CHAPTER I.

Produced by Al Haines

THE KING'S RING

BEING A ROMANCE OF THE DAYS OF

GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS

AND THE THIRTY YEARS' WAR

TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH OF

ZACHARIAS TOPELIUS

BY

SOPHIE ÖHRWALL AND HERBERT ARNOLD

_With a Photogravure Portrait of Topelius_

(missing from source book)

LONDON

JARROLD & SONS, 10 & 11, WARWICK LANE, E.C.

[_All Rights Reserved_]

_Copyright

London: Jarrold & Sons

Boston: L. C. Page & Company_

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION--WHICH TREATS OF THE SURGEON'S PERSON AND LIFE

I.--THE KING'S RING.

CHAPTER

I. THE BATTLE OF BREITENFELD

II. THE NOBLEMAN WITHOUT A NAME

III. LADY REGINA

IV. LADY REGINA'S OATH

V. JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES

VI. THE FINNS AT LECH

VII. NEW ADVENTURES

VIII. NÜRNBERG AND LÜTZEN

II.--THE SWORD AND THE PLOUGH.

I. A MAN FROM THE PEASANTS' WAR

II. ASHAMED OF A PEASANT'S NAME

III. THE SOUTHERN FLOWER COMES TO THE NORTH

IV. THE PEASANT--THE BURGHERS--AND THE SOLDIER

V. LADY REGINA ARRIVES AT KORSHOLM

VI. THE LOVE OF THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH

VII. THE SIEGE OF KORSHOLM

III.--FIRE AND WATER.

I. THE TREASURE FROM THE BATTLEFIELD

II. TWO OLD ACQUAINTANCES

III. THE TREASURY

IV. DUKE BERNHARD AND BERTEL

V. LOVE AND HATE AGREE

VI. THE BATTLE OF NÖRDLINGEN

VII. THE LOST SON

VIII. THE FUGITIVE LADY

IX. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA

X. KAJANEBORG

XI. THE PRISONER OF STATE

XII. THE TEMPTER

XIII. AVAUNT, EVIL SPIRIT

XIV. THE JUDGMENT OF THE SAINTS

XV. BERTEL AND REGINA

XVI. THE KING'S RING--THE SWORD AND THE PLOUGH--FIRE AND WATER

INTRODUCTION.

WHICH TREATS OF THE SURGEON'S PERSON AND LIFE.

The surgeon was born in a small town of East Bothnia, the same day as

Napoleon I., August 15th, 1769. I well remember the day, as he always

used to celebrate it with a little party of relatives and a dozen

children; and as he was very fond of the latter, we were allowed to

make as much noise as we pleased, and throw everything into absolute

confusion on this anniversary.

It was the pride of the surgeon's life that he was born on the same day

as the Great Conqueror, and this coincidence was also the cause of

several of his important experiences. But his pride and ambition were

of a mild and good-tempered kind, and quite different from the powerful

desires which can force their way through a thousand obstacles to

attain an exalted position. How often does the famous one count all

the victims who have bled for his glory on the battlefield, all the

tears, all the human misery through which his way leads to an

illusionary greatness, perhaps, doomed to last a few centuries at most?

The surgeon used to say that he was a great rogue in his childhood; but

exhibiting good intelligence, he was sent by a wealthy uncle to a

school in Vasa.

At eighteen, with a firkin of butter in a wagon, and seventeen thalers

in his purse, he went to Abo to pass his examination. This well

accomplished, he was at liberty to strive for the gown and surplice of

an ecclesiastic. But his thoughts wandered far too often from his

Hebrew Codex to the square where the troops frequently assembled.

"Oh!" thought he, "if I were only a soldier, standing there in the

ranks, and ready to fight like my father, for king and country."

But his mother had placed an emphatic veto on the matter, and exacted a

solemn promise from him that he would never become a warrior.

Before, however, he was through Genesis, an incident suddenly occurred

which completely altered his good intentions. This was an announcement

in the daily paper from the Medical Faculty, which stated that students

who wished to take service as surgeons during the war could present

themselves for private medical instruction, after which they could

reckon upon being ordered out with five or six thalers per month to

begin with, as the war was at its height.

Now, young Bäck would no longer be denied; he wrote home that as a

surgeon's duty is to take off the limbs of others, without losing his

own, he wished to volunteer. After some trouble he received the

desired permission. In a moment the Codex was thrown away. He did not

learn, he devoured surgery, and in a few months was as capable a

chirurgeon as most others; for in those times they were not very

particular.

Our youthful surgeon was in the land campaigns of 1788 and 1789; but in

1790 at sea; was in many a hard battle, drank prodigiously (according

to his own account), and cut off legs and arms wholesale in a most

skilful way. He then knew nothing about the coincidence of his birth

with Napoleon's, and therefore did not yet consider himself as under a

lucky star. He often told the story of the eventful 3rd of July in

Wiborg Bay, when on board the "Styrbjörn" with Stedingk, at the head of

the fleet, they passed the enemy's battery at Krosserort's Point, and

he was struck by a splinter on the right cheek, and carried the mark to

his grave. The same shot which caused this wound wrought great havoc

in the ship, and whizzing by the admiral's ear, made him stone-deaf for

a time; Bäck with his lancet and palsy drops restored Stedingk's

hearing in three minutes. Just then the danger was greatest and the

balls flew thick as hail.

The vessel ran aground.

"Boys, we are lost," cried a voice.

"Not so!" answered Henrik Fagel, from Ahlais village, in Ulfsby, "send

all the men to the bow; it is the stern that has stuck."

"All men to the prow," shouted the commander. Then the "Styrbjörn" was

again afloat, and all the Swedish fleet followed in her wake. Bäck

used to say:

"What the deuce would have become of the fleet if Stedingk had remained

deaf?"

Everyone understood the old man; he had saved the entire squadron.

Then he used to laugh and add,

"Yes, yes! You see, brother, I was born on the 15th of August; that is

the whole secret; I am not to be blamed for it."

After the war was over, Bäck went to Stockholm, and became devoted to

the king. He was young, and needed no reason for his attachment.

"Such a stately monarch," was his only idea.

One day, in the beginning of March, 1792, the surgeon, a handsome

youth--to use his own expression--had through a chamber-maid at

Countess Lantingshausen's, who in her turn stood on a confidential

footing with Count Horn's favourite lackey, obtained a vague inkling of

a conspiracy against the king's life. The surgeon resolved to act

Providence in Sweden's destiny, and reveal to the monarch all that he

knew, and perhaps a little more. He tried to obtain an audience of the

king, but was denied by the chamberlain, De Besche. A second attempt

had the same result. The third time, he stood in the road before the

royal carriage, waving his written statement in the air.

"What does this man want?" asked Gustave III. of the chamberlain.

"He is an unemployed surgeon," replied De Besche, "and begs your

Majesty to begin another war, that he may go on lopping off legs and

arms."

The king laughed, and the forlorn surgeon was left behind.

A few days afterwards the king was shot.

"I was blameless," the surgeon used to say when speaking of this

matter. "Had not that damned De Besche been there--yes, I won't say

anything more."

Everyone understood what he meant. The "if" in the way was also due to

his birthday on the 15th of August.

Shortly afterwards Bäck represented his profession at a state

execution. Here his free tongue got him into trouble, and he fled on

board a Pomeranian yacht. Next we find him tramping like a wandering

quack to Paris. He arrived at an opportune moment, and received a

humble appointment in the army of Italy. One night, under the

influence of his birthday, he left his hospital at Nissa, and hurried

to Mantua to see Bonaparte; he wished to make of the 15th of August a

ladder to eminence. He managed to see the General, and presented a

petition for an appointment as army physician.

"But," sighed the surgeon, every time he spoke of this remarkable

incident, "the General was very busy, and asked one of his staff what I

wanted."

"Citizen General," answered the adjutant, "it is a surgeon, who

requests the honour of sawing off your leg at the first opportunity."

"Just then," added the surgeon, "the Austrian cannon began to thunder,

and General Bonaparte told me to go to the devil."

Thus the surgeon, who had preserved so many eminent personages, was

deprived of the honour of saving Napoleon. He got camp fever instead,

and lay sick for some time at Brescia.

When well he travelled to Zurich, and here fell in love with a

rosy-cheeked Swiss girl; but before he could marry her, the city was

overrun, first by the Russians, then French, and finally by Suvaroff.

The surgeon's betrothed ran away, and never returned.

One day he sat sorrowfully at his window, when two Cossacks came up,

dismounted, seized him, and hurried him off at full speed. The surgeon

thought his last hour had arrived. But the Cossacks brought him safely

to a hut. There sat some officers round a punch bowl, and among them a

stern man in large boots.

"Surgeon," said the latter, short and sharp, "out with your forceps; I

have toothache."

Bäck ventured to ask which tooth it was that ached.

"You argue," said the man impatiently.

"No, I don't," replied the surgeon, and pulled out the first tooth he

got hold of.

"Good, my boy! March," said the other, and the surgeon was dismissed

with ten ducats.

He had acquired another important merit by pulling out the tooth of the

hero Suvaroff.

The surgeon's next considerable journey was to St. Petersburg, where he

obtained an appointment in a hospital, and made a little fortune.

Thus passed four or five years. The surgeon was now thirty-five. He

said to himself,

"It is not sufficient to have preserved the Swedish fleet, Gustave

III., and Armfelt; to have had an interview with Napoleon, and pulled

out a tooth for Suvaroff. One must also have an aim in life." And he

began to realise that he had a Fatherland.

