Comrade, ah! comrade, what comrade’s son art thou? From what race
canst thou have sprung to dare attack Fafnir thus?--EDDA.
The first rays of the rising sun were just reddening the highest peak of
the rocks upon the seacoast, when the fisherman, who had come before the
dawn to cast his nets off the shore opposite the mouth of Walderhog
cave, saw a figure wrapped in a cloak or shroud descend from the rocks,
and disappear beneath the much-dreaded arched roof of the cavern. Struck
with terror, he commended his boat and his soul to Saint Usuph, and ran
to tell his frightened family that he had seen one of the ghosts which
dwell in the palace of Hans of Iceland return to the cave at daybreak.
This ghost, thenceforth the theme and dread of many a long winter
evening, was no other than Ordener, the noble son of the Norwegian
viceroy, who, while both kingdoms fancied him absorbed in paying tender
attentions to his haughty betrothed, had come alone and unknown to risk
his life for her to whom he had given his heart and his future, for the
daughter of a proscribed man.
Evil omens, sad forebodings, had thus far accompanied him. He had left
the fisherman and his family, and as they parted, good Maase knelt and
prayed for him. Kennybol and his six comrades, who had pointed out the
right road, quitted him within half a mile of Walderhog, and those
dauntless hunters who sallied forth to face a bear with a laugh on their
lips, gazed in terror upon the fearless traveller as he followed that
unhallowed path.
The young man entered Walderhog cave as he might have entered a
long-wished-for haven. He felt a transport of delight as he thought that
he was about to accomplish the object of his life, and that in a few
moments he might perhaps shed his last drop of blood for his Ethel.
About to attack a brigand dreaded by an entire province, it might be a
monster, a very demon, it was not that frightful image which filled his
fancy; he saw only the figure of the sweet captive maid, praying perhaps
for him before her prison altar. Had the object of his devotion been any
other than it was, he might have weighed for an instant, only to scorn
them, the dangers in search of which he had journeyed so far; but what
room is there for reflection in a youthful heart throbbing with the
double stimulus of heroic sacrifice and noble love?
He advanced proudly into the vaulted cavern, which echoed and re-echoed
the sound of his footsteps, not deigning even a glance at the
stalactites and the century-old columns of basalt which towered above
him amid mosses, lichen, and ivy,--a confused medley of weird forms,
from which the superstitious credulity of the Norwegian countryfolk had
more than once created hosts of evil spirits or long processions of
ghosts.
With the same indifference he passed the tomb of King Walder, to which
so many mournful legends cling, and he heard no voice save the
long-drawn sigh of the north wind through those gloomy galleries.
He traversed winding passages, dimly lighted by crevices half stopped
with grass and heather. Ever and anon he stumbled over strange objects,
which rolled from beneath his foot with a hollow sound, and assumed in
the darkness the shape of broken skulls or long rows of white teeth with
fleshless gums.
But his soul was undismayed. He was only surprised that he had not yet
encountered the much-dreaded inhabitant of this horrible cave.
He reached a sort of circular hall, hewn from the rock. Here the
subterranean road which he had thus far followed came to an end, and the
rocky walls were without exit, save for a few wide fissures, through
which he saw the mountains and woods outside.
Amazed that he should have thus traversed the fatal cavern in vain, he
began to despair of finding the brigand. A singular monument in the
middle of the underground hall caught his attention. Three long, massive
bowlders, standing upright, supported a fourth, broad and square, as
three pillars might uphold a roof. Beneath this gigantic tripod was an
altar, also formed of a single block of granite, with a round hole in
the middle of its upper surface. Ordener recognized it as one of those
colossal Druidic structures which he had often seen in travelling
through Norway, the most amazing instances being found in France, at
Lokmariaker and Karnak,--wondrous fabrics which have grown old, resting
upon the earth like tents pitched for a day, and made solid by their
mere weight.
The young man, lost in thought, leaned mechanically against this altar,
whose stone lips were stained dark brown, so deep had they drunk of the
blood of human victims.
All at once he started. A voice, apparently proceeding from the stone,
fell upon his ear: “Young man, you come to this place with feet which
touch the tomb.”
He rose quickly, and his hand sought his sword, while an echo, clear but
faint as the voice of a dying man, repeated: “Young man, you come to
this place with feet which touch the tomb.” At this instant a hideous
face appeared on the other side of the Druid altar, a face crowned with
red hair, and disfigured by a brutal sneer.
“Young man,” it again repeated, “you come to this place with feet which
touch the tomb.”
“And with a hand which touches a sword,” calmly responded Ordener.
The monster emerged from beneath the altar, revealing his thick-set,
muscular limbs, his wild, blood-stained dress, his hooked hands, and his
heavy stone axe.
“It is I,” he cried, with a growl like that of a wild beast.
“And I,” answered Ordener.
“I expected you.”
“I did more,” replied the bold young man; “I sought you out.”
The brigand folded his arms.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“And you are not frightened?”
“Not now.”
“Then you were afraid to come here?” And the monster tossed his head
with a look of triumph.
“Afraid I might not find you.”
“You bid me defiance, and your feet have trampled on dead bodies!”
“To-morrow they may tread upon your own.”
The little man quivered with rage. Ordener stood motionless, in an
attitude of haughty calm.
“Take care!” muttered the brigand; “I will burst upon you and rend you
as Norwegian hailstones do a lady’s parasol.”
