The Sons of the Vikings were much troubled. Every heroic deed which they
plotted had this little disadvantage, that they were in danger of going
to jail for it. They could not steal cattle and horses, because they
did not know what to do with them when they had got them; they could
not sail away over the briny deep in search of fortune or glory, because
they had no ships; and sail-boats were scarcely big enough for daring
voyages to the blooming South which their ancestors had ravaged. The
precious vacation was slipping away, and as yet they had accomplished
nothing that could at all be called heroic. It was while the brotherhood
was lamenting this fact that Wolf-in-the-Temple had a brilliant idea.
He procured his father’s permission to invite his eleven companions to
spend a day and a night at the Ronning saeter, or mountain dairy, far up
in the highlands. The only condition Mr. Ronning made was that they were
to be accompanied by his man, Brumle-Knute, who was to be responsible
for their safety. But the boys determined privately to make Brumle-Knute
their prisoner, in case he showed any disposition to spoil their sport.
To spend a day and a night in the woods, to imagine themselves Vikings,
and behave as they imagined Vikings would behave, was a prospect which
no one could contemplate without the most delightful excitement. There,
far away from sheriffs and pastors and maternal supervision, they might
perhaps find the long-desired chance of performing their heroic deed.
It was a beautiful morning early in August that the boys started from
Strandholm, Mr. Ronning’s estate, accompanied by Brumle-Knute. The
latter was a middle-aged, round-shouldered peasant, who had the habit of
always talking to himself. To look at him you would have supposed that
he was a rough and stupid fellow who would have quite enough to do in
looking after himself. But the fact was, that Brumle-Knute was the best
shot, the best climber--and altogether the most keen-eyed hunter in the
whole valley. It was a saying that he could scent game so well that he
never needed a dog; and that he could imitate to perfection the call of
every game bird that inhabited the mountain glens. Sweet-tempered he was
not; but so reliable, skilful, and vigilant, and moreover so thorough
a woodsman, that the boys could well afford to put up with his gruff
temper.
The Sons of the Vikings were all mounted on ponies; and
Wolf-in-the-Temple, who had been elected chieftain, led the troop.
At his side rode Skull-Splitter, who was yet a trifle pale after his
blood-letting, but brimming over with ambition to distinguish himself.
They had all tied their trousers to their legs with leather thongs, in
order to be perfectly “Old Norse;” and some of them had turned their
plaids and summer overcoats inside out, displaying the gorgeous colors
of the lining. Loosely attached about their necks and flying in the
wind, these could easily serve for scarlet or purple cloaks wrought on
Syrian looms. Most of the boys carried also wooden swords and shields,
and the chief had a long loor or Alpine horn. Only the valiant
Ironbeard, whose father was a military man, had a real sword and a real
scabbard into the bargain. Wolf-in-the-Temple, and Erling the
Lop-Sided, had each an old fowling-piece; and Brumle-Knute carried a
double-barrelled rifle. This, to be sure, was not; quite historically
correct; but firearms are so useful in the woods, even if they are not
correct, that it was resolved not to notice the irregularity; for there
were boars in the mountains, besides wolves and foxes and no end of
smaller game.
For an hour or more the procession rode, single file, up the steep and
rugged mountain-paths; but the boys were all in high spirits and enjoyed
themselves hugely. The mere fact that they were Vikings, on a daring
foraging expedition into a neighboring kingdom, imparted a wonderful
zest to everything they did and said. It might be foolish, but it was on
that account none the less delightful. They sent out scouts to watch
for the approach of an imaginary enemy; they had secret pass-words and
signs; they swore (Viking style) by Thor’s hammer and by Odin’s eye.
They talked appalling nonsense to each other with a delicious sentiment
of its awful blood-curdling character. It was about noon when they
reached the Strandholm saeter, which consisted of three turf-thatched
log-cabins or chalets, surrounded by a green inclosure of half a dozen
acres. The wide highland plain, eight or ten miles long, was bounded on
the north and west by throngs of snow-hooded mountain peaks, which rose,
one behind another, in glittering grandeur; and in the middle of the
plain there were two lakes or tarns, connected by a river which was
milky white where it entered the lakes and clear as crystal where it
escaped.
“Now, Vikings,” cried Wolf-in-the-Temple, when the boys had done justice
to their dinner, “it behooves us to do valiant deeds, and to prove
ourselves worthy of our fathers.”
“Hear, hear,” shouted Ironbeard, who was fourteen years old and had a
shadow of a moustache, “I am in for great deeds, hip, hip, hurrah!”
“Hold your tongue when you hear me speak,” commanded the chieftain,
loftily; “we will lie in wait at the ford, between the two tarns, and
capture the travellers who pass that way. If perchance a princess from
the neighboring kingdom pass, on the way to her dominions, we will hold
her captive until her father, the king, comes to ransom her with heaps
of gold in rings and fine garments and precious weapons.”
“But what are we to do with her when we have caught her?” asked the
Skull-Splitter, innocently.
“We will keep her imprisoned in the empty saeter hut,”
Wolf-in-the-Temple responded. “Now, are you ready? We’ll leave the
horses here on the croft, until our return.”
