The voice of thy slain brother’s blood cries out,
Even from the ground, unto the Lord!
_Cain: A Mystery._
“Yes, Count; it was this very day, in Arbar ruin, that we were told he
might be found. Countless circumstances lead me to believe in the truth
of this valuable information which I accidentally picked up yesterday,
as I told you, at Oëlmœ village.”
“Are we far from this Arbar ruin?”
“It is close by Lake Miösen. The guide assures me that we shall be there
before noon.”
These words were spoken by two horsemen muffled in brown cloaks, who
early one morning were pursuing one of the many narrow, winding paths
which run in every direction through the forest lying between Lakes
Miösen and Sparbo. A mountain guide, provided with a huntinghorn and an
axe, led the way upon his little gray pony, and behind the travellers
rode four men armed to the teeth, toward whom these two persons
occasionally turned, as if afraid of being overheard.
“If that Iceland thief is really lurking in Arbar ruin,” said one rider,
whose steed kept a respectful distance behind the other, “it is a great
point gained; for the difficulty hitherto has been to find this
mysterious being.”
“Do you think so, Musdœmon? And suppose he declines our offers?”
“Impossible, your Grace! What brigand could resist gold and a free
pardon?”
“But you know that this is no common scoundrel. Do not judge him by
yourself. If he should refuse, how can you keep your promise of night
before last to the three leaders of the insurrection?”
“Well, noble Count, in that case, which I regard as impossible if we are
lucky enough to find our man, has your Grace forgotten that a false Hans
of Iceland awaits me two days hence at the hour and place appointed for
meeting the three chiefs, at Blue Star, a place, moreover, conveniently
near Arbar ruin?”
“You are right, my dear Musdœmon, as usual,” said the count; and each
resumed his own particular line of thought.
Musdœmon, whose interest it was to keep his master in good humor, for
the purpose of diverting him, asked the guide a question.
“My good man, what is that ruined stone cross yonder, behind those young
oaks?”
The guide, a man with fixed stare and stupid mien, turned his head and
shook it several times, as he said: “Oh, master, that is the oldest
gallows in Norway; holy king Olaf had it built for a judge who made a
compact with a robber.”
Musdœmon saw by his patron’s face that the guide’s artless words had
produced an effect quite contrary to that which he hoped.
“It is a curious story,” the guide added; “good Mother Osia told it to
me. The robber was ordered to hang the judge.”
The poor guide, in his simplicity, did not suppose that the incident
with which he meant to entertain his employers was almost an insult to
them. Musdœmon stopped him.
“That will do,” said he; “we have heard the story before.”
“Insolent fellow!” muttered the count, “he has heard the story before.
Ah, Musdœmon, you shall pay for your impudence yet.”
“Did your Grace speak to me?” obsequiously asked Musdœmon.
“I was thinking how I could obtain the Order of the Dannebrog for you.
The marriage of my daughter Ulrica and Baron Ordener would be an
excellent opportunity.”
Musdœmon was profuse in protestations and thanks.
“By the way,” added his Grace, “let us talk business. Do you suppose
that the temporary recall which we sent him has reached the
Mecklenburger?”
The reader may remember that the count was in the habit of thus
designating General Levin de Knud, who was indeed a native of
Mecklenburg.
“Let us talk business!” thought the injured Musdœmon; “it seems that my
affairs are not ‘business.’ Count,” he replied aloud, “I think that the
viceroy’s messenger must be in Throndhjem by this time, and therefore
General Levin must be getting ready to start.”
The count assumed a kindly tone.
“That recall, my dear fellow, was one of your masterstrokes,--one of
your best planned and most skilfully executed intrigues.”
“The credit belongs as much to your Grace as to me,” replied Musdœmon,
careful, as we have already remarked, to mix the count in all his
machinations.
The master understood this secret desire of his confidant, but chose to
seem unconscious of it.
He smiled.
“My dear private secretary, you are always modest; but nothing can make
me depreciate your most eminent services. Elphega’s presence and the
Mecklenburger’s absence assure my triumph in Throndhjem. I am now at the
head of the province; and if Hans of Iceland accepts the command of the
rebels, which I intend to offer him in person, to me will fall, in the
eyes of the king, the glory of putting down this distressing
insurrection and capturing this terrible brigand.”
They were chatting thus in low voices when the guide rode back to them.
“Masters,” said he, “here on our left is the hillock upon which Biorn
the Just had the double-tongued Vellon beheaded in the presence of his
entire army, the traitor having driven off the king’s allies and
summoned the enemy to the camp, that he might have the appearance of
saving Biorn’s life.”
All these reminiscences of old Norway did not seem to be to Musdœmon’s
taste, for he hurriedly interrupted the guide.
“Come, come, good man, be silent and go your way, without turning back
so often. What do we care about the foolish stories of which these ruins
and dead trees remind you? You annoy my master with your old wives’
tales.”