On a vast buckler those relentless men
Terrified hell with fearful oaths;
And beside a black bull which they had slain,
All, bathing their hands in blood, swore to be revenged.
_The Seven Chiefs before Thebes._
The coast of Norway abounds in narrow bays, in creeks, coves, reefs,
lagoons, and little headlands so numerous as to weary the traveller’s
memory and the topographer’s patience. Formerly, if we are to credit
popular tradition, every isthmus was haunted by some demon, each bay
inhabited by some fairy, each promontory protected by some saint;
superstition mingles all beliefs to create for itself imaginary terrors.
Upon Kelvel strand, some miles to the north of Walderhog cave, there was
but a single spot, they said, which was free from all jurisdiction
either of infernal, intermediary, or celestial spirits. It was the
glade lying along the shore, overhung by a cliff, on the top of which
could still be seen vestiges of the manor of Ralph, or Rudolf, the
Giant. This little wild meadow, bordered on the west by the sea, and
closely shut in by rocks clad with heather, owed its exemption solely to
the name of that ancient Norwegian lord, its first possessor. For what
fairy, what devil, or what angel would venture to become master or guest
of a domain once occupied and guarded by Ralph the Giant?
It is true that the mere name of the much dreaded Ralph sufficed to give
an alarming character to a region wild in itself. But after all, a
memory is not so much to be feared as a spirit; and no fisher, belated
in rough weather, and mooring his bark in Ralph’s creek, had ever seen
the will-o’-the-wisp sport and dance upon the summit of a rock, or a
fairy ride through the heather in her phosphorescent car drawn by
glow-worms, or a saint ascend toward the moon, after his prayers were
said.
And yet, if the angry waves and wind had allowed a wandering mariner to
land in that hospitable harbor upon the night after the great storm, he
might have been struck with superstitious fear at the sight of three
men, who upon that same night sat around a huge fire, blazing in the
middle of the meadow. Two of them wore the broad felt hat and loose
trousers of royal miners. Their arms were bare to the shoulder, their
feet were cased in fawn-colored leather boots; a red sash held their
crooked swords and heavy pistols; each had a hunter’s horn slung about
his neck. One was old, the other was young; the old man’s thick beard
and the young man’s long hair lent a wild and barbarous look to their
faces, which were naturally hard and stern.
By his bearskin cap, his tanned leather jacket, the musket slung across
his back, his short, tight-fitting drawers, his bare knees, his bark
shoes, and the glittering axe in his hand, it was easy to guess that the
companion of the two miners was a mountaineer from the north of Norway.
Certainly, any one who saw from afar these three weird figures, upon
which the flames, fanned by the salt breeze, cast a red, flickering
light, might well have been frightened, even had he no faith in spectres
and demons; it would have been enough that he believed in thieves and
was somewhat richer than the ordinary poet.
The three men constantly turned their heads toward the winding path
through the wood which fringes Ralph’s meadow, and judging by such of
their words as were not carried off by the wind, they were expecting a
fourth person.
“I say, Kennybol, do you know that we should not be allowed to wait so
peacefully for this envoy from Count Griffenfeld, if we were in the
neighboring meadow, Goblin Tulbytilbet’s meadow, or yonder in St.
Cuthbert’s bay?”
“Don’t talk so loud, Jonas,” replied the mountaineer; “blessed be Ralph
the Giant, who protects us! Heaven save me from setting foot in
Tulbytilbet’s meadow! The other day I thought I was picking hawthorn
there, and I gathered mandrake instead, which began to bleed and shriek,
and nearly drove me mad.”
The young miner laughed.
“Nearly, Kennybol? For my part, I think that the mandrake’s shriek
produced its full effect upon your feeble brains.”
“Feeble brains yourself!” said the vexed mountaineer; “just see, Jonas,
he jests at mandrake. He laughs like a lunatic playing with a
death’s-head.”
“Hum!” answered Jonas. “Let him go to Walderhog cave, where the heads of
those whom Hans, the foul fiend of Iceland, has murdered, come back
every night to dance about his bed of withered leaves, and gnash their
teeth to lull him to sleep.”
“That’s so,” said the mountaineer.
“But,” rejoined the young man, “did not Mr. Hacket, for whom we are
waiting, promise us that Hans of Iceland would take the lead in our
rebellion?”
“He did,” replied Kennybol; “and with the help of that demon we are sure
to conquer the green jackets of Throndhjem and Copenhagen.”
“So much the better!” cried the old miner. “But I’m not the man to stand
guard beside him at night.”
At this moment the rustle of dead leaves beneath the tread of a man drew
the attention of the speakers; they turned, and the firelight gleamed on
the new-comer’s face.
