_Lion_ (roaring). Oh--
_Demetrius._ Well roared, lion!
SHAKESPEARE: _Midsummer Night’s Dream_.
The traveller of the present day who visits the snow-clad mountains
which surround Lake Miösen like a white girdle, will scarcely find a
vestige of what Norwegians of the seventeenth century knew as Arbar
ruin. No one was ever able to decide the architectural period or the
purpose for which this ruin, if we may give it the name, was built. As
you left the forest which covered the southern shore of the lake, after
climbing a slope crowned with here and there a fragment of wall or a bit
of masonry once a tower, you reached an arched opening leading into the
side of the mountain. This entrance, now completely closed by landslips,
led into a species of gallery cut in the living rock, and piercing the
mountain from side to side.
This tunnel, dimly lighted by conical air-holes made in the arched roof
at regular intervals, ended in an oval hall in part excavated from the
rock, and terminating in a cyclopean stone wall. Around this hall, in
deep niches, were rude images carved from granite. Some of these
mysterious figures, which had fallen from their pedestals, lay heaped in
confusion on the ground with other shapeless rubbish, covered with grass
and weeds, among which crawled lizards, spiders, and all the hideous
vermin born of damp earth and ruins.
Daylight penetrated to this place only through a door opposite the mouth
of the gallery. This door, viewed in a certain light, was seen to be of
pointed construction, of no especial date, and evidently the work of the
architect’s whim.
This door might as well have been styled a window, although it was on a
level with the ground, for it opened upon a fearful precipice; and it
was impossible to imagine whither a short flight of stairs which
overhung the abyss could possibly lead.
The hall formed the interior of a huge turret which from a distance,
seen from the other side of the precipice, looked like any high mountain
peak. It stood alone, and, as has already been said, no one knew to what
sort of structure it had belonged. Above it, however, upon a plateau
inaccessible even to the boldest hunter, was a mass of masonry which
might be taken, being so remote, either for a rounded rock or for the
remains of a colossal arch. This turret and crumbling arch were known
to the peasants as Arbar ruin, the origin of the name being fully as
obscure as that of the buildings themselves.
On a stone in the centre of this oval hall sat a little man dressed in
the skins of wild beasts, whom we have already had occasion to mention
several times in the course of our story.
His back was turned to the light, or rather to the faint twilight which
filtered into the gloomy turret when the sun reached high noon. This
light, the strongest natural light which ever entered the tower, was not
sufficient to reveal the nature of the object over which the little man
was stooping. An occasional muffled groan was heard, and it seemed to
proceed from this object, judging by the feeble movement which it now
and then made. Sometimes the little man straightened himself, and raised
to his lips a cup, by its form apparently a human skull, filled with
steaming liquid of some indistinguishable hue, and drank deep draughts.
All at once he started up.
“I hear steps in the gallery, I believe; can it be the chancellor of the
two kingdoms already?”
These words were followed by a horrible burst of laughter ending in a
savage roar, which met with an instant response in a howl from the
gallery.
“Oh, ho!” rejoined the lord of Arbar ruin; “it is not a man. But it is
an enemy all the same; it is a wolf.”
In fact, a huge wolf suddenly emerged from the vaulted gallery, paused a
moment, then advanced stealthily toward the man, crouching to the ground
and fixing upon him burning eyes which gleamed through the darkness.
The man stood with folded arms, and watched him.
“Ah! ’tis the old gray wolf,--the oldest wolf in Miösen woods!
Good-morning, wolf; your eyes glitter; you are hungry, and the smell of
dead bodies attracts you. You too shall soon attract other hungry
wolves. Welcome, wolf of Miösen; I have always longed to make your
acquaintance. You are so old that they say you cannot die; they will not
say so to-morrow.”
The animal answered with a frightful yell, sprang back, and then bounded
upon the little man.
He did not budge an inch. As quick as a flash, with his right arm he
grasped the body of the wolf, which, standing on two legs before him,
had thrown his fore-paws upon his shoulders; with his left hand he
guarded his face from the gaping jaws of his enemy, seizing it by the
throat with such force that the creature, compelled to raise his head,
could scarcely utter a sound.
