to whom she looked for comfort.

Frolich returned after a long while, to defer her hopes a little. The boats had all drawn to shore on the northern side of the fiord, where, no doubt, the bishop had a visit to pay before proceeding to Erlingsen's. The cheese-making might yet be done in time, even if Frolich should be sent for home, to see and be seen by the good bishop.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

PEDER ABROAD.

The day after Erica's departure to the dairy, Peder was sitting alone in his house, weaving a frail-basket. Sometimes he sighed to think how empty and silent the house appeared to what he had ever known it before. Ulla's wheel stood in the corner, and was now never to be heard, any more than her feeble, aged voice, which had sung ballads to the last. Erica's light, active step was gone for the present, and would it ever again be as light and active as it had been? Rolf's hearty laugh was silent; perhaps for ever. Oddo was an inmate still, but Oddo was much altered of late, and who could wonder? Though the boy was strangely unbelieving about some things, he could not but feel how wonders and misfortunes had crowded upon one another since the night of his defiance of Nipen.

From the hour of Hund's return, the boy had hardly been heard to speak. All these thoughts were too melancholy for old Peder, and, to break the silence, he began to sing as he wove his basket.

He had nearly got through a ballad of a hundred and five stanzas, when he heard a footstep on the floor.

"Oddo, my boy," said he, "surely you are in early. Can it be dinner-time yet?"

"No, not this hour," replied Oddo, in a low voice, which sank to a whisper as he said, "I have left Hund laying the troughs to water the meadow, and if he misses me, I don't care. I could not stay;—I could not help coming;—and if he kills me for telling you, he may, for tell you I must."

And Oddo went to close and fasten the door, and then he sat down on the ground, rested his arms on his grandfather's knees, and told his story in such a low tone that no "little bird" under the eaves could "carry the matter."

"O grandfather, what a mind that fellow has! he will go crazy with horror soon. I am not sure that he is not crazy now."

"He has murdered Rolf, has he?"

"I can't be sure, but the oddest thing is that he mixes up wolves with his rambling talk. Rolf can hardly have met with mischief from any wolf at this season."

"No, boy; not Rolf. But did not. Hund speak of orphan children, and how wolves have been known to devour them when snow was on the ground?"

"Why, yes," said Oddo, surprised at such a guess.

"There was a reason for Hund's talking so of wolves, my dear. Tell me quick what he said of Rolf, and what made him say anything to you,—to an inquisitive boy like you."

"He is like one bewitched, that cannot hold his tongue. While I was bringing the troughs, one by one, for him to lay, where the meadow was dryest, he still kept muttering and muttering to himself. As often as I came within six yards of him, I heard him mutter, mutter; then, when I helped him to lay the troughs, he began to talk to me. I was not in the mind to make him many answers, but on he went, just the same as if I had asked him a hundred questions."

"It was such an opportunity for a curious boy, that I wonder you did not."

"Perhaps I might, if he had stopped long enough. But if he stopped for a moment to wipe his brows, he began again before I could well speak. He asked me whether I had ever heard that drowned men could show their heads above water, and stare with their eyes, and throw their arms about, a whole day,—two days, after they were drowned."

"Ay! indeed! Did he ask that?"

"Yes, and several other things: he asked whether I had ever heard that the islets in the fiord were so many prison-houses."

"And what did you say?"

"I wanted him to explain; so I said they were prison-houses to the eider-ducks when they were sitting, for they never stir a yard from their nests. But he did not heed a word I spoke; he went on about drowned men being kept prisoners in the islets, moaning because they can't get out. And he says they will knock, knock, as if they could cleave the thick hard rock."

"What do you think of all this, my boy?"

"Why, when I said I had not heard a word of any such thing, even from my grandmother or Erica, he declared he had heard the moans himself,— moaning and crying; but then he mixed up something about the barking of wolves that made confusion in the story. Though he had been hot just before, there he stood shivering, as if it was winter, as he stood in the broiling sun. Then I asked him if he had seen dead men swim and stare, as he said he had heard them moan and cry."

"And what did he say then?"

"He started bolt upright, as if I had been picking his pocket. He was in a passion for a minute, I know, if ever he was in his life. Then he tried to laugh as he said what a lot of new stories—stories of spirits, such stories as people love—he should have to carry home to the north, whenever he went back to his own place."

"In the north,—his own place in the north! He wanted to mislead you there, boy. Hund was born some way to the south."