When the war of 1808 broke out, the surgeon became an assistant

physician in one of the Finnish regiments; he no longer fought for

glory and the 15th of August. He took part in the campaigns of 1808

and 1809. Then he fought manfully with misery, disease, and death; cut

off arms and legs, dressed wounds, applied plasters, solaced the

wounded, with whom he shared his flask, bread, purse, and what was much

more, his unalterable good humour, and told a thousand funny stories

gathered in his travels. He was called the "tobacco doctor," because

he was always ready to share his pipe and quid. One can be a Christian

even with tobacco. The surgeon was not so stuck up that he, like

Konow's corporal, went about

"With two quids from sheer pride."

On the contrary, he went without himself when the need was great, and a

wounded comrade had got the last bit of the roll in the pocket of his

yellow nankeen vest. Hence the soldiers loved the tobacco doctor.

When peace was concluded between Russia and Sweden in 1809, the latter

having lost Finland through a foreign traitor, who gave up Sveaborg to

the enemy, and so many Finns went over to Sweden, the surgeon thought

it more honourable to remain and share the fortunes of his native land.

He travelled round the country and practised amongst the peasantry.

But the Medical Faculty of Abo finally forbade him to continue, and he

therefore settled down at Jacobstad, his native place, and took to

fishing. In the days of his prosperity the surgeon had been too

liberal; he now only owned his old brown cloak, yellow nankeen vest, a

hundred fish hooks, and his cheerful disposition. But he now obtained

the appointment of public vaccinator, which allowed him to roam about

the country twice a year, like old times. No one knew better than he

how to lull the little children to rest, whilst he pricked the fine

soft flesh of their arms; almost before they knew it the pain was over.

This gained for him the goodwill of all the mothers; they even forgave

him the ugly habit of chewing tobacco--it was too late to cure it now.

Then the snow of old age stole gently o'er the surgeon's head. He had

gone through the storms of life without losing faith in humanity; never

hardening under adversity, nor unduly puffed up when fortune smiled.

He was throughout a good soul.

Often in our childhood and first youth we sat up there in the old

garret chamber around his leather-covered arm-chair, by the light of

the crackling fire, listening to his tales from the world of fiction

and from life. His memory was inexhaustible, and as the old _runa_

says, that even the wild stream does not let its waves flow by all at

once, so had the surgeon continually new stories of his own time, and

still more from periods which had long passed away.

It sometimes happened after we had been listening to the old man, that

he took out an electric battery, and drew from it a succession of

sparks.

"In that way the world sparkled when I was young," he said smiling;

"one had only to apply a finger, and click it flashed in all

directions. But then it was our Lord who turned the machine."

But rarely had he a story written like that of the Duchess of Finland.

Most of them were given orally. Many years have since passed; part I

have forgotten, and some I have compared with traditions and books. If

the reader finds a pleasure in them, then the surgeon will not have

told his tales in vain during the long winter evenings.

I.--THE KING'S RING.

Reader, as you sit in your peaceful home, surrounded by the calm of

civilisation, can you recall the grand heroic memories of the past,

which after centuries remain illuminated with a bright glow, and are

also often darkened with blood and tragedy? Can you transport yourself

back to the joys and terrors of the past, and take a vital interest in

those struggles and battles long since fought out, and become full of

hopes or fears as fortune smiled or betrayed?

Stand with me on the heights of History, and looking far around on the

wild arena of human destiny, can you transfer yourself to the vale of

the past, the physically dead and buried, but spiritually immortal

life, which forms the being and substance of all History?

Reader, have you ever seen History depicted as an aged man with a

frozen heart and wise brow, trying all things in the balance of reason?

But is not the Genius of History like an ever youthful virgin, full of

fire, with a living heart and a flaming soul--human, warm, and

beautiful?

If then you have the capacity to suffer or rejoice with the generations

that have passed away, to love, and hate with them, to admire, despise,

and curse as they have done; in a word, to live amongst them with your

whole heart, and not merely with your cold reflecting mentality, then

follow me. I will lead down the valley; but your heart will guide you

better that I; upon that I rely--and begin.

THE KING'S RING.

CHAPTER I.

THE BATTLE OF BREITENFELD.

Through the histories of Germany and Sweden the fame of mighty names

has resounded for centuries; at their mention the Swede raises his head

aloft, and the free German uncovers his with admiration. These are

Leipzig, Breitenfeld, and the 7th of September, 1631.

King Gustaf Adolf, with his army of Swedes and Finns, stood on German

soil to protect the holiest and highest things in life--Liberty and

Faith.

Tilly, the terrible old corporal, had invaded Saxony, and the king

pursued him. Twice had they met; the tiger had challenged the lion to

the combat, but the latter would not move. Now for the third time they

faced each other; the crushing blow must fall, and the fate of Germany

trembled in the balance.

At dawn the Swedes and Saxons crossed the Loder, and placed themselves

in battle array at the village of Breitenfeld.

The king rode along the lines, and inspected everything. His eye

beamed with delight on these brave men; the left wing was composed of

Gustave Horn's cavalry, Teuffel was in the centre, and Torstensson with

his leathern cannon in front. The Livonians and Hepburn's Scots were

both in the second line.

The king commanded the right wing, composed of several regiments of

cavalry and the Finns.

"Stälhandske," said he, checking his large steed at the last Finnish

division, "I suppose you understand why you are here. Pappenheim is

opposite, and longs to make your acquaintance," he added smiling, "and

I expect a vigorous attack from that quarter. I rely upon you Finns to

receive him right royally."

The king then raised his voice and said,

"Boys, do not blunt your swords upon those iron-clad fellows, but first

tackle the horses, and then you will have light work with the riders."

The Finns were proud of their danger and the honour of their position.

The king inspired all with courage and self-reliance. But these short,

sturdy fellows on their small horses seemed unequal to the onset of the

big Wallachians upon their strong and heavy chargers. Tilly held the

same opinion.

"Ride them down," he said, "and horse and man will fall powerless under

the heels of your steeds." But Tilly did not know his foes. The outer

bearing of the Finns was deceptive. Their iron muscles and calm

courage, with the hardihood of their horses, gave them a decided

advantage over their enemies.

"Well, Bertila," said Stälhandske, turning to a young man who in the

first rank rode a handsome black horse, and was noticeable from his

height and bearing, "do you feel inclined to win the knight's spur

to-day?"

The one addressed seemed astonished, and coloured up to the brim of his

helmet.

"I have never dared to aspire so high," he answered. "I--a peasant's

son!" he added with hesitation.

"Thunder and lightning, the boy blushes like a bride at the altar! A

peasant's son? What the devil, then, have we all come from in the

beginning? Did you not provide four fully equipped horsemen? Has not

our Lord placed a heart in your breast, and the king a weapon in your

hand? That is in itself a coat of arms; you must attend to the rest."

A multitude of thoughts passed quickly through the young man's mind.

He thought of the days of his childhood in far-off Finland. He

remembered his old father, whose name was also Bertila, and who during

the peasant war was one of Duke Carl's best men. When the latter

became King Carl the Ninth, he gave his follower four large farms; each

of these had to provide a man and horse for military service. Owing to

this, old Bertila became one of the richest peasants in the country.

He thought of the time when his father first sent him to Stockholm, in

the hope that he would some day attain honour and distinction by the

king's side; then of his own ambition which had induced him to neglect

study and take private lessons in riding and fencing. At last his

father gave him permission to join the king's Finnish cavalry. Now he,

a peasant's son, was about to strive to raise himself to the level of

the haughty nobility. It was this thought that made him blush, and

under its influence he felt he could face any danger.

Moreover, he was about to fight under the king's eye, for his faith and

the honour of his country. The whole army was animated by the same

high principles, which rendered them invincible, and made them realise

the victory before the battle had begun.

Before the young horseman had time to reply to his generous leader, the

king's high voice was heard in the distance calling to prayer. The

hero took off his helmet and lowered the point of his sword, and all

the troops did the same. The king prayed:

"Thou all-merciful God, Who bearest victory and defeat in Thy hand,

turn Thy beneficent countenance to us, Thy servants. From distant

lands and peaceful homes have we come, to fight for freedom, and Thy

Gospel. Give us victory for Thy Holy Name's sake. Amen."

A deep trust at these words filled every heart.

At noon the attacking Swedish army came within range of the Imperial

cannon. The Swedish artillery answered, and the conflict began. As

the sun shone right in the assailants' eyes, the king made his army

wheel to the right, so as to get the wind and sun on the side.

Pappenheim tried to prevent this. He rushed forward with the speed of

lightning, and took the Swedish right in flank. At once the king threw

the Rhine Count's regiment and Baner's cavalry upon him. The shock was

terrific; horses and riders fell over each other in utter confusion.

Pappenheim drew back, but only to throw himself the next instant on the

Finns. But the furious charge of the Wallachians was in vain; they met

a wall of steel; their front rank was crushed, and the next turned

back. The second attack was no better, and Pappenheim raged; for the

third time he rushed to the assault; the Livonians and Courlanders now

assisted the Finns. The latter received the enemy with calm courage;

nothing could break through that living wall.