“Wolf of Miösen,” said the triumphant man, “you tear my jerkin, but your
skin shall replace it.”
As he mingled with these words of victory a few words in a strange
jargon, a convulsive movement made by the dying wolf caused him to
stumble upon the stones which were thickly strewn over the floor. The
two fell together, and the roars of the man were blended with the howls
of the beast.
Obliged in his fall to relax his grasp of the wolfs throat, the man felt
the sharp teeth buried in his shoulder, when, as they rolled over one
another, the two combatants struck against an enormous shaggy white
body lying in the darkest corner of the room. It was a bear, who waked
from his heavy sleep with a growl.
No sooner were the drowsy eyes of this new-comer opened wide enough to
see the fight, than he rushed furiously, not upon the man, but upon the
wolf, just then victorious in his turn, seized him violently by the
back, and thus freed the human combatant.
This latter, far from showing any gratitude for so great a service,
rose, covered with blood, and springing upon the bear, gave him a
vigorous kick, such as a master might bestow on a dog guilty of some
misdemeanor.
“Friend, who called you? Why do you meddle?”
These words were interspersed with furious ejaculations and gnashing of
teeth.
“Begone!” he added with a roar.
The bear, who had received at one and the same time a kick from the man
and a bite from the wolf, uttered a plaintive remonstrance; then,
hanging his great head, he released the famished beast, who hurled
himself upon the man with fresh fury.
While the struggle was renewed, the rebuffed bear went back to his
couch, sat gravely down, and gazed indifferently at the two raging
adversaries, preserving the utmost silence, and rubbing first one
fore-paw and then the other across the tip of his white nose.
But the small man, as the leader of the Miösen wolves returned to the
charge, seized his bloody snout; then, by an unparalleled exertion
requiring both strength and skill, he managed to clasp his entire jaw in
one hand. The wolf struggled frantically with rage and pain; foam
dropped from his compressed lips, and his eyes, distended with rage,
seemed starting from their sockets. Of the two foes, the one whose bones
were shattered by sharp teeth, whose flesh was rent by cruel claws, was
not the man but the wild beast; the one whose howl was most savage,
whose expression was most fierce, was not the animal but the man.
Finally, the latter, collecting all his strength, exhausted by the aged
wolf’s prolonged resistance, squeezed his muzzle in both hands with such
force that blood gushed from the creature’s nose and mouth; his flaming
eyes grew dim, and half closed; he tottered, and fell lifeless at his
victor’s feet. The feeble twitching of his tail and the convulsive and
occasional shudder which shook his entire frame, alone showed that he
was not yet quite dead.
All at once a final quiver ran through the expiring frame, and all signs
of life ceased.
“There you lie, dead, old wolf,” said the little man, kicking him
contemptuously. “Did you think that you could live on after you had
encountered me? You will hasten no more with muffled step across the
snow, following the scent and the track of your prey; you are food for
wolves or vultures now yourself; you have devoured many a lost traveller
on the shores of Miösen during your long life of murder and carnage; now
you yourself are dead, you will eat no more men. ’Tis a pity!”
He took up a sharp stone, crouched beside the wolf’s warm, palpitating
body, broke the limbs at their joints, severed the head from the
shoulders, slit the skin from head to heel, stripped it off, as he might
remove his own waistcoat, and in the twinkling of an eye nothing was
left of the much-dreaded wolf of Miösen but a bare and bleeding carcass.
He flung his trophy over his shoulders, bruised with bites, turning
inside out the skin, still reeking and stained with long streaks of
blood.
“Needs must,” he muttered, “dress in the skins of beasts; that of a man
is too thin to keep out the cold.”
As he thus talked to himself, more hideous than ever beneath his
loathsome burden, the bear, tired no doubt of inaction, furtively
approached the other object lying in the shadow, to which we referred in
the beginning of this chapter, and a crunching of bones, mingled with
faint, agonized moans, soon rose from this gloomy quarter of the hall.