"No, was he really? How is one to believe a word he says, except when he speaks as if he was in his asleep,—straight out from his conscience, I suppose? He began to talk about the bishop next, wanting to know when I thought he would come, and whether he was apt to hold private talk with every sort of person at the houses he stayed at."

"How did you answer him? You know nothing about the bishop's visits."

"So I told him: but, to try him, I said I knew one thing,—that a quantity of fresh fish would be wanted when the bishop comes with his train; and I asked him whether he would go fishing with me, as soon as we should hear that the bishop was drawing near."

"He would not agree to that, I fancy."

"He asked how far out I thought of going. Of course I said to Vogel islet,—at least as far as Vogel islet. Do you know, grandfather, I thought he would have knocked me down at the word. He muttered something, I could not hear what, to get off. By that time we were laying the last trough. I asked him to go for some more, and the minute he was out of sight I scampered here. Now, what sort of a mind do you think this fellow has?"

"Not an easy one, it is plain. It is too clear also that he thinks Rolf is drowned."

"But do you think so, grandfather?"

"Do you think so, grandson?"

"Not a bit of it. Depend upon it, Rolf is all alive, if he is swimming and staring, and throwing his arms about in the water. I think I see him now. And I will see him, if he is to be seen, alive or dead."

"And pray, how?"

"I ought to have said if you will help me. You say, sometimes, grandfather, that you can pull a good stroke with the oar still: and I can steer as well as our master himself: and the fiord never was stiller than it is to-day. Think what it would be to bring home Rolf, or some good news of him. We would have a race up to the seater afterwards to see who could be the first to tell Erica."

"Gently, gently, boy! What is Rolf about not to come home, if he's alive?"

"That we shall learn from him. Did you hear that he told Erica he should go as far as Vogel islet, dropping something about being safe there from pirates and everything?"

Peder really thought there was something in this. He sent off Oddo to his work in the little meadow, and himself sought out Madame Erlingsen, who, having less belief in spirits and enchantments than Peder, was in proportion more struck with the necessity of seeing whether there was any meaning in Hund's revelations, lest Rolf should be perishing for want of help. The story of his disappearance had spread through the whole region; and there was not a fisherman on the fiord who had not, by this time, given an opinion as to how he was drowned. But Madame was well aware that, if he were only wrecked, there was no sign that he could make that would not terrify the superstitious minds of the neighbours, and make them keep aloof, instead of helping him. In addition to all this, it was doubtful whether his signals would be seen by anybody, at a season when every one who could be spared was gone up to the dairies.

As soon as Hund was gone out after dinner, the old man and his grandson put off in the boat, carrying a note from Madame Erlingsen to her neighbours along the fiord, requesting the assistance of one or two rowers on an occasion which might prove one of life and death. The neighbours were obliging. The Holbergs sent a stout farm-servant with directions to call at a cousin's, lower down, for a boatman; so that the boat was soon in fast career down the fiord,—Oddo full of expectation, and of pride in commanding such an expedition; and Peter being relieved from all necessity of rowing more than he liked.

Oddo had found occasionally the truth of a common proverb; he had easily brought his master's horses to the water, but could not make them drink. He now found that he had easily got rowers into the boat, but that it was impossible to make them row beyond a certain point. He had used as much discretion as Peder himself about not revealing the precise place of their destination; and when Vogel islet came in sight, the two helpers at once gave him hints to steer so as to keep as near the shore, and as far from the island, as possible. Oddo gravely steered for the island, notwithstanding. When the men saw that this was his resolution, they shipped their oars, and refused to strike another stroke, unless one of them might steer. That island had a bad reputation: it was bewitched or haunted; and in that direction the men would not go. They were willing to do all they could to oblige: they would row twenty miles without resting, with pleasure; but they would not brave Nipen, nor any other demon, for any consideration.

"How far off is it, Oddo?" asked Peder.

"Two miles, grandfather. Can you and I manage it by ourselves, think you?"

"Ay, surely, if we can land these friends of ours. They will wait ashore till we call for them again."

"I will leave you my supper if you will wait for us here, on this headland," said Oddo to the men.

The men could make no other objection than that they were certain the boat would never return. They were very civil—would not accept Oddo's supper on any account—would remain on the watch—wished their friends would be persuaded; and, when they found all persuasion in vain, declared they would bear testimony to Erica, and as long as they should live, to the bravery of the old man and boy who thus threw away their lives in search of a comrade who had fallen a victim to Nipen.