“Such a shield would be all-sufficient for me.”
Something in Ordener’s eye seemed to daunt the monster. He plucked the
hairs from his mantle, as a tiger might devour grass before it springs
upon its prey.
“You teach me what pity means,” he said.
“And you teach me what it is to scorn.”
“Child, your voice is soft, your face is fair, like the voice and the
face of a girl; what death will you choose?”
“Your own.”
The small man laughed.
“Know you not that I am a demon, that my spirit is the spirit of Ingulf
the Destroyer?”
“I know that you are a robber, that you commit murder for the love of
gold.”
“You are wrong,” broke in the monster; “it is for love of blood.”
“Were you not paid by the d’Ahlefelds to slay Captain Dispolsen?”
“What are you talking about? What names are these?”
“Do you not know Captain Dispolsen, whom you killed on Urchtal Sands?”
“That may be, but I have forgotten him, as I shall forget you three days
hence.”
“Do you not know Count d’Ahlefeld, who paid you to steal an iron casket
from the captain?”
“D’Ahlefeld! Stay; yes, I know him. I drank his son’s blood only
yesterday, from my son’s skull.”
Ordener shuddered with horror.
“Were you not content with your wages?”
“What wages?” asked the brigand.
“Hark ye; the sight of you offends me; I must have done. You stole, a
week since, an iron casket from one of your victims, a Munkholm officer,
did you not?”
At the word “Munkholm” the brigand started.
“An officer from Munkholm?” he muttered. Then he asked, with a look of
surprise, “Are you too an officer from Munkholm?”
“No,” said Ordener.
“So much the worse!” and his face clouded.
“Enough of this,” rejoined the persistent Ordener; “where is the casket
that you stole from the captain?”
The little man meditated for a moment.
“By Ingulf! here’s a paltry iron box that occupies many minds. I will
promise you there’ll not be so much search for that which holds your
bones, if ever they be collected in a coffin.”
These words, as they showed Ordener that the robber knew the casket to
which he referred, revived his hope of obtaining it.
“Tell me what you did with that casket. Is it in Count d’Ahlefeld’s
possession?”
“No.”
“You lie, for you laugh.”
“Believe what you will. What matters it to me?”
The monster had assumed a mocking air which awakened Ordener’s
suspicions. He saw that there was nothing to be done but to rouse him to
fury if possible, or to intimidate him.
“Hear me,” said he, raising his voice; “you must give me that casket.”
The other answered with a savage sneer.
“You must give it to me!” the young man repeated in tones of thunder.
“Are you accustomed to issuing orders to buffaloes and bears?” replied
the monster, still sneering.
“I would give this command to the very Devil in hell.”
“You may do so ere long, if you like.”
Ordener drew his sword, which gleamed in the darkness like a flash of
lightning.
“Obey me!”
“Nay,” cried Hans, brandishing his axe; “I might have broken your bones
and sucked your blood when you first appeared, but I restrained my
wrath; I was curious to see the sparrow attack the vulture.”
“Wretch,” exclaimed Ordener, “defend yourself!”
“’Tis the first time I was ever told to do so,” muttered the brigand,
gnashing his teeth.
With these words, he sprang upon the granite altar and gathered himself
together, like a leopard awaiting the hunter on a high cliff, ready to
spring upon him unawares.
From this vantage-ground he glared at the young man, apparently seeking
the best side from which to attack him. All would have been over with
Ordener had he hesitated an instant. But he gave the brigand no time to
consider, and threw himself violently upon him, aiming the point of his
sword at his face.
Then began the most fearful fight which imagination can picture. The
little man, standing upon the altar, like a statue on its pedestal,
looked like one of those horrid idols which, in barbarous ages, received
in that same spot impious sacrifices and sacrilegious offerings.
His movements were so rapid that upon whatever side Ordener attacked
him, he always met the monster face to face, and encountered his blade.
He would have been hewn in pieces at the first onslaught, had he not had
the lucky forethought to wrap his mantle loosely around his left arm, so
that the greater part of his furious opponent’s blows were foiled by
this floating shield. Thus for some moments both made useless though
tremendous efforts to wound each other. The small man’s fiery gray eyes
seemed starting from their sockets. Surprised to meet with such vigorous
and bold resistance from a foe apparently so feeble, his savage sneers
changed to silent rage. The brutal immobility of the monster’s features,
and Ordener’s dauntless composure contrasted strangely with the
swiftness of their motions and the vigor of their attack. Not a sound
was heard but the clash of weapons, the young man’s quick steps, and the
hurried breathing of both adversaries, when the little man uttered a
fearful roar. The blade of his axe had caught in the folds of the cloak.
He braced himself; he shook his arm frantically, but only succeeded in
entangling the handle with the blade in the clinging stuff, which, with
every fresh effort, wound itself closer and closer about it.
The dreadful brigand felt the young man’s steel upon his breast.
“Once more I ask you,” said the triumphant Ordener, “will you give me
that iron casket which you stole like a coward?”
The small man was silent for an instant; then he said, with a roar:
“Curse you, no!”
Ordener rejoined, still retaining his victorious and threatening
attitude: “Consider!”
“No; I tell you no!” repeated the brigand.
The noble youth lowered his sword.
“Well,” said he, “release your axe from the folds of my mantle, and let
us fight it out.”