The small man turned.
“Friend!” cried he in threatening tones; “ah, you good-for-nothing
Friend! Here, come here!”
And picking up a huge stone, he hurled it at the monster’s head. The
creature, stunned by the blow, reluctantly tore himself from his prey,
and crawled, licking his bloody chaps, to fall panting at the little
man’s feet, lifting his huge head and wriggling, as if to ask pardon for
his rash act.
Then ensued between the two monsters--for we may well apply that name to
the dweller in Arbar ruin--an exchange of significant growls. Those of
the man expressed anger and authority; those of the bear, entreaty and
submission.
“There,” said the man at last, pointing with his crooked finger to the
flayed body of the wolf, “there is your victim; leave mine to me.”
The bear, after smelling at the wolf’s carcass, shook his head
discontentedly, and turned his eye toward the man who seemed to be his
master.
“I understand,” said the latter; “that is too dead for you, while there
is still life in the other. You are refined in your pleasures,
Friend,--quite as much so as a man; you like to have your food retain
its life until the instant when you tear it limb from limb; you love to
feel the flesh expire beneath your teeth; you enjoy nothing unless it
suffers. We are alike; for I am not a man, Friend; I am superior to that
wretched race; I am a wild beast like you. How I wish that you could
speak to me, comrade Friend, to tell me whether my joy equals that which
thrills your bearish soul when you devour a man’s heart. But no; I
should be loath to hear you speak, lest your voice should recall to me
the human voice. Yes, growl at my feet with that growl which makes the
stray goatherd tremble among the mountains; it pleases me as the voice
of a friend, because it proclaims you his enemy. Look up, Friend, look
up at me; lick my hands with that tongue which has drunk so often of
human blood. Your teeth are white like mine: it is no fault of ours if
they be not red as a new-made wound; but blood washes away blood. More
than once from the depths of some dark cave I have seen the maidens of
Kiölen or Oëlmœ bathe their bare feet in some mountain torrent, singing
the while in sweet tones; but I prefer your hairy snout and your hoarse
cries to those melodious voices and satin-smooth faces; for they terrify
mankind.”
As he said this, he sat down and yielded his hand to the caresses of
the monster, who, rolling on his back at his master’s feet, lavished all
sorts of endearments upon him, like a spaniel displaying his pretty
tricks before the sofa of his mistress.
Stranger yet was the intelligent attention with which he seemed to
follow his master’s words. The singular monosyllables with which the
latter interspersed them seemed particularly intelligible to his
understanding; and he showed his comprehension by rearing his head
suddenly, or by a vague rumbling noise in the back of his throat.
“Men say that I shun them,” resumed the little man; “but it is they that
shun me; they do through fear what I should do through hate. Still, you
know, Friend, that I am always glad to come across a man when I am
hungry or thirsty.”
All at once he saw a red glow start into life in the depths of the
gallery, growing brighter by degrees and faintly tinting the damp old
walls.
“Here comes one now. Talk of the Devil and you see his horns. Hullo,
Friend!” he added, turning to the bear; “hullo! get up!”
The animal instantly rose.
“Come, I must reward your obedience by gratifying your appetite.”
With these words, the man stooped toward the object lying on the ground.
The cracking of bones broken by a hatchet was heard; but no sigh or
groan was now blended with it.
“It seems,” muttered the small man, “that there are but two of us left
alive in Arbar hall. There, good Friend, finish the feast which you
began.”
He flung toward the aforementioned outer door what he had detached from
the object stretched at his feet. The bear threw himself upon his prey
so rapidly that the swiftest eye could not have been sure that the
fragment was indeed a human arm, clad in a bit of green stuff of the
same shade as the uniform worn by the Munkholm musketeers.
“Some one is coming,” said the little man, keeping his eye on the light,
which was steadily advancing. “Comrade Friend, leave me alone for a
moment. Ho there! Away with you!”
The obedient beast rushed to the door, backed down the steps outside,
and disappeared, bearing off his disgusting booty with a satisfied howl.
