“A reward of four crowns is offered for the head of Benignus Spiagudry,
ex-keeper of the Spladgest at Throndhjem, accused of necromancy and
sacrilege. This proclamation shall be published throughout the province
by the mayors of all cities, towns, and villages, who will see that it
is carried out.”
The mayor took the proclamation from the crier’s hands, and added in a
lugubrious and solemn voice:--
“The life of these men is offered to whosoever will take it.”
The reader will readily believe that this reading was not heard unmoved
by our poor, unfortunate Spiagudry. No doubt, the unusual signs of
terror which he showed would have roused the attention of the
bystanders, had it not just then been wholly absorbed by the first
clause of the proclamation.
“A reward for the head of Hans!” cried an old fisherman, who had
hastened to the spot, trailing his wet nets behind him. “They might as
well, by Saint Usuph, set a price upon the head of Beelzebub!”
“To keep up a proper balance between Hans and Beelzebub,” said a hunter,
recognizable by his chamois-skin jerkin, “they should only offer fifteen
hundred crowns for the head and horns of the latter fiend.”
“Glory be to the holy mother of God!” cried an old woman, her bald head
shaking as she twirled her distaff. “I only wish I might see the head of
that Hans, so that I might make sure if his eyes are really live coals,
as they say.”
“Yes, to be sure,” replied another old woman; “it was just by looking at
it that he set Throndhjem cathedral on fire. Now I should like to see
the monster whole, with his serpent’s tail, cloven foot, and broad
wings like a bat.”
“Who told you such nonsense, good mother?” broke in the hunter, with a
self-satisfied air. “I’ve seen this Hans of Iceland with my own eyes in
the gorges of Medsyhath; he is a man like ourselves, only he is as tall
as a forty-year-old poplar.”
“Indeed!” said a voice from the crowd, with singular emphasis.
This voice, which made Spiagudry shudder, proceeded from a short man
whose face was hidden by the broad felt hat of a miner, his body wrapped
in rush matting and sealskin.
“Faith!” cried, with a coarse laugh, a smith who wore his heavy hammer
slung across his shoulder, “they may offer one thousand or ten thousand
crowns for his head, and he may be four or forty feet tall, but I’ll not
offer to go in search of him.”
“Nor I,” said the fisherman.
“Nor I; nor I,” repeated every voice.
“And yet any one who may feel tempted,” rejoined the little man, “will
find Hans of Iceland to-morrow at the ruins of Arbar, near Lake Miösen;
the day after that at Walderhog cave.”
“Are you sure, my good man?”
This question was asked at one and the same time by Ordener, who
listened to this scene with an interest easily understood by any one but
Spiagudry, and by another short and tolerably stout man, dressed in
black, with a merry countenance, who had issued from the only inn which
the village contained, at the first sound of the crier’s horn.
The little man with the broad-brimmed hat seemed to be studying them
both for a moment, and then answered in hollow tones: “Yes.”
“And how can you be so certain?” asked Ordener.
“I know where Hans of Iceland is, just as well as I know where Benignus
Spiagudry is; neither of them is far off at this instant.”
All the poor keeper’s terrors were revived, and he scarcely dared look
at the mysterious little man. Fancying that his French periwig had
failed to disguise him, he began to pluck at Ordener’s cloak and to
whisper: “Master, sir, in Heaven’s name, have mercy! have pity let us be
off! let us leave this accursed suburb of hell!”
Ordener, although equally surprised, carefully examined the little man,
who, turning his back to the light, seemed anxious to conceal his face.
“I’ve seen that Benignus Spiagudry,” cried the fisherman, “at Throndhjem
Spladgest. He’s a tall fellow. They offer four crowns for him.”
The hunter burst out laughing.
“Four crowns! I shan’t go a-hunting for him. I can get more for the skin
of a blue fox.”
This comparison, which at any other time would have greatly offended the
learned keeper, now comforted him. Still, he was about to address
another prayer to Ordener to persuade him to continue his journey, when
the latter, having learned all that he wished to know forestalled him
by making his way out of the crowd, which was beginning to disperse.
Although when they entered Oëlmœ village they had intended passing the
night there, they quitted it, as if by common consent, without even
alluding to the motive for their abrupt departure. Ordener was moved by
the hope of a more speedy meeting with the brigand, Spiagudry by a
desire to get away from the archers as speedily as might be.
Ordener was in too serious a mood to laugh at his comrade’s
misadventures. He broke the silence in kindly tones.