The heat of the conflict had gradually excited the Finns, and it was

now scarcely possible to hold them in. Stälhandske's mighty voice

sounded high above the roar and din of the conflict; and once more the

foe was thrown back. Now the Finnish lines broke, but only to enclose

the enemy. Then it became a hand-to-hand struggle. Twice more the

Wallachians charged and were repulsed. The seventh time Pappenheim was

followed only by a few of the most determined of his followers, and

when this last desperate effort failed all was over. The remaining

Wallachians scattered themselves in the wildest flight toward

Breitenfeld.

Covered with blood and dust the Finns took breath. But as soon as the

smoke cleared off, they saw other foes in front. These were the

Holsteiners, who had supported Pappenheim. The Finns could not be

checked. With the East Goths they surrounded the Holsteiners and

annihilated them; these brave fellows died in their ranks to a man.

Whilst this happened on the right, the left was in great danger.

Furstenberg's Croats had made the Saxons give ground, and Tilly then

advanced his powerful centre. Torstensson's cannon played havoc in the

ranks; Tilly moved aside and charged the Saxons. The ranks of the

latter were immediately broken, and they fled in the greatest disorder.

Tilly now turned his victorious troops against the Swedish left wing.

The latter were slowly pressed back. The king then hastened up and

ordered Callenbach's reserve to the rescue. Almost immediately both

Callenbach and Teuffel fell. Then Hepburn's Scots and the Smälanders

came up; the Croats fell upon them, but the Scots opened their ranks,

and several masked batteries played with terrible effect on the former.

Under the fire of the Scots whole ranks were shattered, and amidst the

dense smoke and dust the combatants were mingled together in utter

confusion.

Victory still hung in the balance.

But now a diversion occurred which decided the battle. The king with

his cavalry and the Finns had captured the Imperial artillery on the

heights, and now turned it against the latter. In vain Pappenheim

tried to recapture the guns; he was repulsed in disorder. Then the

king, with his invincible right wing, charged the enemy in flank; the

Imperialists were lost. Tilly wept with rage: Pappenheim, who had

hewed down fourteen men with his own hand, was mad with fury. No one,

however, could rally the Imperial troops, and Tilly, whose horse was

shot under him, barely escaped being taken prisoner. The king's

victory was decisive.

But a terrible sequel remained. Four regiments of Tilly's veteran

infantry had reformed, and now sought to check the pursuit. The king

charged them with Tott's cavalry, the Smälanders, and Finns. It was a

terrific combat; the Wallachians fought with the fury of despair; no

quarter was asked or given. At last darkness saved the remnant of

these brave men, who retreated on Leipzig.

The battle was over.

Great results followed this victory; and in the evening the king rode

from rank to rank, to thank his brave troops.

"Stälhandske," said he, when he came to the Finns, "you and your men

have fought like heroes, as I expected. I thank you, my children! I

am proud of you."

The troops responded with a joyous cheer.

"But," continued the king, "there was one among you who sprang from his

horse, and first of all scaled the heights to seize the Imperial guns.

Where is he?"

A young horseman rode from the ranks.

"Pardon, your Majesty!" he stammered. "I did it without orders, and

therefore merit death."

The king smiled. "Your name?"

"Bertila."

"From East Bothnia?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Good. To-morrow morning, at seven o'clock, you may present yourself,

to hear your doom."

The king rode on, and the horseman returned to the ranks.

Night broke over the awful field, covered with 9,000 dead. The Finnish

cavalry encamped on the heights, where Tilly's guns were captured. The

dead were taken away, and fires of broken gun-carriages and

musket-stocks spread their light in the September night; through a

clear sky the eternal stars looked down upon the battlefield.

The cavalry gave their horses fodder, and watered them at the muddy

Loder. Then they bivouacked, each in his division, around the fires,

armed and ready to jump at the first call The ground was damp with dew,

and slippery with blood, but many were so fatigued that they fell

asleep as they sat around the fires. Others kept themselves in good

spirits by passing round cups of ale, of which they had a good stock.

They drank in jesting fashion to the health of the Imperialists.

"And that they to-night may die of thirst

Or drink to their own funeral

Eläköön kuningas!"

At this moment a woeful voice was heard quite near, earnestly calling

for help. The soldiers, accustomed to such things, knew by the accent

that the man was a foreigner, and did not trouble. But the cries

continued without ceasing.

"Pekka, go and give the Austrian dog a final thrust," cried some of the

men, who were irritated by these wailing sounds.

Pekka, one of Bertila's four dragoons, short, but strong as a lion,

went unwillingly to silence the offender's voice. Superstitious, like

all these soldiers, he was not at home amidst the dead on a dark night.

Bertila, absorbed in thinking of the next morning, did not hear it.

In a few minutes Pekka returned, dragging after him a dark body, which,

to everyone's surprise, was found to be a monk, easily recognised by

his tonsure. Around his common gown he wore a hempen rope, and to this

hung the scabbard of a sword.

"A monk! A Jesuit!" exclaimed the soldiers.

"Yes, but what could I do," said Pekka, "he parried my thrust with a

crucifix."

"Kill him! It is one of the devil's allies who prowl around to murder

kings and burn faithful Christians at the stake.

"Away with him! When we carried the heights, this same man stood with

his crucifix among the Imperialists and fired off a cannon."

"Let's find out if the precious object is of silver," said one of the

men, and pulling aside the monk's gown he drew forth, in spite of his

struggles, a crucifix of silver, richly gilded.

"Just as I thought, the devil has plenty of gold."

"Let me see it," said an old veteran. "I know something about monks'

tricks."

As he pressed a little spring in the image's breast, a keen dagger

sprang from it. As if bitten by an adder, he threw the crucifix from

him. Rage and horror seized the bystanders.

"Hang the serpent by his own rope," shouted the men.

"There is no tree," said one, "and no one is allowed to leave the

lines."

"Drown him!"

"There is no water."

"Stab him!"

No one was willing, from aversion, to touch the monk.

"What shall we do with him?"

"Misericordia! Gnade!" said the prisoner, who now began to recover his

speech and strength.

"Give him a kick and let him go," said one. "We are Christians, and

fear no devilry."

"At least I will mark you first, so that we may know you if we meet

again," cried one of the soldiers named Vitikka, renowned for his

strength and brutality. He flourished his sword several times round

the monk's head, and then with two dexterous strokes cut off both the

prisoner's ears, before he could be prevented by his comrades. It was

most skilfully accomplished.

"St. Peter could not have done it better," said Vitikka laughing.

Those who were standing around turned away. Although they were

accustomed to the cruelties of war, this was too savage even for them.

Bleeding, the Jesuit crawled away on his hands and feet. But long

afterwards his voice was heard from the darkness:

"Accursed Finns! May the eternal fires consume you!"

"Our Father, which art in Heaven," a voice exclaimed from the group of

soldiers. And all uttered the prayer with devotion.

CHAPTER II.

THE NOBLEMAN WITHOUT A NAME.

At dawn on the 8th of September, the Swedish army was exercised. They

felt sure of complete victory. From all parts news arrived that the

enemy's army was almost destroyed. The king left one division of his

troops to follow the Imperialists; whilst the rest received the

agreeable order to loot Tilly's camp: the spoil was divided into lots.

The treasures were enormous, and many a man was enriched for life. The

whole army wore a joyous look; the dead were quickly buried, and the

wounded forgot their pains. In the bright September morning, the

battlefield was covered with groups of delighted soldiers, and here, if

ever, Beskow's words could be used, "The air was cooled with the waving

of the flags gained in the victory."

The king had passed the night in a carriage. After he had read the

army prayers, and given orders for the first part of the day, he called

for those who had most distinguished themselves in the battle. And now

many a brave deed was recognised with honours and promotion. But

higher than any other reward, was the inner satisfaction, and the

praise they received from this hero, whom the whole of Europe had now

learnt to admire.

Amongst those who were specially called was a young man, who plays a

great part in this history. Gustaf Bertila was only twenty years old,

and his heart was beating at this time more rapidly than it had ever

done in the most terrible moments of the conflict. He knew well that

the noble king would not take any account of his crime, which was that

he had disobeyed orders in battle; he blushed and grew pale by turns,

as he thought of what the king might mean by this special summons,

which was in itself a great honour.

The king had erected his tent under one of the great elms, at Gross

Wetteritz, because all the buildings in the neighbourhood were burnt or

destroyed by friends or enemies.

After waiting for half an hour, Bertila was introduced into the royal

presence. Gustaf Adolf was sitting on a low chair, and his arm was

resting on a table, covered with maps and papers. The king was tall

and portly, and his tight-fitting buff coat made him look still more

corpulent.

When Bertila entered, the king lifted up his mild and beautiful blue

eyes; he had just signed an order, and looked sharply at the young man.

Gustaf Adolf was short sighted, and therefore had a difficulty in

recognising persons, and when he met individuals only slightly known to

him, it gave his look a peculiar sharpness, which, however, disappeared

immediately.

"Your name is Bertila," said the king, as if he wished to assure

himself that he had heard it correctly the day before.

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Aged twenty years," said the king, watching him closely with a strange

look.

"Yes, your Majesty."

"His son did you say?"

The young man bowed his head and blushed.

"How strange!" the king muttered this to himself, and seemed for a

moment to be in deep thought. He then said,

"Why have you not announced yourself to me before? Your father has

done my father and the country great service. He is then still alive."

"He is alive, and thankful for your Majesty's goodness."

"Really so."

The king said this more as if a secret thought had escaped him, than as

a remark to the listener. The young man felt the colour mount to his

cheeks, and the king noticed it.