At the same instant a tall man appeared at the mouth of the tunnel,
whose sinuous depths still reflected a dim light. He was wrapped in a
long brown cloak, and carried a dark-lantern, which he turned full on
the small man’s face.
The latter, still seated on his stone with folded arms, exclaimed: “Ill
befall you, you who come hither guided by an idea, and not by instinct!”
But the stranger, making no reply, seemed studying him carefully.
“Look at me,” he continued, raising his head; “an hour hence you may
have no voice left with which to boast that you have seen me.”
The new-comer, moving his light up and down the little man’s person,
seemed even more surprised than frightened.
“Well, what astonishes you so much?” rejoined the little man, with a
laugh like the breaking of bones. “I have legs and arms like your own;
only my limbs will not like yours serve to feed wildcats and crows!”
The stranger at length replied, in a low but confident voice, as if he
only feared being heard from without: “Hear me; I come, not as an enemy,
but as a friend.”
The other interrupted, “Then why did you not strip off your human form?”
“It is my purpose to do you a service, if you be he whom I seek.”
“You mean, to ask a service. Man, you waste your breath. I can do no
service to any save those who are weary of life.”
“By your words,” replied the stranger, “I am sure that you are the man I
want; but your stature--Hans of Iceland is a giant. You cannot be he.”
“You are the first who ever doubted it to my face.”
“What! can it be?” And the stranger approached the little man. “But I
always heard that Hans of Iceland was of colossal height.”
“Add my renown to my height, and you will see that I am taller than
Mount Hecla.”
“Indeed! Tell me, I pray, are you really Hans, a native of Klipstadur in
Iceland?”
“It is not in words that I should answer that question,” said the little
man, rising; and the look which he cast at the rash stranger made him
start back several paces.
“Confine yourself, I beg, to answering it by that glance,” he replied in
a voice of entreaty, casting a look toward the exit, which showed his
regret that he had ever entered; “I came here in your interests alone.”
Upon entering the hall, the new-comer, having but a glimpse of the
person whom he accosted, had retained his self-possession; but when the
master of Arbar rose, with his tigerish visage, his thick-set limbs, his
bloody shoulders, but half concealed by a skin still green, his huge
hands armed with claws, and his fiery eyes, the bold stranger shuddered,
like an ignorant traveller who thinks he is handling an eel and feels
the sting of a viper.
“My interests?” repeated the monster. “Have you come to tell me of some
spring which I may poison, some village I may burn, or some Munkholm
musketeer I may slaughter?”
“Perhaps. Listen: The miners of Norway are in a state of revolt. You
know what disaster follows in the train of revolt.”
“Yes,--murder, rape, sacrilege, fire, and pillage.”
“All these I offer you.”
The little man laughed.
“I should not wait for you to offer them.”
The brutal sneer accompanying these words made the stranger again
shudder. He went on, however:--
“In the name of the miners, I offer you the command of the
insurrection.”
The small man was silent for an instant. All at once his dark
countenance assumed an expression of infernal malice.
“Does the offer really come from them?” said he.
This question seemed to embarrass the new-comer; but as he was sure that
he was unknown to his terrible interlocutor, he readily recovered
himself.
“Why have the miners rebelled?”
“To throw off the burden of the royal protectorate.”
“Only for that?” replied the other in the same mocking tone.
“They also wish to free the prisoner of Munkholm.”
“Is this the sole purpose of the movement?” repeated the small man in a
voice which confused the stranger.
“I know of no other,” he stammered.
“Oh, you know of no other!”
These words were pronounced in the same sarcastic tone. The stranger, to
hide the embarrassment which they caused him, hastily drew from beneath
his cloak a heavy purse which he flung at the monster’s feet.
“Here is your pay as commander-in-chief.”
The small man spurned the purse with his foot.
“I will not have it. Do you imagine that if I wanted your gold or your
blood I should wait for your permission to gratify my desire?”
The stranger made a gesture of surprise, almost of terror.
“It is a present from the royal miners.”