“Old man, what is the name of the ruin where Hans is to be found
to-morrow, according to that little man who seemed to know everything?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t quite catch the name, noble master,” replied
Spiagudry, who uttered no falsehood in so saying.
“Then,” continued the young man, “I must make up my mind not to meet him
until the day after to-morrow at Walderhog cave.”
“Walderhog cave, sir! Indeed, that is Hans of Iceland’s favorite haunt.”
“Let us take that road,” said Ordener.
“We must turn to the left, behind Oëlmœ cliff. It will take us at least
two days to get to Walderhog cave.”
“Do you know, old man,” cautiously observed Ordener, “who that odd
fellow was, who seemed to be so well acquainted with you?”
This question again awakened Spiagudry’s fears, which had been lulled
to sleep as the village of Oëlmœ faded in the distance.
“No, truly, sir,” he answered, in trembling accents. “But he had a very
strange voice.”
Ordener tried to encourage him.
“Fear nothing, old man; serve me well, and I will protect you. If I
return victorious over Hans, I promise you not only a pardon, but I will
also give you the thousand crowns reward offered by the officers of the
law.”
Honest Benignus dearly loved his life, but he also loved gold. Ordener’s
promises sounded like magic in his ears; they not only banished all his
terrors, but they excited in him a kind of garrulous mirth, which found
vent in lengthy discourses, queer gestures, and learned quotations.
“Mr. Ordener,” said he, “if I should ever have occasion to discuss the
subject with Over-Bilseuth, otherwise called ‘the Babbler,’ nothing
shall prevent me from maintaining that you are a wise and honorable
young man. What more worthy and more glorious, in fact, _quid cithara,
tuba, vel campana dignius_, than nobly to risk your life to free your
country from a monster, a brigand, a demon, in whom all demons,
brigands, and monsters seem to be combined? Nobody need tell me that you
are moved by mercenary motives. Noble Lord Ordener yields the price of
his conflict to the companion of his journey, to the old man who only
guided him within a mile of Walderhog cave; for I am sure, young master,
that you will allow me to await the result of your illustrious
enterprise at the village of Surb, situated in the forest within a mile
of Walderhog, will you not? And when your glorious victory is made
known, sir, all Norway will thrill with joy like that of Vermund the
Refugee, when from the summit of this same Oëlmœ cliff, which we just
now passed, he saw the great fire kindled by his brother Halfdan on
Munkholm tower in token of his deliverance.”
At these words Ordener interrupted him eagerly.
“What! is Munkholm tower visible from the top of this rock?”
“Yes, sir; twelve miles to the south, between the mountains which our
fathers called Frigga’s Footstools. At this hour you should be able to
see the light in the tower distinctly.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Ordener, fired by the idea of another glimpse of the
seat of all his happiness. “Old man, of course there is a path leading
to the top of the rock, is there not?”
“Yes, to be sure; a path which begins in the wood that lies just before
us, and rises by a gentle slope to the bare crown of the cliff, whence
it is continued by steps cut in the rock by Vermund’s companions, as far
as the castle, where it ends. Those are the ruins which you see in the
moonlight.”
“Well, old man, you shall show me the path; we will spend the night in
those ruins,--in those ruins from which Munkholm tower is visible.”
“Can you really mean it, sir?” asked Benignus. “The fatigues of the
day--”
“Old man, I will support your steps; my footing was never more secure.”
“Sir, the brambles that block the path, which has long been deserted,
the fallen stones, the darkness--”
“I will take the lead.”
“There may be some savage beast, some unclean animal, some hideous
monster--”
“I did not undertake this journey to avoid monsters.”
The idea of halting so near Oëlmœ was very unpleasant to Spiagudry; the
thought of seeing Munkholm light, and possibly the light in Ethel’s
window, enraptured and transported Ordener.
“Young master,” urged Spiagudry, “give up this scheme; take my advice. I
have a presentiment that it will bring us bad luck.”
This plea was as nothing in the face of Ordener’s longing.
“Come,” said he, impatiently, “you must remember that you agreed to
serve me faithfully. I insist upon your showing me the path; where is
it?”
“We shall come across it directly,” said the keeper, forced to obey.
In fact, they soon saw the path. They entered it; but Spiagudry
observed, with surprise mixed with fright, that the tall grass was
broken and trampled, and that Vermund the Refugee’s old footpath seemed
to have been recently trodden.