"Your father and I once had a quarrel," continued the king, and he

smiled, but a cloud was seen on his brow. "But this was all forgotten

long ago, and I am glad that such a good man has such a brave son. You

were amongst the seventy Finns at Demmin."

"Yes, your Majesty."

"And no one has mentioned you for promotion?"

"My colonel has promised to remember me."

"Your king never forgets a real service. Gustaf Bertila, I have just

signed your commission as sub-lieutenant. Take it, and continue to

serve with honour."

"Your Majesty," said the young man.

"I have something more to say to you. Your action yesterday was

against orders."

"Yes, your Majesty."

"I want my soldiers to obey implicitly. I have been told that you

dismounted at the foot of the steepest hill, so that you could get up

quicker."

"It is true your Majesty."

"And that you reached the top of the hill first, whilst the others had

to ride round; and that you killed two of the enemy, and took the first

cannon."

"Yes, your Majesty."

"It is good, sub-lieutenant Bertila; I forgive you, and promote you to

the rank of lieutenant in my Finnish cavalry."

The young man could not speak. The king himself laboured under

considerable emotion.

"Come nearer, young man," said the king. "You ought to know that once,

in my youth, I did your father a considerable injury. Heaven knows

that I repent, and has at last given me an opportunity to repair to the

son the injustice done to the father.

"Lieutenant Bertila, you are brave and noble, and you have received a

military education. You have also brought into my service four

soldiers. In your position as officer in my army you are already

considered a nobleman. That none of my officers shall look down upon

you as a peasant's son, I will give you a name, and the knight's spur."

"Go, young man. Go, my son," repeated the king with great emotion,

"and show that you are worth the king's favour."

"Until death." And the young man bent his knee to the king. The

latter stood up. The emotion which had for a moment passed over his

fine face now disappeared, and he was again the royal leader.

The young Bertila understood that the time had come to retire. But he

still remained in his kneeling position, and gave the king a letter,

which he, until this day, had carried sewed in his coat.

"May I ask your Majesty to read this letter. When I said farewell to

my old father he gave me this letter, and said, 'My son, go and try to

win your king's favour, through your faithfulness and valour. And if

some day you can obtain it for your own sake, and not only for the sake

of your father's name, then give him this letter, and tell him that it

is my last will. His great heart will understand what I mean.'"

The king opened the letter and read it, and on his face was seen that

deep flush, which in his later years was the only sign of the struggles

of a soul, able to control itself. It came as a light cloud on the

king's forehead, deepened for a moment, and then passed away without

leaving any trace. When he had finished reading, his eyes rested for a

moment on the handsome youth who was still kneeling at his feet.

"Stand up," said the king at last.

Bertila obeyed.

"Do you know what this letter contains?"

"No, your Majesty."

The king watched him closely, but was satisfied with the honest and

truthful expression of his face.

"Your father is a strange man. He hates all noblemen since the days of

the Peasants' War. He fought many tough battles as their leader; and

Fleming's troops took possession of his farm. He forbids you ever to

bear a noble name, if you wish to avoid his curse."

Bertila did not reply. A thunder-bolt from a clear sky had come down

upon his happiness, and all his dreams of a noble and knightly name had

been destroyed at one blow.

"A father's will must be obeyed," continued the king with great

seriousness.

"The noble name which I had intended for you, you cannot accept. Do

not feel sad, my young friend, you shall keep your sword and your

lieutenant's commission; with them, and your brave arm, the path to

honour will always be open to you."

The king now dismissed him, and the young man left the tent with mixed

feelings.

CHAPTER III.

LADY REGINA.

In the beginning of October, 1631, it was a dull autumn day, about

three or four weeks after the battle of Breitenfeld, and in one of the

rooms of the tower of the castle of Würzburg the beautiful Regina von

Emmeritz was sitting with several of her attendants; they were all

working on a banner of white silk with the image of the Holy Virgin on

it. It was intended for a standard of victory to stimulate the troops

defending the castle. The young maidens indulged in an animated

conversation, for the terror of the castle, the old, selfish bishop,

had just started off, as he alleged, on a journey through the diocese,

but in reality to escape Gustaf Adolf's approaching warriors.

Trembling for his treasures, he had previously entrusted the defence of

the town and castle to the valiant and trustworthy captain of horse,

Keller, with fifteen hundred men; and this commander, relying upon the

impregnable position of the fortress on the banks of the Main, had

assured his reverence that the heretic king should crush his head

against the walls, before any of his godless host obtained an entrance.

The lovely Regina was scarcely sixteen, and her curls were dark as the

night, cheeks rosy as the dawn, and black eyes shining like two stars

which at midnight mirror themselves in a mountain lake. She was the

pet and idol of the aged bishop; he had therefore unwillingly left her

with his other treasures in the castle, depending, however, upon

Keller's assurance that the thick walls well mounted with heavy guns,

were, in such uncertain times, the best harbour for beauty and gold;

and Keller was a commander of fidelity and honour; with such a precious

trust he would sooner bury himself underneath the ruins of the fortress

than surrender.

Lady Regina raised her brilliant eyes from the embroidery and glanced

through the little turret window over the river, where at that moment a

carriage, escorted by some troopers, was crossing the bridge from the

town to the castle.

"Who is this traveller?" she said, with the concentrated gaze which

rarely fixed itself upon any object except the large and beautiful

marble image of the Madonna in her sanctuary.

"Ah!" exclaimed Ketchen, the youngest and most talkative of the

maidens, "ah, Holy Virgin, how charming it is to live in such times as

these! Every day, new faces, stately cavaliers, brave young knights,

and now and then a little feast in town. It is quite a different thing

from sitting shut up in a cloister, and hearing the monks chant De

Profundis from morn till eve. Yes," continued she saucily, "may his

grace, the bishop, only stay away a good long time!"

"Ketchen," admonished Regina, "take care not to speak ill of the

services and masses of the monks! Remember that our confessor, Father

Hieronymus, is a member of the Holy Inquisition, and that the castle

dungeons are deep and dark."

Ketchen remained silent for a moment. But directly afterwards she

boldly said,

"If I were in your place, lady, I would rather think of the handsome

Count of Lichtenstein, than of that terrible Father Hieronymus. He is

a valiant knight; God grant that he may return victorious from the war

against the heretics!"

"May they all be exterminated by fire and sword!" interjected one of

the girls in a devout manner.

"Poor heretics!" said Ketchen smiling.

"Beware!" repeated Lady Regina, with naïve earnestness. "A heretic

deserves no mercy. Anyone who kills a heretic has pardon for seven

sins; Father Hieronymus has often thus instructed me. To hate the

heretics is the eighth sacrament, and to love a single one of them is

to consign your soul to eternal torment."

Regina's black eyes emitted fire with these words. One could easily

see that the worthy father's teachings had taken deep root in her soul.

Still Ketchen did not refrain.

"It is said that their king is good and noble, and that he shelters all

the weak, and does not allow his soldiers to plunder and outrage their

enemies."

"Satan often assumes the disguise of an angel."

"They also say that his men are brave and humane. I myself heard an

old Italian soldier tell the knights in the armoury how seventy men

belonging to a heretic people called Finns, defended their king for

more than an hour against fifteen hundred Neapolitans. And when most

of these Finns had fallen, the rest were succoured and finally

triumphed; afterwards they bound up the wounds of their enemies as well

as their own."

Lady Regina rose, and was about to return a quick answer to this

unpalatable speech, but at that moment a servant appeared at the door,

and announced that the Count of Lichtenstein, sick and wounded, had

arrived at the castle, and craved shelter. The young lady, who, as the

niece of the old bishop, took the part of hostess of the castle in his

absence, immediately hastened down to welcome the new arrival, who was

a distant relative of the family.

The maidens now exchanged significant glances, as if they considered

this event especially opportune. It had long been gossiped amongst

them that the old bishop had chosen the count as the future husband of

the young lady. But in vain had they endeavoured to discover any signs

of emotion on the part of their young mistress at the intelligence of

his arrival. If Lady Regina entertained any tender passion, she well

knew how to conceal it.

"Is it true," asked one of the girls, "that the king of the heretics

has won a great victory over the soldiers of the true faith, and is now

approaching this castle with his godless army?"

"So it is said," answered another. "But he is unable to come here.

Our people have erected the image of the Swedish saint, Brigitta, in

his path, in Thüringer forest, and she will stop his progress."

In the meanwhile, Lady Regina had ordered one of the bishop's own

apartments to be put in order for the guest, and provided in every way

for his comfort. The young Count of Lichtenstein was a proud and

stately youth, dark as a Spaniard, and with eyes almost as bright as

Regina's. He approached the beautiful hostess with faltering steps,

and with an ardent glance, before which Regina cast down her eyes.

"How grateful I should be to heaven," he said, "for these wounds, which

have procured me the happiness of having such a beautiful hostess!"

The count's wounds were numerous, but not dangerous. Taken captive at

Breitenfeld, he had shortly afterwards, still weak from his wounds,

been exchanged, and immediately hastened here, to regain health and

strength in the neighbourhood of his heart's mistress.

"But," he added, "I heard with great alarm that the enemy, seeking whom

they may devour, were on their march hither to the rich vales of

Franconia. Then I hurried, quickly as I could, to share with you,

beautiful Regina, all these dangers and terrors. Be calm! Königshofen

will make a stand against them, and Father Hieronymus, who, also

wounded, escaped from the disastrous field of Breitenfeld, is busy

inciting the country people to resistance all along the enemy's advance.