Amidst these friendly words the old man and his grandson put off once more alone, making straight for the islet. Of the two Peder was the greater hero, for he saw the most ground for fear.

"Promise me, Oddo," said she, "not to take advantage of my not seeing. As sure as you observe anything strange, tell me exactly what you see."

"I will, grandfather. There is nothing yet but what is so beautiful that I could not, for the life of me, find out anything to be afraid of. The water is as green as our best pasture, as it washes up against the grey rock. And that grey rock is all crested and tufted with green again wherever a bush can spring. It is all alive with sea-birds, as white as snow, as they wheel about it in the sun."

"'Tis the very place," said Peder, putting new strength into his old arm. Oddo rowed stoutly too for some way, and then he stopped to ask on what side the remains of a birch ladder used to hang down, as Peder had often told him.

"On the north side; but there is no use in looking for that, my boy. That birch ladder must have rotted away with frost and wet long and long ago."

"It is likely," said Oddo; "but thinking that some man must have put it there, I should like to see whether it really is impossible for one with a strong hand and light foot to mount this wall. I brought our longest boat-hook on purpose to try. Where a ladder hung before, a foot must have climbed; and if I mount, Rolf may have mounted before me."

It chilled Peder's heart to remember the aspect of the precipice which his boy talked of climbing; but he said nothing, feeling that it would be in vain. This forbearance touched Oddo's feelings.

"I will run into no folly, trust me," said he. "I do not forget that you depend on me for getting home; and that the truth, about Nipen and such things, depends, for an age to come, on our being seen at home again safe. But I have a pretty clear notion that Rolf is somewhere on the top there."

"Suppose you call him, then."

Oddo had much rather catch him. He pictured to himself the pride and pleasure of mastering the ascent; the delight of surprising Rolf asleep in his solitude, and the fun of standing over him to waken him, and witness his surprise. He could not give up the attempt to scale the rock: but he would do it very cautiously.

Slowly and watchfully they passed round the islet, Oddo seeking with his eye any ledge of the rock on which he might mount. Pulling off his shoes, that his bare feet might have the better hold, and stripping off almost all his clothes, for lightness in climbing, and perhaps swimming, he clambered up to more than one promising spot, and then, finding that further progress was impossible, had to come down again. At last; seeing a narrow chasm filled with leafy shrubs, he determined to try how high he could reach by means of these. He swung himself up by means of a bush which grew downwards, having its roots firmly fixed in a crevice of the rock. This gave him hold of another, which brought him in reach of a third; so that, making his way like a squirrel or a monkey, he found himself hanging at such a height, that it seemed easier to go on than to turn back. For some time after leaving his grandfather, he had spoken to him, as an assurance of his safety. When too far off to speak, he had sung aloud, to save the old man from fears; and now that he did not feel at all sure whether he should ever get up or down, he began to whistle cheerily. He was pleased to hear it answered from the boat. The thought of the old man sitting there alone, and his return wholly depending upon the safety of his companion, animated Oddo afresh to find a way up the rock. It looked to him as like a wall as any other rock about the islet. There was no footing where he was looking;—that was certain. So he advanced farther into the chasm, where the rocks so nearly met that a giant's arm might have touched the opposite wall. Here there was promise of release from his dangerous situation. At the end of a ledge, he saw something like poles hanging on the rock,—some work of human hands, certainly. Having scrambled towards them, he found the remains of a ladder, made of birch poles, fastened together with thongs of leather. This ladder had once, no doubt, hung from top to bottom of the chasm; and its lower part, now gone, was that ladder of which Peder had often spoken as a proof that men had been on the island.

With a careful hand, Oddo pulled at the ladder; and it did not give way. He tugged harder, and still it only shook. He must try it; there was nothing else to be done. It was well for him now that he was used to dangerous climbing,—that he had had adventures on the slippery, cracked glaciers of Sulitelma, and that being on a height with precipices below, was no new situation to him. He climbed, trusting as little as possible to the ladder, setting his foot in preference on any projection of the rock, or any root of the smallest shrub. More than one pole cracked: more than one fastening gave way, when he had barely time to shift his weight upon a better support. He heard his grandfather's voice calling, and he could not answer. It disturbed him, now that his joints were strained, his limbs trembling, and his mouth parched so that his breath rattled as it came.

