Life in the castle took from this time quite another form. Those two
bright beings, Folko and Gabrielle, spent most part of the day in their
apartments, and when they showed themselves, it was with quiet dignity
and grave silence, while Biorn and Sintram stood before them in humble
fear. Nevertheless, Biorn could not bear the thought of his guests
seeking shelter in any other knight’s abode. When Folko once spoke of
it, something like a tear stood in the wild man’s eye. His head sank,
and he said softly, “As you please; but I feel that if you go, I shall
run among the rocks for days.”
And thus they all remained together; for the storm continued to rage
with such increasing fury over the sea, that no sea voyage could be
thought of, and the oldest man in Norway could not call to mind such
an autumn. The priests examined all the runic books, the bards looked
through their lays and tales, and yet they could find no record of the
like. Biorn and Sintram braved the tempest; but during the few hours
in which Folko and Gabrielle showed themselves, the father and son were
always in the castle, as if respectfully waiting upon them; the rest
of the day--nay, often through whole nights, they rushed through the
forests and over the rocks in pursuit of bears. Folko the while called
up all the brightness of his fancy, all his courtly grace, in order to
make Gabrielle forget that she was living in this wild castle, and that
the long, hard northern winter was setting in, which would ice them in
for many a month. Sometimes he would relate bright tales; then he would
play the liveliest airs to induce Gabrielle to lead a dance with her
attendants; then, again, handing his lute to one of the women, he would
himself take a part the dance, well knowing to express thereby after
some new fashion his devotion to his lady. Another time he would have
the spacious halls of the castle prepared for his armed retainers to
go through their warlike exercises, and Gabrielle always adjudged the
reward to the conqueror. Folko often joined the circle of combatants; so
that he only met their attacks, defending himself, but depriving no one
of the prize. The Norwegians, who stood around as spectators, used
to compare him to the demi-god Baldur, one of the heroes of their old
traditions, who was wont to let the darts of his companions be all
hurled against him, conscious that he was invulnerable, and of his own
indwelling strength.
At the close of one of these martial exercises, old Rolf advanced
towards Folko, and beckoning him with an humble look, said softly, “They
call you the beautiful mighty Baldur,--and they are right. But even the
beautiful mighty Baldur did not escape death. Take heed to yourself.”
Folko looked at him wondering. “Not that I know of any treachery,”
continued the old man; “or that I can even foresee the likelihood of
any. God keep a Norwegian from such a fear. But when you stand before
me in all the brightness of your glory, the fleetingness of everything
earthly weighs down my mind, and I cannot refrain from saying, ‘Take
heed, noble baron! oh, take heed! Even the most beautiful glory comes to
an end.’”
“Those are wise and pious thoughts,” replied Folko calmly, “and I will
treasure them in a pure heart.”
The good Rolf was often with Folko and Gabrielle, and made a connecting
link between the two widely differing parties in the castle. For how
could he have ever forsaken his own Sintram! Only in the wild hunting
expeditions through the howling storms and tempests he no longer was
able to follow his young lord.
At length the icy reign of winter began in all its glory. On this
account a return to Normandy was impossible, and therefore the magical
storm was lulled. The hills and valleys shone brilliantly in their white
attire of snow, and Folko used sometimes, with skates on his feet, to
draw his lady in a light sledge over the glittering frozen lakes and
streams. On the other hand, the bear-hunts of the lord of the castle and
his son took a still more desperate and to them joyous course.
About this time,--when Christmas was drawing near, and Sintram was
seeking to overpower his dread of the awful dreams by the most daring
expeditions,--about this time, Folko and Gabrielle stood together on
one of the terraces of the castle. The evening was mild; the snow-clad
fields were glowing in the red light of the setting sun; from below
there were heard men’s voices singing songs of ancient heroic times,
while they worked in the armourer’s forge. At last the songs died away,
the beating of hammers ceased, and, without the speakers being seen, or
there being any possibility of distinguishing them by their voices, the
following discourse arose:--
“Who is the bravest amongst all those whose race derives its origin from
our renowned land?”
“It is Folko of Montfaucon.”
“Rightly said; but tell me, is there anything from which even this bold
baron draws back?”
“In truth there is one thing,--and we who have never left Norway face it
quite willingly and joyfully.”
“And that is--?”
“A bear-hunt in winter, over trackless plains of snow, down frightful
ice-covered precipices.”
“Truly thou answerest aright, my comrade. He who knows not how to fasten
our skates on his feet, how to turn in them to the right or left at a
moment’s warning, he may be a valiant knight in other respects, but he
had better keep away from our hunting parties, and remain with his timid
wife in her apartments.” At which the speakers were heard to laugh well
pleased, and then to betake themselves again to their armourer’s work.
Folko stood long buried in thought. A glow beyond that of the evening
sky reddened his cheek. Gabrielle also remained silent, considering she
knew not what. At last she took courage, and embracing her beloved, she
said: “To-morrow thou wilt go forth to hunt the bear, wilt thou not? and
thou wilt bring the spoils of the chase to thy lady?”
The knight gave a joyful sign of assent; and the rest of the evening was
spent in dances and music.