_Theodore._ Tristam, let us be gone.
_Tristam._ This is a strange disgrace.
_Theodore._ Did any one see us?
_Tristam._ I know not, but I fear they did.
LOPE DA VEGA: _The Gardener’s Dog_.
Benignus Spiagudry found it hard to guess the motives which led a youth
of fine appearance, and apparently likely to live for many long years,
to become the voluntary antagonist of the much-dreaded Hans of Iceland.
He had frequently and with much ingenuity broached the question since
they started on their travels; but the young adventurer preserved a
stubborn silence as to the cause of his journey. Nor was the poor fellow
any more successful in satisfying his curiosity concerning various other
details as to his strange comrade. Once he ventured to ask a question
about his young master’s family and his name. “Call me Ordener,” was
the reply; and this very unsatisfactory answer was given in a tone which
forbade further question. He was forced to submit; every one has his
secrets, and good Spiagudry himself carefully concealed in his wallet,
under his cloak, a certain mysterious casket, any inquiry as to which he
would certainly have considered very disagreeable and greatly out of
place.
Four days had passed since they left Throndhjem, but they had made
little progress, owing to the bad state of the roads after the storm,
and the multiplicity of crosscuts and roundabout routes which the
runaway keeper thought it prudent to take in order to avoid too thickly
settled regions. Leaving Skongen on their right, toward evening of the
fourth day they reached the shores of Lake Sparbo.
The vast stretch of water reflecting the last gleams of daylight and the
first stars of coming night set in a frame of tall cliffs, black firs,
and lofty oaks, presented a gloomy but magnificent picture. The sight of
a lake at evening sometimes produces, at a certain distance, a peculiar
optical illusion; it seems as if a vast abyss, cleaving the earth from
side to side, revealed the heavens beneath our feet.
Ordener paused to contemplate the old Druidical forests, which cover the
steep shores of the lake as with a garment, and the chalky huts of
Sparbo, scattered over the slope like a stray flock of white goats. He
listened to the distant clink of the forges,[11] mingled with the dull
roar of the weird forests, the intermittent cry of wild birds, and the
solemn music of the waves. To the north a huge granite bowlder, still
gilded by the rays of the sun, rose majestically above the little
village of Oëlmœ, its summit bending beneath a mass of ruined towers, as
if the giant were weary of his load.
When the soul is sad, it delights in melancholy scenes; it adds to them
its own gloom. Let an unhappy man be thrown among wild, high mountains
beside some black lake in the heart of a dark forest, at the close of
day, and he will see this solemn scene through a funereal veil; he will
not feel that the sun is setting, but that it is dying.
Ordener lingered, motionless and mute, until his companion exclaimed:
“Capital, sir! You do well to ponder thus beside the most miasma-laden
lake in Norway.”
This remark and the gesture which accompanied it, would have brought a
smile to the lips of any but a lover parted from his mistress perhaps
never again to meet her. The learned keeper added:--
“And yet I must rouse you from your meditations to remind you that day
is drawing to a close, and we must make haste if we would reach Oëlmœ
village before twilight overtakes us.”
The observation was correct. Ordener resumed his journey, and Spiagudry
followed him, continuing his unheeded reflections upon the botanic and
physiologic phenomena which Lake Sparbo affords the naturalist.
“Mr. Ordener,” said he, “if you will listen to your devoted guide, you
will give up your fatal enterprise; yes, sir, and you will take up your
abode upon the shores of this most curious lake, where we can devote
ourselves to all sorts of learned research; for instance, to the study
of the _stella canora palustris_,--a singular plant, which many scholars
consider to be fabulous, but which Bishop Arngrimmsson asserts that he
both saw and heard on the shores of Lake Sparbo. Added to this, we shall
have the satisfaction of feeling that we dwell upon soil which contains
more gypsum than any other in Europe, and where the hired assassins of
Throndhjem are least likely to find their way. Doesn’t it attract you,
young master? Come, renounce your senseless journey; for, not to offend
you, your scheme is dangerous, without being profitable,--_periculum
sine pecunia_; that is to say, senseless, and conceived at a moment when
you might better have been thinking of other things.”
Ordener, who paid no attention to the poor man’s words, merely kept up
the conversation by those occasional meaningless monosyllables which
great talkers are ready to accept in lieu of answers. Thus they reached
Oëlmœ village, where they found an unusual bustle and stir.
The inhabitants--hunters, fishers, and blacksmiths--had left their
houses, and hastily collected about a central mound occupied by a group
of men, one of whom blew a horn and waved a small black-and-white banner
over his head.
“Probably some quack doctor,” said Spiagudry,--“_ambubaiarum collegia,
pharmacopolœ_; some scamp who turns gold into lead and wounds into
sores. Let us see. What invention of the Evil One will he sell these
poor rustics? It would be bad enough if these impostors confined
themselves to kings, if they all imitated Borch the Dane and Borri of
Milan, those alchemists who so completely duped our Frederic III.;[12]
but they are just as greedy for the peasant’s mite as for the prince’s
million.”
Spiagudry was mistaken. As they approached the mound they recognized by
his black gown and round, pointed cap, the mayor, surrounded by a number
of bowmen. The man blowing the horn was the town crier.
The fugitive keeper, somewhat disturbed, muttered: “Truly, Mr. Ordener,
I did not expect to stumble upon the mayor when I came into this hamlet.
Great Saint Hospitius, protect us! What does he say?”
His uncertainty was of brief duration, for the crier’s shrill voice was
quickly raised, and religiously heeded by the little group of villagers.
“In the name of his Majesty and by order of his Excellency, General
Levin de Knud, governor, the lord mayor of Throndhjem notifies the
inhabitants of all cities, towns, and villages in the province, that a
reward of one thousand crowns is offered for the head of Hans, a native
of Klipstadur, in Iceland, a murderer and incendiary.”