"And so you think," anxiously asked Regina, "that these terrible

heretics will venture as far as this place?"

"The protection of the saints will be with beauty and faith," answered

the count evasively. "Besides, we shall soon receive more reliable

news."

As he spoke, Regina looked out of the window, and perceived a troop of

horsemen, who were hurrying at full speed towards the fortress.

"I cannot be mistaken," she exclaimed; "it is Father Hieronymus himself

who returns here."

"A bad omen," muttered the count between his teeth.

Lady Regina was right; it was Father Hieronymus who at that moment rode

over the drawbridge. In appearance, the father was a little

insignificant man, thin and pallid, with sharp features, and deeply

sunk, hollow eyes, whose quick glance fled inquiringly from one object

to another. He still wore the long sword suspended from the rope round

his waist. But the bald spot no longer shone on the crown of his head;

wounded at that place, he wore over it a sort of skull-cap or calotte

of leather, the black colour of which made a ghastly contrast with his

cadaverous-looking face. Never had the dreaded Jesuit showed himself

in so forbidding a form. The men-at-arms stood at attention, and all

the servants in the castle hastened to receive his commands. A secret

anxiety took possession of all the bystanders. It looked as if terror

and death had ridden in his train through the gates of Würzburg Castle.

The monk hastily surveyed the garrison drawn up in the courtyard, and

then greeted Lady Regina with a smile, which was probably intended to

make him look more agreeable, but which had exactly the opposite effect.

"St. Petrus and all the saints protect you, gracious lady! The times

are very awful, very bad. The Holy Virgin has allowed the vile

heretics to penetrate to our very gates--on account of our sins!" he

added, crossing himself devoutly.

"And Königshofen?" inquired Count Fritz, who anticipated the answer.

"The treacherous commander has capitulated."

"But did not the peasants oppose the enemy's march through the forest?"

"All scattered like chaff--on account of our sins."

"And the holy Brigitta's image?"

"The vile heretics have placed it as a scarecrow in a wheat-field.

But," continued the Jesuit, his voice acquiring suddenly a commanding

tone, "what is this I see, my daughter? Why are you still here, and

the castle filled with women and children, while the enemy may arrive

at any moment at your gates?"

"Lady Regina shall never need a protector as long as I am alive,"

exclaimed Count Fritz.

"The castle is provisioned for a whole year," said Regina timidly.

"But, worthy father, you are fatigued, you are wounded, and need rest.

Allow me to dress your wounds; you are hurt in the head."

"It is nothing, my daughter. Do not think of me. You must fly

instantly to the impregnable fortress of Aschaffenburg."

"Ha! I fear it is too late," exclaimed Count Fritz, who was looking

out upon the river and town.

"Holy Virgin, are they already here?"

The Jesuit and Lady Regina rushed to the window. The afternoon sun was

shedding its rays over Würzburg and the surrounding country. Horsemen

could be seen riding at full gallop through the streets, and a whole

host of panic-stricken people were rapidly moving towards the

castle--monks and nuns, women and children, dragging after them a

number of hand-carts containing the best of their household effects.

Beyond the town, in the direction of Schweinfurter, on the east bank of

the river, appeared a troop of cavalry, from whose threatening but

cautious advance one could easily recognise the vanguard of the Swedish

army.

"Accursed devils!" burst out the Jesuit, with an indescribable

expression of hatred on his pallid face. "These heretics can fly. May

the earth open and devour them!" And he ran out with frantic zeal to

place himself at the head of the garrison.

The bishop's castle, also called Marienburg, raises its old walls high

above the right bank of the Main. On the river side of the town the

rock is high and precipitous, but on the other side sloping and easily

ascended. A rampart in the shape of a half moon formed a formidable

outwork before the gates; and if the enemy surmounted this obstacle, a

deep moat, cut in the solid rock, awaited him on the other side; and

even if he crossed this successfully, the inner and higher castle wall

blocked his way, lined with steel-clad defenders, prepared to receive

him with a devastating fire, and crush him with the large stones

collected on the walls. The only passage over the river was a narrow

bridge, and the forty-eight guns of the fortress commanded and swept

the whole town and neighbourhood. From this it will be seen that

Keller at the head of 1,500 valiant troops, and well provided with all

necessaries, had good reason in bidding the departing bishop to be of

good heart.

But Gustaf Adolf had an overwhelming reason for becoming master of this

castle, cost what it would. Tilly had now drawn to himself large

reinforcements, and stood, a few weeks after the battle of Breitenfeld,

fully equipped and eager for revenge, with 30,000 men on the march from

Hessen, to assist Würzburg.

The king summoned the town, and forced his way into the suburbs, but it

was already late in the day, and the attack had to be postponed. The

next morning the town surrendered. But Keller had profited by the

darkness of the night to transfer his whole force, a large number of

fugitives, and the portable property of the town, to the castle, after

which he blew up two arches of the bridge, and thus blockaded the

enemy's way.

But to return to the fortress.

That night none but the little children could sleep in the bishop's

castle. Crowds of soldiers, monks, and women, were constantly

arriving; one baggage-wagon after the other rattled in through the

castle gates; the vaults echoed with the cries of the watch, the orders

of the officers, and the children's crying, and above all this noise

and confusion one could plainly hear the masses of the monks, who were

invoking in the chapel the protection of the Holy Virgin and all the

saints, on behalf of the threatened fortress, the strongest castle of

the Catholics in all Franconia.

In order to provide for this human host, Lady Regina had not only

opened the bishop's private rooms, but also the two spacious

drawing-rooms set aside for her own use in the interior of the castle,

and with her maids moved up to the small chambers in the east turret.

In vain it was represented to her that this point was exposed to the

fire of the enemy. She here had the best and most extensive prospect

in the whole fortress, and was not willing to forego it. "Do not

interfere with me," she said to the cautious Jesuit; "I wish to see the

heretics mown down by our guns. It will be a fine spectacle."

"Amen," answered Father Hieronymus. "You remember, my daughter, that

this castle is protected by two miraculous images of the Virgin, one of

pure gold, the other of gilded wood. I will hang up the latter in your

apartment; it will avert the enemy's shot like so many puff-balls from

your turret."

At daybreak, Lady Regina was on the look-out at her little turret

window. It was a glorious sight, when the sun rose over the autumn

hills with their still verdant vineyards, through which the River Main

wound like a glittering serpent of gold and silver in the morning

light. In the town all was activity; four Swedish regiments marched in

with flags flying and drums beating, their armour shining in the bright

sunlight, and the plumes of their officers waving in the wind. At this

sight, fear and curiosity came into conflict in the minds of the

maidens.

"Do you see," said Lady Regina to Ketchen, "the two cavaliers in their

yellow waistcoats, who ride at the head of the heretics?"

"How handsome they are! Now they turn round the street corner--there

they are again. Just see how everyone makes way for them!"

"Send for Count Fritz. He was in the Swedish camp for more than a

fortnight, and knows their leaders."

The count, who was prevented by his wounds from taking part in the

defence of the castle, immediately obeyed the Lady Regina's summons.

In the meantime the Swedes had taken full possession of the town, and

began to show themselves in scattered groups on the river banks. At

that moment the castle guns opened fire, and here and there a ball fell

among the Swedes, who immediately sought shelter behind the houses by

the river.

"Holy Mary, a man was struck over there and does not move again!" cried

Ketchen, who could not conceal her sympathy.

"St. Francis be praised, there is one heretic less in the world!"

rejoined old Dorthe, Lady Regina's duenna, who had been appointed by

Father Hieronymus to guard all her steps.

"But it is terrible to shoot a man."

Count Fritz smiled.

"Fräulein Ketchen, you should have been on the field of Breitenfeld.

Nine thousand corpses!"

"It is horrible!"

"Count, can you inform me who those horsemen are, who, in spite of the

storm of cannon-shot, keep on the river bank and seem to be closely

examining the defences of our castle?"

"Pardon me, charming cousin, the smoke blocks my sight. Those

cavaliers--upon my honour, it is the king himself, and Count Pehr

Brahe. I would not be in their shoes if Father Hieronymus sees them.

He would undoubtedly bring all the guns of the fortress to bear upon

them."

At these words old Dorthe crept silently from the room.

"My cousin, why do you thus regard the heretic leader?"

"Beautiful Regina, why do your eyes flash fire at the thought. You

are, yourself, so generous and noble, can you not understand my

sympathy for a brave and chivalrous foe? The king of Sweden is a hero,

well worthy of our supreme admiration, as well as of our great enmity."

"I fail to comprehend you. A heretic!"

"God preserve you from some day seeing him within these walls; you will

then understand me much better. Ha! they are now preparing to assault

the bridge; they are throwing planks over the destroyed arches. By

Heaven, that is courageous!"

"Now, four fell at once!" exclaimed the excited Ketchen.

"I know them well," said Count Fritz, growing more and more agitated by

the sounds of the battle and the loud thunder of the cannonade, which

made the fortress walls shake. "They are the Scots. There are no

finer soldiers in the whole Swedish army; the Scots and Finns are

always in the front of the battle."

"Ah! see there, my cousin, the Scots recoil; they dare not try to leap

the abyss. That truly requires superhuman courage. Twenty-four feet

underneath the planks rushes the flood."

"Two young officers dash out on the planks."

