Hund performed his journey by night,--a journey perfectly unlike any
that was ever performed by night in England. He did not for a moment
think of going by the fiord, short and easy as it would have been in
comparison with the land road. He would rather have mounted all the
steeps, and crossed the snows of Sulitelma itself, many times over, than
have put himself in the way a second time of such a vision as he had
seen. Laboriously and diligently, therefore, he overcame the
difficulties of the path, crossing ravines, wading through swamps,
scaling rocks, leaping across water-courses, and only now and then
throwing himself down on some tempting slope of grass, to wipe his
brows, and, where opportunity offered, to moisten his parched throat
with the wild strawberries which were fast ripening in the sheltered
nooks of the hills. It was now so near midsummer, and the nights were
so fast melting into the days, that Hund could at the latest scarcely
see a star, though there was not a fleece of cloud in the whole circle
of the heavens. While yet the sun was sparkling on the fiord, and
glittering on every farm-house window that fronted the west, all around
was as still as if the deepest darkness had settled down. The eagles
were at rest on their rocky ledge, a thousand feet above the waters.
The herons had left their stand on the several promontories of the
fiord, and the flapping of their wings overhead was no more heard. The
raven was gone home; the cattle were all far away on the mountain
pastures; the goats were hidden in the woods which yielded the tender
shoots on which they subsisted. The round eyes of a white owl stared
out upon him here and there, from under the eaves of a farm-house; and
these seemed to be the only eyes besides his own that were open. Hund
knew as he passed one dwelling after another,--knew as well as if he had
looked in at the windows,--that the inhabitants were all asleep, even
with the sunshine lying across their very faces.
Every few minutes he observed how his shadow lengthened, and he longed
for the brief twilight which would now soon be coming on. Now, his
shadow stretched quite across a narrow valley, as he took breath on a
ridge crossed by the soft breeze. Then, the shadow stood up against a
precipice, taller than the tallest pine upon the steep. Then the yellow
gleam grew fainter, the sparkles on the water went out, and he saw the
large pale circle of the sun sink and sink into the waves, where the
fiord spread out wide to the south-west. Even the weary spirit of this
unhappy man seemed now to be pervaded with some of the repose which
appeared to be shed down for the benefit of all that lived. He walked
on and on; but he felt the grass softer under his feet,--the air cooler
upon his brow; and he began to comfort himself with thinking that he had
not murdered Rolf. He said to himself that he had not laid a finger on
him, and that the skiff might have sunk exactly as it did, if he had
been sitting at home, carving a bell-collar. There could be no doubt
that the skiff had been pulled down fathoms deep by a strong hand from
below; and if the spirits were angry with Rolf, that was no concern of
Rolf's human enemies.--Thus Hund strove to comfort himself; but it would
not do. The more he tried to put away the thought, the more obstinately
it returned, that he had been speeding on his way to injure Rolf when
the strange disappearance took place; and that he had long hated and
envied his fellow-servant, however marvellously he had been prevented
from capturing or slaying him. These thoughts had no comfort in them;
but better came after a time.
He had to pass very near M. Kollsen's abode; and it crossed his mind
that it would be a great relief to open his heart to a clergyman. He
halted for a minute, in sight of the house, but presently went on,
saying to himself that he could not say all to M. Kollsen, and would
therefore say nothing. He should get a lecture against superstition,
and hear hard words of the powers he dreaded; and there would be no
consolation in this. It was said that the Bishop of Tronyem was coming
round this way soon, in his regular progress through his diocese, and
everybody bore testimony to his gentleness and mercy. It would be best
to wait for his coming. Then Hund began to calculate how soon he would
come; for aching hearts are impatient for relief; and the thought how
near midsummer was, made him look up into the sky,--that beautiful index
of the seasons in a northern climate. There were a few extremely faint
stars--a very few,--for only the brightest could now show themselves in
the sky where daylight lingered so as never quite to depart. A
pale-green hue remained where the sun had disappeared, and a deep-red
glow was even now beginning to kindle where he was soon to rise. Just
here, Hund's ear caught some tones of the soft harp music which the
winds make in their passage through a wood of pines; and there was a
fragrance in the air from a new thatch of birch-bark just laid upon a
neighbouring roof. This fragrance, that faint vibrating music, and the
soft veiled light were soothing; and when, besides, Hund pictured to
himself his mind relieved by a confession to the good bishop--perhaps
cheered by words of pardon and of promise, the tears burst from his
eyes, and the fever of his spirit was allayed.
Then up came the sun again, and the new thatch reeked in his beams, and
the birds shook off sleep, and plumed themselves, and the peak of
Sulitelma blushed with the softest rose-colour, and the silvery fish
leaped out of the water, and the blossoms in the gardens opened, though
it was only an hour after midnight. Every creature except man seemed
eager to make the most of the short summer season,--to waste none of its
bright hours, which would be gone too soon;--every creature except man;
but man must have rest, be the sun high or sunk beneath the horizon: so
that Hund saw no face, and heard no human voice, before he found himself
standing at the top of the steep rocky pathway, which led down to
Erlingsen's abode.
Hund might have known that he should find everything in a different
state from that in which he had left the place; but yet he was rather
surprised at the aspect of the farm. The stable-doors stood wide; and
there was no trace of milk-pails. The hurdles of the fold were piled
upon one another in a corner of the yard. It was plain that herd,
flock, and dairy-women were gone to the mountain: and, though Hund
dreaded meeting Erica, it struck upon his heart, to think that she was
not here. He felt now how much it was for her sake that he had come
back.