“I will not have it, I tell you. Gold is useless to me. Men will sell
their soul, but they do not sell their life. That must be taken by
force.”
“Then I may tell the miners that the terrible Hans of Iceland accepts
their leadership, but not their gold?”
“I do not accept it.”
These words, uttered in curt tones, seemed to strike the pretended envoy
from the rebellious miners very unpleasantly.
“What?” he asked.
“No!” repeated the other.
“You refuse to take part in an expedition which presents so many
advantages?”
“I am quite able to pillage farms, lay waste villages, and massacre
peasants or soldiers, single-handed.”
“But consider that by accepting the offer of the miners you are assured
of a free pardon.”
“Does this offer also come from the miners?” asked the other, with a
laugh.
“I will not disguise from you the fact,” replied the stranger, with an
air of mystery, “that it comes from an important personage who is deeply
interested in the insurrection.”
“And is this important personage so sure that he will himself escape
hanging?”
“If you knew who he is, you would not shake your head so significantly.”
“Indeed! Well, who is he?”
“I may not tell you.”
The small man stepped forward and clapped the stranger on the shoulder,
still with the same sardonic sneer.
“Shall I tell _you_?”
The man wrapped in the cloak gave a start; it was a start of both fright
and wounded pride. He was prepared for neither the monster’s abrupt
proposal, nor for his savage familiarity.
“I am only laughing at you,” added the brigand. “You little guess that I
know all. This important personage is the Lord High Chancellor of Norway
and Denmark; and you yourself are the Lord High Chancellor of Norway and
Denmark.”
It was indeed he. On reaching Arbar ruin, toward which we left him
journeying with Musdœmon, he had been unwilling to intrust to any one
else the task of securing the brigand, by whom he was far from supposing
himself known and expected. Never, even after years had elapsed, did
Count d’Ahlefeld, with all his power and all his diplomacy, discover how
Hans of Iceland acquired his information. Was it through Musdœmon’s
treachery? True, it was Musdœmon who suggested to the noble count that
it would be well to see the brigand in person; but what profit could he
derive from his perfidy? Had the bandit captured upon some one of his
numerous victims, papers relating to the chancellor’s schemes? But
Frederic d’Ahlefeld was, with the sole exception of Musdœmon, the only
living being acquainted with his father’s plans, and frivolous as he
was, he was not quite so senseless as to expose such a secret. Moreover,
he was in garrison at Munkholm, at least so the chancellor supposed.
Those who read the close of this scene, without being any better able to
solve the problem than was Count d’Ahlefeld, will see how much truth
there was in this latter hypothesis.
One of Count d’Ahlefeld’s most marked characteristics was his great
presence of mind. When he heard himself so abruptly named, he could not
repress an exclamation of surprise; but in the twinkling of an eye, his
pale, proud features lost their expression of fear and astonishment, and
recovered their usual calm composure.
“Well, yes,” said he, “I will be frank with you; I am indeed the
chancellor. But I hope you will be equally frank with me.”
A burst of laughter interrupted him.
“Have I waited to be urged to tell you my name, or to tell you your
own?”
“Tell me with the same sincerity how you found me out?”
“Have you never heard that Hans of Iceland can see through mountains?”
The count tried to insist.
“Consider me as a friend.”
“Your hand, Count d’Ahlefeld,” said the little man, with brutal
familiarity. Then he stared the minister in the face, exclaiming: “Could
our two souls escape from our bodies at this moment, I fancy that Satan
would hesitate to decide which of the two belonged to the monster.”
The haughty noble bit his lip; but between his fear of the robber and
his desire to secure him as his tool, he managed to disguise his
resentment.
“Do not imperil your own interests; accept the command of the rebellion,
and trust to my gratitude.”
“Chancellor of Norway, you count on the success of your schemes, like an
old woman who dreams of the gown which she will spin from stolen hemp,
while the cat’s claws tangle her spindle.”
“Reflect once more, before you reject my offers.”
“Once more, I, the brigand, say to you, Lord Chancellor of both
kingdoms, No!”