"They are the youthful brothers Ramsay. I recognise them by their blue

scarves. They love the same lady, and both sport her colours, without

loving each other any the less."

"Oh God, guard them! Ah, Holy Virgin, this is fearful!" and Ketchen

hid her face in her apron.

Before the brave and intrepid Scots could reach the centre of the

planks, they lost their balance, reeled, and then fell headlong into

the river. For a short time they struggled with the flood, but wounded

by bullets from the castle, their strength soon failed them, and their

heavy armour made them sink in the waters; another moment, and these

gallant youths sank to rise no more.

"You rejoiced at war not long ago," said Lady Regina to Ketchen,

assuming a calmness which she did not feel in her agitated heart.

"Oh, yes, at the handsome young knights; the feasts and music, but not

at this!" exclaimed the crying Ketchen.

"The Scots retreat!" exclaimed another of the girls.

"Yes," replied the reflecting count, "but the Swedes have begun to

cross the river in boats."

"The Scots are returning to the attack."

"Just as I imagined," said the count calmly.

"God preserve us! they have succeeded; they are now on this side. Our

troops attack them."

"Lady Regina, do not expose yourself so much at the window. The Swedes

may aim their cannon at the turret."

"Count, do you fear?" Regina smiled as she said this.

Lichtenstein coloured up.

"I have satisfied myself that I have courage enough," he answered.

"Hearken, and you will every now and then distinguish a peculiar

whizzing, and a rattling like the fall of stones; you do not know what

this is. I will tell you. These are cannon-shot, Lady Regina; you

would know this better if the noise outside was not so deafening. For

some time the balls have been shattering the walls of the turret, and

almost always at the same place. Fair cousin, these are no

sugar-plums. The Swedes must have been taught to shoot by the Wild

Huntsman."

"Do you really think----"

"That the enemy intend to destroy this turret, and will fill the castle

moat with the debris? Yes, cousin, and I believe they will do it very

soon. You are in danger here, every moment, and must go somewhere

else."

"Immediately, good count, at once! Come, lady!" cried Ketchen, trying

with friendly violence to take her young mistress away with her. But

Regina was in an exalted mood. In the habit of ruling, and perhaps

from the defiant nature of her character, full of strange contrasts,

joined to the burning fanaticism which the Jesuit had implanted in her

mind from childhood ... she stepped backwards, grasped the gilded image

of the Virgin, which Father Hieronymus had sent to guard her, and

placed it in front of herself on the window-sill.

"Go," she exclaimed; "you are weak in the faith; you doubt the

protection of the holy saints. I shall remain, and the efforts of the

heretics will avail nothing against----"

Lady Regina's speech was not finished, when a ball struck the turret at

an oblique angle, knocking away a piece of the facing. A shower of

stone fragments hurtled through the window, demolishing the image of

the Holy Virgin, and enveloping Lady Regina in dust and dirt.

"You must away! Now you see for yourself!" cried the count.

"Let us go!" exclaimed all the girls nearly paralyzed with fear.

But Regina, nearly overwhelmed for a moment, recovered her

self-confidence, and stooped down to pick up the image, saying with

faith,

"They cannot triumph over the Holy Mother."

She was deceived. The wooden virgin had broken into several fragments.

A sceptical smile played around the count's lips, and he now led

without any opposition his terror-stricken relative from the turret.

While this was happening, Keller, with the quickness and perception of

a thorough soldier, had made every arrangement for a vigorous defence.

He was unable to stop the Swedes from crossing the river, but the

nearer they came, the more destructive was the fire of his artillery.

The enemy's ranks were decimated by his shot; and the whole day they

could do nothing.

Father Hieronymus and his monks ran around the walls, deluging the guns

with holy water, and making the sign of the cross over every touch-hole.

Old Dorthe had whispered in his ear, and the Jesuit's gaze was directed

towards the place where someone had just seen the Swedish king and his

companion. The worthy priest now wished to aim, himself, one of the

heavy guns towards the spot; but before firing he fell on his knees and

repeated four _pater nosters_ and _ave Marias_. Then followed the

shot; but in vain did the anxious Jesuit look for the effect. Unhurt,

as before, the forms of the two horsemen were seen through the

vanishing smoke. The monk now thought that four _paters_ and four

_aves_ were too little, and accordingly repeated eight of each sort,

and then fired again. Disgusting! The balls would not touch the

selected objects. Providence had not yet rung the death-knell of

Gustaf Adolf, and Pehr Brahe it wished to spare for the sake of

Finland. Who can estimate what would have succeeded Sweden's

victories, and Finland's learning, if the Jesuit's shots had reached

their mark?

Father Hieronymus fumed. Once more he resolved to try with twelve

_paters_ and twelve _aves_, when someone touched him on the back; he

turned round and saw an old soldier, who had been exchanged with Count

Lichtenstein.

"Cease your efforts," said the veteran in a firm tone, "it is a

needless waste of powder; you are trying to kill a man with a charmed

life; he is invulnerable."

The superstitious Jesuit muttered something with a low breath.

"I should have divined as much. But how do you know this, my son?" he

added.

"I was told of it in the Swedish camp. On the forefinger of his right

hand the king wears a little copper ring, inscribed all over with

magical signs. This was given to him in his youth by a Finnish witch,

and as long as he wears this ring, neither fire, water, iron, or lead

can injure him."

"Nothing affects him, you believe? Oh, _maledicti Fennones_, why do

you follow me everywhere?"

"No iron or lead," whispered the veteran, "but I can tell you of

something else."

"Say on, my son; you are absolved beforehand."

"But, good father, it is a sinful method."

"All means are justified for the benefit of our Holy Faith. Speak, my

son."

"Gold from a holy image."

"Never, my son, no; we dare not do that. Had it been a dagger of

glass, or an occult poison, it would do; but gold from a saint's image,

no, my son, let us forget the unholy idea."

Meanwhile the cloak of night had descended, and death's work for the

time was finished. The worn-out soldiers refreshed themselves with

food and drink, and Keller passed around some fine liquors to sustain

their courage.

Lady Regina had moved down to one of the inner apartments; Count Fritz

had gone to bed. Soon all was silent, except the call of the

sentinels, the songs of drunken soldiers, and the murmur of the feast

which Keller gave to his officers in the armoury. But in the fine

chapel, where stood the pure golden statues of Christ and the Virgin

Mary, the midnight mass was over, and all the monks except one had gone

to rest, or--the wine-cup. This lonely figure was still kneeling

before the altar, and the perpetually burning lamp shed its dim rays

over the praying pallid Jesuit.

"Holy Virgin," prayed he, "forgive thy humble servant for daring to

take from thee a small piece of thy golden robe. Thou knowest, oh

sanctissima, that it is for a holy and sacred end, in order to kill the

sworn enemy of the holy church, the heretic king, whom the heathen

Finns with their devilish arts have rendered invulnerable to the steel

and lead of the true believers. Grant that the gold, which I, in thy

honour, take from thy glorious mantle, may pierce the wicked heart of

the godless king, and I promise thee, holy mother, to replace what thou

hast lost by a costly robe of velvet and pearls. Three gilded candles

will I cause to burn also, night and day, before thy image. Amen."

When Father Hieronymus had finished his devotions, he looked up, and it

appeared to him as if the image in the light of the eternal lamp smiled

its approval to the fanatical petition.

CHAPTER IV.

LADY REGINA'S OATH.

The next day was one of hot and furious battle. The Swedes bombarded

the castle with a heavy fire, and drew near to the walls under the

cover of earthworks. The Imperial troops fought well. Time was

precious for both sides; in a few days Tilly would be in the rear of

Gustaf Adolf; a possible thunder-bolt to the Swedes; a certain relief

for the garrison.

Lady Regina and her attendants were now shut up in the inner rooms, and

could no longer view the extraordinary spectacle of the siege. But

there was much to do within. Large numbers of wounded had to be

nursed; the young lady moved like a spirit of light from couch to couch

in the armoury, where the wounded had been placed; her healing hands

poured balm on their wounds; her compassionate voice poured consolation

into their hearts. She spoke of the Holy Faith for which they

suffered; promised honours and rewards to those who recovered, and

eternal salvation to the dying.

The heavy artillery thunder made the walls tremble. Lady Regina

suddenly remembered that she had left her rosary up in the little

turret, and it was now needed for the prayers of the dying. She had

already reached the threshold of the armoury, when a terrific crash

shook the castle to its very base. Pale with fear, she hesitated, and

at the same moment the Count of Lichtenstein rushed in.

"What has happened?" exclaimed the young lady.

"Thank the saints, my fair cousin, that you took my advice yesterday.

The turret has fallen."

"Then we are lost."

"Not yet. The Swedes thought it would fall into the moat, but it has

fallen inside. The enemy will soon try an assault. Come to this

window which overlooks the walls. Can you see? Father Hieronymus is

on his knees by the large gun. I will wager that he sees the Swedish

king."

The count was right. The Jesuit's keen glance was fixed on one spot,

and his lips hastily muttered prayer after prayer. He had discovered

Gustaf Adolf on horseback with Pehr Brahe. The two kept near the

outworks, sheltered somewhat by a heap of debris. Father Hieronymus

relied upon the heavy shot, into which, with prayers and fasting, he

had run the gold from the Holy Mother's mantle. He stooped to direct

the cannon, and the pupils of his eyes contracted, his nostrils

expanded, while Latin prayers continued to flow from his lips. Then he

rose quickly, and after swinging the lighted match in the form of a

cross, fired.