He reached the top, however. He sprang from the edge of the precipice, unable to look down, threw himself on his face, and panted and trembled, as if he had never before climbed anything less safe than a staircase. Never before, indeed, had he done anything like this. The feat was performed,—the islet was not to him inaccessible. This thought gave him strength. He sprang to his feet again, and whistled loud and shrill. He could imagine the comfort this must be to Peder; and he whistled more and more merrily till he found himself rested enough to proceed on his search for Rolf.

Never had he seen a place so full of water-birds and their nests. Their nests strewed all the ground; and they themselves were strutting and waddling, fluttering and vociferating in every direction. They were perfectly tame, knowing nothing of men, and having had no experience of disturbance. The ducks that were leading their broods allowed Oddo to stroke their feathers; and the drakes looked on, without taking any offence.

"If Rolf is here," thought Oddo, "he has been living on most amiable terms with his neighbours."

After an anxious thought or two of Nipen,—after a glance or two round the sky and shores for a sign of wind,—Oddo began in earnest his quest of Rolf. He called his name,—gently,—then louder.

There was some kind of answer. Some sound of human voice he heard, he was certain; but so muffled, so dull, that whence it came he could not tell. It might even be his grandfather, calling from below. So he crossed to quite the verge of the little island, wishing with all his heart that the birds would be quiet, and cease their civility of all answering when he spoke. When quite out of hearing of Peder, Oddo called again, with scarcely a hope of any result, so plain was it to his eyes that no one resided on the island. On its small summit there was really no intermission of birds' nests;—no space where any one had lain down;—no sign of habitation,—no vestige of food, dress, or utensils. With a saddened heart, therefore, Oddo called again; and again he was sure there was an answer; though whence and what he could not make out. He then sang a part of a chant that he had learned by Rolf singing it as he sat carving his share of the new pulpit. He stopped in the middle, and presently believed that he heard the air continued, though the voice seemed so indistinct, and the music so much as if it came from underground, that Oddo began to recall, with some doubt and fear, the stories of the enchantment of the place. It was not long before he heard a cry from the water below. Looking over the precipice he saw what made him draw back in terror: he saw the very thing Hund had described,—the swimming and staring head of Rolf, and the arms thrown up in the air. Not having Hund's conscience, however, and having much more curiosity, he looked again; and then a third time.

"Are you Rolf, really?" asked he, at last.

"Yes; but who are you,—Oddo or the demon,—up there where nobody can climb? Who are you?"

"I will show you. We will find each other out," thought Oddo, with a determination to take the leap, and ascertain the truth. He leaped, and struck the water at a sufficient distance from Rolf. When he came up again, they approached each other, staring, and each with some doubt as to whether the other was human or a demon.

"Are you really alive, Rolf?" said the one.

"To be sure I am, Oddo," said the other: "but what demon carried you to the top of that rock, that no man ever climbed?"

Oddo looked mysterious, suddenly resolving to keep his secret for the present.

"Not that way," said Rolf. "I have not the strength I had, and I can't swim round the place now. I was just resting myself when I heard you call, and came out to see. Follow me home."

He turned, and began to swim homewards. Oddo had the strongest inclination to go with him, to see what would be revealed; but there were two objections. His grandfather must be growing anxious; and he was not perfectly sure yet whether his guide might not be Nipen in Rolf's likeness, about to lead him to some hidden prison.

"Give me your hand, Rolf," said the boy, bravely.

It was a real, substantial, warm hand.

"I don't wonder you doubt," said Rolf. "I can't look much like myself,—unshaven, and shrunk, and haggard as my face must be."

Oddo was now quite satisfied; and he told of the boat and his grandfather. The boat was scarcely farther off than the cave; and poor Rolf was almost in extremity for drink. The water and brandy he brought with him had been finished, nearly two days, and he was suffering extremely from thirst. He thought he could reach the boat, and Oddo led the way, bidding him not mind his being without clothes till they could find him some.

Glad was the old man to hear his boy's call from the water: and his face lighted up with wonder and pleasure when he heard that Rolf was not far behind. He lent a hand to help him into the boat, and asked no questions till he had given him food and drink. He reproached himself for having brought neither camphor nor asafoetida, to administer with the corn-brandy. Here was the brandy, however; and some water, and fish, and bread, and cloud-berries. Great was the amazement of Peder and Oddo at Rolf's pushing aside the brandy, and seizing the water. When he had drained the last drop, he even preferred the cloud-berries to the brandy. A transient doubt thence occurred whether this was Rolf after all. Rolf saw it in their faces, and laughed: and when they had heard his story of what he had suffered from thirst, they were quite satisfied, and wondered no longer.