“I expected a different answer, after the eminent service which you have
already rendered me.”
“What service?” asked the robber.
“Was it not you who murdered Captain Dispolsen?” replied the chancellor.
“That may be, Count d’Ahlefeld; I do not know him. Who is he?”
“What! did not the iron casket which he had in charge fall to your
share?”
This question seemed to sharpen the robber’s memory.
“Stay!” said he; “I do remember that man and his iron casket. It was on
Urchtal Sands.”
“At least,” rejoined the chancellor, “if you could restore that casket
to me, my gratitude would be unbounded. Tell me what has become of that
casket, for I am sure it is in your possession.”
The noble minister laid such stress upon this request that the brigand
was struck by it.
“So, then, that iron casket is of the utmost importance to your Grace,
my Lord Chancellor?”
“Yes.”
“What shall my reward be if I tell you where it is?”
“Anything that you may desire, my dear Hans.”
“Well, I will not tell you.”
“Pooh! you are joking! Think what a service you can do me.”
“That is exactly what I am thinking.”
“I will insure you a vast fortune; I will ask your pardon from the
king.”
“You had better beg your own from me,” said the bandit. “Look you, Lord
Chancellor of Norway and Denmark, the tiger does not devour the hyena. I
will permit you to leave my presence with your life, because you are a
scoundrel, and every instant that you live, every thought of your heart,
causes fresh misery for mankind and fresh crime for yourself. But return
not, or I may teach you that my hatred spares no one, not even a
villain. As for your captain, do not flatter yourself that it was on
your account I slaughtered him; it was his uniform which doomed him, as
it did this other wretch, whom I did not murder to gratify you either, I
assure you.”
With these words, he seized the noble count by the arm and dragged him
toward the body lying in the shadow. As he finished his protestations,
the light from the lantern fell upon this object. It was a mutilated
corpse, and was indeed dressed in the uniform of an officer of the
Munkholm Musketeers. The chancellor approached it with a sense of
horror. All at once his eye rested on the pallid, blood-stained face of
the dead. The livid, half-parted lips, the bristling hair, the
discolored cheeks, and lustreless eyes could not disguise that
countenance from him. He uttered a fearful shriek: “My God! Frederic! My
son!”
Doubt not that hearts seemingly the most hardened still conceal in their
innermost recesses some trace of affection unknown even to themselves,
apparently hidden by vice and passion, like a mysterious witness and a
future avenger. It may be said to exist, that it may some day make
crime acquainted with grief. It silently bides its time. The wicked man
bears it in his bosom and is unconscious of it, because no ordinary
affection is sufficient to pierce the thick crust of selfishness and
iniquity which covers it; but let one of the rare and genuine sorrows of
life appear unawares, and it plunges a sharp-edged sword into the dark
regions of that soul and probes its lowest depths. Then the unknown
sentiment of love is revealed to the wretched criminal, all the more
violent for its long repression, all the more painful from his lack of
sensibility, because the sting of misfortune was forced to stab the
heart more deeply in order to reach it. Nature wakes and casts aside her
chains; she delivers the miscreant to unwonted despair, to unheard-of
torments; he feels, compressed into a single instant, all the sufferings
which he has defied for years. The most various pangs rend him
simultaneously. His heart, burdened by dull amazement, revolts to find
itself a prey to convulsive agony. He seems to experience the pains of
hell while still in this life, and something beyond despair is made
clear to him.
Count d’Ahlefeld loved his son without knowing it. We say his son,
because, being unaware of his wife’s guilt, as such he regarded
Frederic, the direct heir to his name. Supposing him still at Munkholm,
he was far from prepared to meet him in Arbar tower, and to find him
dead! But there he lay, bruised and bleeding; it was he, impossible to
doubt it. His emotions may be imagined when a realizing sense of his
love for his son unexpectedly pierced his soul, together with the
assurance that he was lost to him forever. All the sensations so
inadequately described in these pages burst upon his heart at once like
so many claps of thunder. Stunned, as it were, by surprise, terror, and
despair, he cast himself upon the ground, and wrung his hands, repeating
in woful accents: “My son! my son!”