The question now was to elude Brumle-Knute’s vigilance; for the Sons of
the Vikings had good reasons for fearing that he might interfere with
their enterprise. They therefore waited until Brumle-knute was invited
by the dairymaid to sit down to dinner. No sooner had the door closed
upon his stooping figure, than they stole out through a hole in the
fence, crept on all-fours among the tangled dwarf-birches and the big
gray boulders, and following close in the track of their leader, reached
the ford between the lakes. There they observed two enormous heaps of
stones known as the Parson and the Deacon; for it had been the custom
from immemorial times for every traveller to fling a big stone as a
“sacrifice” for good luck upon the Parson’s heap and a small stone
upon the Deacon’s. Behind these piles of stone the boys hid themselves,
keeping a watchful eye on the road and waiting for their chief’s signal
to pounce upon unwary travellers. They lay for about fifteen minutes in
expectant silence, and were on the point of losing their patience.
“Look here, Wolf-in-the-Temple,” cried Erling the Lop-Sided, “you
may think this is fun, but I don’t. Let us take the raft there and go
fishing. The tarn is simply crowded with perch and bass.”
“Hold your disrespectful tongue,” whispered the chief, warningly, “or
I’ll discipline you so you’ll remember it till your dying day.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed the rebel, jeeringly; “big words and fat pork don’t
stick in the throat. Wait till I get you alone and we shall see who’ll
be disciplined.”
Erling had risen and was about to emerge from his hiding-place, when
suddenly hoof-beats were heard, and a horse was seen approaching,
carrying on its back a stalwart peasant lass, in whose lap a pretty
little girl of twelve or thirteen was sitting.
The former was clad in scarlet bodice, a black embroidered skirt, and
a snowy-white kerchief was tied about her head. Her blonde hair hung in
golden profusion down over her back and shoulders. The little girl
was city-clad, and had a sweet and appealing face. She was chattering
guilelessly with her companion, asking more questions than she could
possibly expect to have answered. Nearer and nearer they came to the
great stone heaps, dreaming of no harm.
“And, Gunbjor,” the Skull-Splitter heard the little girl say, “you don’t
really believe that there are trolds and fairies in the mountains, do
you?”
“Them as are wiser than I am have believed that,” was Gunbjor’s answer;
“but we don’t hear so much about the trolds nowadays as they did when my
granny was young. Then they took young girls into the mountain and----”
Here came a wild, piercing yell, as the Sons of the Vikings rushed
forward from behind the rocks, and with a terrible war-whoop swooped
down upon the road. Wolf-in-the-Temple, who led the band, seized the
horse by the bridle, and flourishing his sword threateningly, addressed
the frightened peasant lass.
“Is this, perchance, the Princess Kunigunde, the heir to the throne of
my good friend, King Bjorn the Victorious?” he asked, with a magnificent
air, seizing the trembling little girl by the wrist.
“Nay,” Gunbjor answered, as soon as she could find her voice, “this is
the Deacon’s Maggie, as is going to the saeter with me to spend Sunday.”
“She cannot proceed on her way,” said the chieftain, decisively, “she is
my prisoner.”
Gunbjor, who had been frightened out of her wits by the small red- and
blue-cloaked men, swarming among the stones, taking them to be trolds
or fairies, now gradually recovered her senses. She recognized in Erling
the Lop-Sided the well-known features of the parson’s son; and as
soon as she had made this discovery she had no great difficulty in
identifying the rest. “Never you fear, pet,” she said to the child in
her lap, “these be bad boys as want to frighten us. I’ll give them a
switching if they don’t look out.”
“The Princess Kunigunde is my prisoner until it please her noble father
to ransom her for ten pounds of silver,” repeated Wolf-in-the-Temple,
putting his arm about little Maggie’s waist and trying to lift her from
the saddle.
“You keep yer hands off the child, or I’ll give you ten pounds of
thrashing,” cried Gunbjor, angrily.
“She shall be treated with the respect due to her rank,”
Wolf-in-the-Temple proceeded, loftily. “I give King Bjorn the Victorious
three moons in which to bring me the ransom.”
“And I’ll give you three boxes on the ear, and a cut with my whip, into
the bargain, if you don’t let the horse alone, and take yer hands off
the child.”
“Vikings!” cried the chief, “lay hands on her! Tear her from the saddle!
She has defied us! She deserves no mercy.”
With a tremendous yell the boys rushed forward, brandishing their swords
above their heads, and pulled Gunbjor from the saddle. But she held on
to her charge with a vigorous clutch, and as soon as her feet touched
the ground she began with her disengaged hand to lay about her, with
her whip, in a way that proved extremely unpleasant. Wolf-in-the-Temple,
against whom her assault was especially directed, received some bad cuts
across his face, and Ironbeard was driven backward into the ford, where
he fell, full length, and rose dripping wet and mortified. Thore the
Hound got a thump in his head from Gunbjor’s stalwart elbows, and
Skull-Splitter, who had more courage than discretion, was pitched
into the water with no more ceremony than if he had been a superfluous
kitten. The fact was--I cannot disguise it--within five minutes the
whole valiant band of the Sons of the Vikings were routed by that
terrible switch, wielded by the intrepid Gunbjor. When the last of her
foes had bitten the dust, she calmly remounted her pony, and with the
Deacon’s Maggie in her lap rode, at a leisurely pace, across the ford.
“Good-by, lads,” she said, nodding her head at them over her shoulder;
“ye needn’t be afraid. I won’t tell on you.”