The gun belched forth flame and smoke. Oh, hate and fury! When the

smoke cleared off, the two horsemen still rode unharmed side by side.

But this time Gustaf Adolf had a narrow escape, for the ball had struck

the debris, and covered both with dust.

Tired, weary, and quite exasperated, the Jesuit left the ramparts.

"Wait, ruler of Belial, until I succeed in taking your ring from you,

and then you shalt be destroyed!"

The king now commanded an assault on the outworks. Axel Lilje, Jacob

Ramsay, and Hamilton, pressed on with their men. Frightful

difficulties were here encountered. They were obliged to climb up the

steep rocks under a heavy fire, and then cross the moat and scale the

walls. The irresistible Scots and Finns led the way. Those who fell

were immediately replaced by others, with their swords between their

teeth. The king himself rode as near as possible in order to encourage

his troops. A bullet tore away a piece of his glove, without wounding

him. It was now a common belief that Gustaf Adolf was invulnerable.

At last, after two hours desperate conflict, the Scots and the Finns

triumphed. The outworks were captured, and the defenders driven back

into the castle. It was then four in the afternoon.

A few hours rest ensued. At a council of war it was resolved to storm

the castle at daybreak, and the Finns were to lead the forlorn hope.

The position of the garrison was far from hopeless. They could still

concentrate 1,000 men at any threatened point. But they had lost their

moral courage. In vain did Keller try to restore their spirits; in

vain did the monks carry the golden image of the Virgin around the

ramparts. At nightfall disorder reigned; the troops refused to obey

orders, and some wished to escape in the darkness.

At midnight, Lady Regina was praying before the altar in the chapel to

the mother of God.

"Holy Mary," she whispered, "guard this castle against the heretics.

But if it be thy will that the fortress shall fall, then also bury in

its ruins all thy enemies: the godless king, and his heathen Finns who

have fought the most to-day against thy Holy Cause."

"Amen!" said the voice of Father Hieronymus behind her. A dark smile

played over his pale countenance.

"Do you realise what you are asking for, my daughter?"

"Victory for the Catholic faith. Death to the heretics."

"The youthful mind is subject to change. Have you sufficient devotion

to hate the enemies of the faith, even if ever, as a woman, you felt

tempted to love one of them?"

"I have, my father; yes, I declare it!"

"You are my penitent, and I would save your soul from eternal

damnation. Have you courage to sacrifice yourself for the holy faith,

and thereby secure the eternal crown of a martyr?"

"Yes, my father!"

"Very well; then know that the fortress will be taken in a short time.

You will be a prisoner; you are young and beautiful, and may easily win

the king's favour. When you can approach his person, and the Holy

Virgin grants an opportunity, you must----"

The Jesuit now took out a crucifix of silver, and when he pressed a

spring in the breast of the image, a keen dagger flew out.

"Grace, my father; this task is terrible.

"No respite. The Holy Church demands a blind obedience. _Perinde ac

cadaver_. As a corpse which has no will of its own. Do you love the

Holy Virgin?"

"You know that I do."

"Look at her golden robe. She has lost a part of it during the night.

It is a bad omen, and indicates her anger. Do you love me also, my

daughter?"

"I revere you more than anyone else, my father."

"Then look at this mutilated head."

The Jesuit removed his black leather cap, and exposed the horrible

stumps of two severed ears.

"Thus have the blasphemous king's Finns treated your confessor and

friend. Do you still hesitate to avenge the mother of God and myself?"

"What must I do, my father?"

"Listen! The heretic king wears on his right forefinger a ring of

copper; this is a talisman against death and injury. You must gain

possession of this ring by some artifice, and then if your arm is too

weak to deal the blow, call upon me. We will reach his heart, even if

it was guarded by a dragon's scales."

"If it is the will of the saints ... so be it."

"Place two fingers on this crucifix, and repeat this oath. I swear by

this cross, and by all the saints, to accomplish what I now vow before

the image of the Holy Virgin. If I ever break this oath, may a curse

rest upon me and my posterity to the seventh generation.

"Thy will be done on earth, as it is done in Heaven. Amen!"

Lady Regina faithfully repeated these words after the monk.

The night's silence sealed this terrible oath, which, with iron

fetters, chained the coming generations to the hesitating decision of a

girl of sixteen.

While this passed, the troops of stormers assembled in the outworks. A

number of volunteers had obtained permission to join them. All relied

upon victory.

Among the volunteers appeared Lieutenant Bertel.

"Thunder and lightning! is that you, Bertel?" exclaimed Lieutenant

Larsson.

"As you see," said the youth, shaking his hand cordially.

"Well, I declare, the good boy wishes to sport his new commission.

There's not a single drop left in my flask. But say, why have you

changed your name, Bertel? What sort of a mixture is it? neither

Swedish or Finnish."

"It was done at Breitenfeld," said Bertel, slightly blushing. "The

comrades have long called me so, and--it is shorter."

"Well, I hope you are not too proud to bear a peasant's name, now you

are an officer?"

"Have the lots already been drawn?" said Bertel.

"No. You are just in time to try your luck."

As all the younger officers desired the honour of leading the forlorn

hope, the difficulty was settled by drawing lots. After these were

shaken up in a helmet, Bertel was the successful competitor.

"Look out for yourself, my boy!" cried little Larsson. "Thunder and

lightning, remember that the castle is full of Jesuits. Trap-doors

everywhere, a dagger in every crucifix, and at the moment of victory

the castle will be blown up."

It was half an hour to the dawn. Bertel with seven men was ordered to

closely reconnoitre the fortress. The rest of the troops were held in

readiness.

The night was pitch dark. Bertel's men approached the drawbridge

without being challenged: To their complete astonishment they found it

down.*

* Some authors say that the drawbridge could not be drawn up on account

of the weight of the many dead who were left there after the strife.

Bertel stopped for an instant, remembering Larsson's warnings. Was

this a trap? All was silent. Then Bertel and his men stepped softly

over the bridge.

"Who goes there?" thundered a German sentinel through the darkness.

"Swede!" cried Bertel, cleaving his head. "Comrades, the castle is

ours!"

And the seven pushed on resolutely after him.

Inside the drawbridge stood two hundred Imperialists on guard. These

became panic-stricken and thought the whole Swedish army was upon them.

They tried to regain the sally-port, but the bold lieutenant and his

seven men opposed them. The darkness in the arched gateway was

impenetrable; friend could not be distinguished from foe. The press

soon became so great that no sword could be used, and the rash

assailants were in danger of being crushed to death by the rushing host

of mailed warriors.

But those in the outworks had heard Bertel's cry, and the whole Swedish

force now rushed against the castle; the rest of the garrison seized

their weapons and hastened to defend the entrance. But the Finns had

obtained a footing, and in a short time stood inside the castle yard.

Keller and his men fought desperately, and many Swedes and Finns fell

here, at the very moment of victory. Their fall excited their

countrymen to revenge. They began to cry, "Magdeburger pardon," and

this shout meant death without quarter to all the Imperialists. The

carnage became awful. Many monks threw themselves into the mêlée, some

with torches, some sword in hand. Most were cut down, others cast

themselves on the ground feigning death. Day had broken over the

sanguinary scene.

Then Lennart Torstensson started forward, seized the madly struggling

Keller round the waist, and took him prisoner. The remainder of the

Imperialists laid down their arms, and all was over.

CHAPTER V.

JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES.

When the first rays of the sun glittered in the waves of the River

Main, the castle of Marienburg was in the hands of the Swedes. The

king rode up to the courtyard, which was covered with killed and

wounded enemies, and amongst these were more than a score of monks.

Some of these appeared to the king to be shamming death.

"Stand up," he said to them, "and no evil shall befall you."

Immediately many of those who were pretending to be dead stood on their

feet sound and well, and bowed low, full of joy and gratitude to the

king.

The castle had been taken by storm, and the soldiers were allowed to

plunder. The quantity of silver, and gold, and weapons, and other

valuable things was enormous. The king reserved the armoury, with its

complete equipments for 7,000 infantry and 4,000 cavalry, 48 guns and 4

mortars, the stables with fine and valuable horses, and the wine cellar

filled with the very best wines. The library was sent to Upsala, and

donated to the university. The sacred statues of gold and silver found

their way to the Treasury. Although many of the inhabitants of the

town were allowed to take away their property, the booty was so great

that when the soldiers divided it, the money was measured in helmets.

At last Keller had to lead the way to the concealed treasure vault.

This was deep down in the rock underneath the cellar of the castle;

here the bishop kept his treasures. Fryxell relates, that when the

soldiers carried up the heavy chests, the bottom fell out of one of

them, and the gold rolled over the courtyard. The soldiers hurried to

pick it up. Some they gave to the king, but most of it went into their

own pockets. Gustaf Adolf saw this, and said, laughing, "Never mind,

boys; now that it has once come into your hands, you may as well keep

it." The spoil was so great that after that day there was scarcely a

soldier in the whole army who did not have a new suit of clothes. In

the camp a cow was sold for a riks thaler, a sheep for a few stivers,

and the learned Salvius writes, "Our Finnish boys, who are now

accustomed to the winelands down here, are not likely to wish to return

to Savolax. In the Livonian war they often had to put up with water

and mouldy bread, now the Finns can concoct a beverage in their helmets

with wine and spices."

Amongst the prisoners was the Count of Lichtenstein and Lady Regina.