He was all impatience to be gone. It tried him more now to think how long it would be before Erica could hear of his preservation than to bear all that had gone before. Being without clothes, however, it was necessary to visit the cave, and bring away what was there. In truth, Oddo was not sorry for this. His curiosity about the cave was so great, that he felt it impossible to go home without seeing it; and the advantage of holding the secret knowledge of such a place was one which he would not give up. He seized an oar, gave another to Rolf; and they were presently off the mouth of the cave. Peder sighed at their having to leave him again: but he believed what Rolf said of there being no danger, and of their remaining close at hand. One or the other came popping up beside the boat, every minute, with clothes, or net, or lines, or brandy-flask, and finally with the oars of the poor broken skiff; being obliged to leave the skiff itself behind. Rolf did not forget to bring away whole handsful of beautiful shells, which he had amused himself with collecting for Erica.

At last, they entered the boat again; and while they were dressing, Oddo charmed his grandfather with a description of the cave,—of the dark, sounding walls, the lofty roof, and the green tide breaking on the white sands. It almost made the listener cool to hear of these things: but, as Oddo had remarked, the heat had abated. It was near midnight, and the sun was going to set. Their row to the shore would be in the cool twilight: and then they should take in companions, who, fresh from rest, would save them the trouble of rowing home.

When all were too tired to talk, and the oars were dipping somewhat lazily, and the breeze had died away, and the sea-birds were quiet, old Peder, who appeared to his companions to be asleep, raised his head, and said, "I heard a sob. Are you crying, Oddo?"

"Yes, grandfather."

"What is your grief, my boy?"

"No grief—anything but grief now. I have felt more grief than you know of though, or anybody. I did not know it fully myself till now."

"Right, my boy: and right to say it out, too."

"I don't care now who knows how miserable I have been. I did not believe, all the time, that Nipen had anything to do with these misfortunes—"

"Right, Oddo," exclaimed Rolf, now.

"But I was not quite certain: and how could I say a word against it when I was the one to provoke Nipen? Now Rolf is safe, and Erica will be happy again, and I shall not feel as if everybody's eyes were upon me, and know that it is only out of kindness that they do not reproach me as having done all the mischief. I shall hold up my head again now, as some may think I have done all along: but I did not in my own eyes,—no, not in my own eyes, for all these weary days that are gone."

"Well, they are gone now," said Rolf. "Let them go by and be forgotten."

"Nay,—not forgotten," said Peder. "How is my boy to learn if he forgets—"

"Don't fear that for me, grandfather," said Oddo, as the tears still streamed down his face. "No fear of that. I shall not forget these last days,—no, not as long as I live."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.

The comrades who were waiting and watching on the point were duly amazed to see three heads in the boat on her return; and duly delighted to find that the third was Rolf,—alive, and no ghost. They asked question upon question, and Rolf answered some fully and truly, while he showed reserve upon others; and at last, when closely pressed, he declared himself too much exhausted to talk, and begged permission to lie down in the bottom of the boat and sleep. Upon this, a long silence ensued. It lasted till the farm-house was in sight at which one of the rowers was to be landed. Oddo then exclaimed, "I wonder what we have all been thinking about. We have not settled a single thing about what is to be said and done; and here we are almost in sight of home, and Hund's cunning eyes."

"I have settled all about it," replied Rolf, raising himself up from the bottom of the boat, where they all thought he had been sleeping soundly. "My mind," said he, "is quite clear. The first thing I have decided upon is that I may rely on the honour of our friends here. You have proved your kindness, friends, in coming on this expedition, but for which I should have died in my hole, like a superannuated bear in its den. This is a story that the whole country will hear of; and our grandchildren will tell it on winter nights, when there is talk of the war that brought the pirates on our coasts. Your names will go abroad with the story, comrades, and, on one condition, with high honour: and that condition is, that you say not a word beyond the family you live in, for the next few days, of the adventure of this night, or of your having seen me. More depends on this than you know of now; more than I will tell, this day, to any person but my master. My good old friend there will help me to a meeting with my master, without asking a question as to what I have to say to him. Will you not, Peder?"

"Surely. I have no doubt you are right," replied Peder.

The neighbours were rather sorry, but they could not object. They smiled at Oddo, and nodded encouragement, when he implored Rolf to fix a time when everything might be known, and to answer just this and just that little inquiry.