“It is he! it is Mr. Hacket! Welcome, Mr. Hacket; you have kept us
waiting. We have been here this three quarters of an hour.”
“Mr. Hacket” was a short, fat man, dressed in black, and his jovial
countenance wore a forbidding expression.
“Well, friends,” said he, “I was delayed by my ignorance of the road
and the necessary precautions. I left Count Schumacker this morning;
here are three purses of gold which he bade me give you.”
The two old men flung themselves upon the gold with the eagerness common
among the peasants of barren Norway. The young miner declined the purse
which Hacket offered him.
“Keep your gold, Sir Envoy; I should lie if I said that I had joined the
revolt for your Count Schumacker’s sake. I rebel to free the miners from
the guardianship of the crown; I rebel that my mother’s bed may have a
blanket less ragged than the coast of our good country, Norway.”
Far from seeming disconcerted, Mr. Hacket answered smilingly, “Then I
will send this money to your poor mother, my dear Norbith, so that she
may have two new blankets to shield her from the cold wind this winter.”
The young man assented with a nod, and the envoy, like a skilful orator,
made haste to add:--
“But be careful not to repeat what you just now inconsiderately said,
that you are not taking up arms in behalf of Schumacker, Count
Griffenfeld.”
“But--but,” muttered the two old men, “we know very well that the miners
are oppressed, but we know nothing about this count, this prisoner of
state.”
“What!” sharply rejoined the envoy; “are you so ungrateful? You groan in
your subterranean caves, deprived of light and air, robbed of all your
property, slaves to the most onerous tutelage! Who came to your rescue?
Who revived your failing courage? Who gave you gold and arms? Was it
not my illustrious master, noble Count Griffenfeld, more of a slave and
more unfortunate even than you? And now, loaded with his favors, would
you refuse to use them to acquire his liberty with your own?”
“You are right,” interrupted the young miner; “that would be an ill
deed.”
“Yes, Mr. Hacket,” said the two old men, “we will fight for Count
Schumacker.”
“Courage, my friends! Rise in his name; bear your benefactor’s name from
one end of Norway to the other. Only listen; everything seconds your
righteous enterprise; you are about to be freed from a formidable enemy,
General Levin de Knud, governor of the province. The secret power of my
noble master, Count Griffenfeld, will soon procure his recall to Bergen.
Come, tell me, Kennybol, Jonas, and you, my dear Norbith, are all your
comrades ready?”
“My brethren of Guldbrandsdal,” said Norbith, “only await my signal.
To-morrow, if you wish--”
“To-morrow; so be it. The young miners under your leadership must be the
first to raise the standard. And you, my brave Jonas?”
“Six hundred heroes from the Färöe Islands, who for three days have
lived on chamois flesh and bear’s fat in Bennallag forest, only ask a
blast from the horn of their old captain, Jonas of Loevig town.”
“Good! And you, Kennybol?”
“All those who carry an axe in the gorges of Kiölen, and climb the rocks
with bare knees, are ready to join their brothers, the miners, when they
need them.”
“Enough. Tell your comrades that they need not doubt their victory,”
added the envoy, raising his voice; “for Hans of Iceland will be their
captain.”
“Is that certain?” asked all three at once, in a voice of mingled hope
and fear.
The envoy answered: “I will meet you four days hence, at the same hour,
with your united forces, in Apsyl-Corh mine, near Lake Miösen, on Blue
Star plain. Hans of Iceland will be with me.”
“We will be there,” said the three leaders. “And may God not desert
those whom the Devil aids!”
“Fear nothing from God,” said Hacket, with a sneer. “Stay; you will find
flags for your troops among the ruins of Crag. Do not forget the
war-cry, ‘Long live Schumacker! We will rescue Schumacker!’ Now we must
part; day will shortly break. But first, swear the most profound secrecy
as to what has passed between us.”
Without a word each of the three chiefs opened a vein in his left arm
with the point of his sword; then, seizing the envoy’s hand, each let a
few drops of blood trickle into it.
“You have our blood,” they said.
Then the young man exclaimed: “May all my blood flow forth like that
which I now shed; may a malicious spirit destroy my plans, as the
hurricane does a straw; may my arm be of lead to avenge an insult; may
bats dwell in my tomb; may I, still living, be haunted by the dead, and
dead, be profaned by the living; may my eyes melt with tears like those
of a woman, if ever I speak of what has occurred at this time in Ralph
the Giant’s meadow. And may the blessed saints deign to hear this, my
prayer!”
“Amen!” repeated the two old men.
Then they parted, and nothing was left in the meadow but the smouldering
fire, whose expiring embers burned up at intervals, and gleamed upon the
summit of Ralph the Giant’s ruined and deserted towers.