The brigand laughed. It was horrible to hear such laughter mingled with
the groans of a father looking upon the dead body of his son.
“By my ancestor Ingulf! you may call, Count d’Ahlefeld, but you cannot
wake him.”
All at once his cruel face darkened, and he said in a melancholy voice:
“Weep for your son, if you will; I avenge mine.”
The sound of footsteps hurrying along the gallery interrupted the words
upon his lips; and as he turned in surprise, four tall men, with drawn
swords, rushed into the room; a fifth, short and stout, followed,
bearing a torch in one hand and a sword in the other. He was wrapped in
a brown cloak, like that worn by the chancellor.
“My lord,” he exclaimed, “we heard your voice, and hastened to your
assistance.”
The reader has doubtless recognized Musdœmon and the four armed
retainers who formed the count’s escort.
As the torchlight filled the room with its ruddy glow, the five
new-comers paused in horror-stricken dismay; and it was indeed an awful
sight. On the one hand, the bloody remains of the wolf, the disfigured
body of the young officer; on the other, the father, with his wild eyes
and frantic shrieks; and beside him the fearful monster, turning on his
assailants a hideous front, indicative of dauntless surprise.
At the sight of this unlooked-for reinforcement the idea of vengeance
took possession of the count, and roused him from his despair.
“Death to that brigand!” he cried, drawing his sword; “he has murdered
my son! Kill him! kill him!”
“Has he murdered Mr. Frederic?” said Musdœmon; and the torch in his hand
did not reveal the slightest change in his countenance.
“Kill him! kill him!” repeated the frantic count.
And the whole six rushed upon the robber. He, surprised by this sudden
attack, retreated toward the opening which overhung the precipice, with
a fierce roar, expressive rather of rage than fear.
Six swords were directed against him, and his eyes flamed forth greater
fury, while his features wore a more menacing expression than those of
any of his aggressors. He had grasped his stone axe, and, forced by the
number of his assailants to confine himself to defensive action, whirled
it round and round in his hand so rapidly that the circle described,
covered him like a shield. A myriad sparks flashed from the point of his
assailants’ swords as they clashed against the edge of the hatchet; but
not a single blade touched him. And yet, exhausted by his recent battle
with the wolf, he lost ground imperceptibly, and soon found himself
driven close against the door opening upon the abyss.
“Courage, friends!” shouted the count; “let us hurl the monster over
this precipice.”
“Before I fall, the stars themselves shall fall,” replied the brigand.
But the aggressors redoubled their ardor and their assurance as they saw
that the small man was compelled to descend one step of the flight which
overhung the abyss.
“Good! one effort more!” cried the lord chancellor; “he needs must fall;
push your advantage! Wretch, you have committed your last crime.
Courage, men!”
While with his right hand he continued his fearful evolutions with the
axe, the brigand, without deigning a reply, with his left hand grasped a
horn which hung at his belt, and raising it to his lips, again and again
blew a long, hoarse blast, which was answered suddenly by a roar from
the gulf beneath.
A few instants later, as the count and his followers, still pressing the
little man hard, rejoiced that they had driven him down a second step,
the huge head of a white bear appeared at the broken end of the
staircase. Struck dumb with amazement and fright, they shrank back. The
bear climbed the stairs with a lumbering gait, showing his bloody jaws
and sharp teeth as he did so.
“Thanks, good Friend!” cried the brigand. And taking advantage of his
enemy’s surprise, he sprang upon the back of his bear, who slowly
descended the stairs backwards, still keeping his threatening front
turned upon his master’s foes.
Soon, recovering from their first astonishment, they beheld the bear,
carrying the brigand beyond their reach, descend into the abyss,
probably in the same way that he ascended, by clinging to the trunks of
trees and to projecting rocks. They tried to roll great bowlders down
upon him; but before they could detach a single one of those ancient
granite fragments which had slumbered there so long, the brigand and his
strange steed had vanished in a cave.