He half resolved to go away again: but from the gallery of the house
some snow-white sheets were hanging to dry; and this showed that some
neat and busy female hands were still here. Next, his eye fell upon the
boat which lay gently rocking with the receding tide in its tiny cove;
and he resolved to lie down in it and rest, while considering what to do
next. He went down, stepping gently over the pebbles of the beach, lest
his tread should reach and waken any ear through the open windows, lay
down at the bottom of the boat, and, as might have been expected, fell
asleep as readily as an infant in a cradle.
Of course he was discovered; and, of course, Oddo was the discoverer.
Oddo was the first to come forth, to water the one horse that remained
at the farm, and to give a turn and a shake to the two or three little
cocks of hay which had been mown behind the house. His quick eye noted
the deep marks of a man's feet in the sand and pebbles, below high-water
mark, proving that some one had been on the premises during the night.
He followed these marks to the boat, where he was amazed to find the
enemy (as he called Hund) fast asleep. Oddo was in a great hurry to
tell his grandfather (Erlingsen being on the mountain); but he thought
it only proper caution to secure his prize from escaping in his absence.
He summoned his companion, the dog which had warned him of many dangers
abroad, and helped him faithfully with his work at home; and nothing
could be clearer to Skorro than that he was to crouch on the thwarts of
the boat, with his nose close to Hund's face, and not to let Hund stir
till Oddo came back. Then Oddo ran, and wakened his grandfather, who
made all haste to rise and dress. Erica now lived in Peder's house.
She had taken her lover's place there, since his disappearance; as the
old man must be taken care of, and the house kept; and her mistress
thought the interest and occupation good for her. Hearing Oddo's story,
she rushed out, and her voice was soon heard in passionate entreaty,
above the bark of the dog, which was trying to prevent the prisoner from
rising.
"Only tell me," Erica was heard to say, "only tell me where and how he
died. I know he is dead,--I knew he would die; from that terrible night
when we were betrothed. Tell me who did it,--for I am sure you know.
Was it Nipen?--Yes, it was Nipen, whether it was done by wind or water,
or human hands. But speak, and tell me where he is. O, Hund, speak!
Say only where his body is, and I will try--I will try never to speak to
you again--never to--"
Hund looked miserable; he moved his lips; but no sound was heard
mingling with Erica's rapid speech.
Madame Erlingsen, who, with Orga, had by this time reached the spot,
laid her hand on Erica's arm, to beg for a moment's silence, made Oddo
call his dog out of the boat, and then spoke, in a severe tone, to Hund.
"Why do you shake your head, Hund, and speak no word? Say what you
know, for the sake of those whom, we grievously suspect, you have deeply
injured. Say what you know, Hund."
"What I say is, that I do not know," replied Hund, in a hoarse and
agitated voice. "I only know that we live in an enchanted place, here
by this fiord, and that the spirits try to make us answer for their
doings. The very first night after I went forth, this very boat was
spirited away from me, so that I could not come home. Nipen had a spite
against me there, to make you all suspect me. I declare to you that the
boat was gone, in a twinkling, by magic, and I heard the cry of the
spirit that took it."
"What was the cry like?" asked Oddo, gravely.
"Where were you that you were not spirited away with the boat?" asked
his mistress.
"I was tumbled out upon the shore, I don't know how," declared
Hund:--"found myself sprawling on a rock, while the creature's cries
brought my heart into my mouth as I lay."
"Alone?--were you alone?" asked his mistress.
"I had landed the pastor some hours before, madame; and I took nobody
else with me, as Stiorna can tell; for she saw me go."
"Stiorna is at the mountain," observed madame, coolly.
"But, Hund," said Oddo, "how did Nipen take hold of you when it laid you
sprawling on the rock? Neck and heels? Or, did it bid you go and
harken whether the pirates were coming, and whip away the boat before
you came back? Are you quite sure that you sprawled on the rock at all
before you ran away from the horrible cry you speak of? Our rocks are
very slippery, when Nipen is at one's heels."
Hund stared at Oddo, and his voice was yet hoarser when he said that he
had long thought that boy was a favourite with Nipen; and he was sure of
it now.
Erica had thrown herself down on the sand, hiding her face on her hands,
on the edge of the boat, as if in despair of her misery being attended
to,--her questions answered. Old Peder stood beside her, stroking her
hair tenderly; and he now spoke the things she could not say.
"Attend to me, Hund," said Peder, in the grave, quiet tone which every
one regarded. "Hear my words, and, for your own sake, answer them. We
suspect you of being in communication with the pirates yonder: we
suspect that you went to meet them when you refused to go hunting the
bears. We know that you have long felt ill-will towards Rolf,--envy of
him,--jealousy of him;--and--"
Here Erica looked up, pale as ashes, and said, "Do not question him
further. There is no truth in his answers. He spoke falsehood even
now."
Peder saw how Hund shrank under this, and thought the present the moment
to get truth out of him, if he ever could speak it. He therefore went
on to say--
"We suspect you of having done something to keep your rival out of the
way, in order that you might obtain the house and situation,--and
perhaps something else that you wish."
"Have you killed him?" asked Erica, abruptly, looking full in his face.
"No," returned Hund, firmly. From his manner everybody believed this
much.
"Do you know that anybody else has killed him?"
"No."
"Do you know whether he is alive or dead?"
To this Hund could, in the confusion of his ideas about Rolf's fate and
condition, fairly say "No:" as also to the question, "Do you know where
he is?"