The king ordered that they should both be treated with the greatest

respect. He offered the young lady a safe conduct to go to the bishop,

her uncle. Lady Regina rejected this on account of the insecurity of

the times, and asked as a favour to be allowed to remain under the

king's protection for the present. Gustaf Adolf agreed to this.

"I do this unwillingly," said the king, smiling, to the Margrave of

Baden Durlach, who was riding by his side. "Young ladies are a luxury

in the camp, and they turn the heads of my attendants; but she may come

with me to Frankfurt, as a hostage; it will bind the hands of the

bishop."

"Your Majesty knows how to attract everybody through your generosity,"

replied the Margrave with the politeness of a courtier.

"Lieutenant Bertel," said the king, turning to the officer close to

him, who had the command of a troop of Finnish cavalry, "I give Lady

Regina von Emmeritz into your charge. She has my permission to bring

with her an elderly lady, a young girl, and her father confessor. See

to it, that you are not smitten, lieutenant, and above all give close

heed to the monk; that set is not to be relied upon."

Bertel saluted with his sword, and remained silent.

"One thing more," continued the king. "I have not forgotten that you

were the first one who entered the sally-port. When you have brought

the young lady to safety, you must appear on duty in my life-guards.

Have you understood me?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Good." And the king then said to the Margrave with a smile, "Believe

me, it would have been serious to leave this beautiful dark-eyed girl

in the charge of one of my susceptible Swedes. This boy is a Finn;

they are the most phlegmatic people I know of. They are poor gallants;

they need a year to catch fire. A girl can drive twenty of them out of

a ball-room; but if it comes to a battle with Pappenheim, then your

grace knows what they can do."

Gustaf Adolf gained victory after victory in the late autumn. Tilly,

who had come too late to save Würzburg, did not dare to attack him, and

irritated by his bad luck and constant defeats, drew back to the

Bavarian frontier. Gustaf Adolf marched down the Main, entered

Aschaffenburg, and compelled the cautious Frankfurters to open their

gates. On December the 6th the king forced a march over the Rhine near

Oppenheim, and entered Mainz on the 9th, which the Spaniard de Sylva

had so proudly thought that he could defend against three Swedish

kings. The victorious Swedish army was now spread over the north and

west part of Germany, and the conqueror had chosen his winter quarters

in Frankfurt-on-the-Main. A splendid court here assembled around the

hero; it was here that flattery had previously adorned his head with

the crown of the German Empire. It was here that Maria Elenora came

flying on longing wings to embrace her husband; in Henau, where he had

come to meet her, she clasped him in her arms and said,

"At last the great Gustaf Adolf is captured."

One day at the end of December, 1631, the king gave a splendid banquet

in Frankfurt on account of the queen's arrival. Great crowds of people

filled the place outside the castle, the high Gothic windows at night

shone bright as day. Ale and wines flowed constantly from big casks

for the people's entertainment; around the tap-holes workmen and

soldiers jostled each other, holding out tankards and goblets, which

were quickly filled and as suddenly empty again. The good citizens of

Frankfurt were beside themselves with admiration for the great king.

From man to man, the famous tales of his justice and mildness

circulated: now he had ordered a soldier to be hanged because he had

taken with force a burgher's hen; now he had stopped in the streets and

spoken familiarly with those whom he met. They imagined that they saw

his shadow reflected by the small window-panes and wondered whether the

German crown would not be placed upon that mighty head that very

evening.

In the saloon of the castle a royal magnificence prevailed. Gustaf

Adolf knew his consort's weakness for display, and probably wished to

produce an effect on the assembled German nobility. The floor was

covered with rich Flemish carpets, and over the windows were draperies

of crimson velvet with tassels of gold; costly chandeliers, heavy with

a thousand wax-lights, hung from the ceiling, which was adorned with

arabesques.

They had just finished one of those measured and stately Spanish

dances, which were at that time in vogue, and the heavy-footed Northmen

had tried in vain to compete with the German and French aristocracy.

The king had offered his arm to the queen, and they made a promenade

through the magnificent saloons. His tall and corpulent figure, and

simple dignity of manner, which at once inspired reverence and love,

seemed still more majestic by the side of the slender and delicate

queen, who with sincere devotion leaned on his arm. Maria Elenora was

then thirty-two years of age, and had retained a great portion of her

beauty, which had gained her so many admirers in her youth. On her

black hair, which was arranged in small curls about her snow-white

temples, flashed a diadem of fabulous value, which was a recent gift

from the king; her expressive blue eyes rested with indescribable

affection upon her royal spouse; she seemed to forget herself, absorbed

in the admiration which the king excited.

In the wake of the royal couple followed a crowd of all the illustrious

personages of whom Protestant Germany could boast at that time.

One saw here the deposed King Frederick of Bohemia, the Duke of Weimar

and Würtemberg, the Landgrave of Hesse, the Margrave of Baden Durlach,

the Count of Wetterau, as well as other distinguished chevaliers; not

less than twelve ambassadors from foreign courts had assembled here

round the hero feared by all Europe. Of the king's own, Tott, Baner,

and Gustaf Horn were occupied in other directions with affairs of war;

but here at Gustaf Adolf's side, great as himself, even in outer form,

was the gifted Oxenstjerna, and behind him the man with the pale,

unpretending aspect, the calm, penetrating, and commanding look,

Lennart Torstensson, as well as the proud Finn, Wittenberg, then

colonel. Many of the Swedish generals, and almost all the Finns,

Stälhandske, Ruuth, Forbus, and others, did not thrive well amidst the

ceremonial of the royal saloon and amongst this haughty nobility whose

court etiquette appeared to the stern warriors unbearably tedious, and

had therefore withdrawn in good time to one of the smaller saloons,

where pages in gold-embroidered velvet suits profusely poured the

choicest Rhine wines into silver goblets.

Among this brilliant assemblage ought to be included the members of the

common council of the city of Frankfurt, and many of its most prominent

citizens, with their wives and daughters, as well as a large number of

ladies, from the high-born duchess down to the scarcely less proud

councillor's wife. Yes, and one saw here even a small number of

Catholic prelates, easily recognisable by their bald heads; for the

king wished to proclaim religious freedom by word and deed; the

prelates, although in their hearts cursing the paltry _rôle_ they

played here, once invited, did not dare to stay away.

This scene was doubly gorgeous from the splendour of the attire. The

king, however, wore a tight-fitting suit of black velvet stitched with

silver, a Spanish cape of white satin, embroidered by the queen's

hands, short yellow leather top-boots, and the broad lace collar which

one sees in all his portraits, with the short hair and long goatee.

The luxury-loving queen wore a richly jewelled dress of silver brocade

with a short waist and half-bare arms; even the little white satin

slippers glittered with brilliants.

The ladies of the aristocracy and the rich burghers' wives vied with

each other in display; silver and gold fabrics, velvet, satin, and

costly Brabant laces; also ribbons of all sorts of colours, buckles,

rosettes, and long sashes, which, fluttering in the air, gave a

picturesque effect. Princes and knights, some in wide German, others

in close-fitting Spanish costumes, with their plumed hats under their

arms, and attendant pages in silver and velvet, completed this bright

scene in a time when uniforms were unknown. Flattery and admiration

followed the king.

"Sire," said the artful king of Bohemia to him, "your Majesty can only

be compared to Alexander of Macedon."

"My cousin," answered Gustaf Adolf, smiling, "you do not mean to liken

the good city of Frankfurt to Babylon?"

"No, sire," joined in the French ambassador, Breze, who walked by their

side; "his Bohemian Majesty only wishes to liken the Rhine to Granicus,

and hopes that the new Alexander's Hyphasis may lie beyond the

frontiers of Bohemia."

"You must confess, Count Breze," said the king, changing the

conversation, "that our Northern beauties and your French beauties have

been conquered to-day by a German."

"Sire, I am of your opinion, that her Majesty the Queen does not need

the enviable position by your side to be truly victorious," replied the

courteous Frenchman.

"My consort will be grateful for your politeness, minister, but she

resigns to Lady von Emmentz the preference that belongs to youth."

"Your Majesty flatters to a great extent our national German pride,"

said the Duke of Würtemberg bowing.

"Beauty is cosmopolitan, your grace. It was truly a great booty my

soldiers took at Würzburg."

The king then approached Lady Regina. Her radiant beauty was still

more charming through the tight-fitting black velvet dress strewed with

silver stars in which she was robed.

"My lady," he said courteously. "I should be happy if the mourning you

wear covered a heart that could forget all sad memories and only live

in the hope of a brighter future, when war and battles no longer

frighten the colour away from your beautiful cheeks. Believe me, lady,

the time will come, and I am wishing for it with all my heart as much

as you are, and let this hope bring joy to these lips where it always

ought to remain."

"By your Majesty's side one forgets everything," replied Lady Regina,

and rose respectfully from her high crimson-covered chair. But her

cheeks grew still paler while she spoke, which showed that she could

not forget the past and her present captivity.

"Are you not well, lady?"

"Very well, your Majesty."

"Perhaps you have something to complain of? Have confidence in me--as

a friend!"

"Your Majesty is very kind----"

Regina struggled with herself. At last she said, with her eyes on the

floor,

"Your Majesty's goodness leaves nothing to wish for."

"We shall meet again."

The king continued his walk through the saloon.

Lady Regina withdrew to a deep window recess in one of the other rooms

and wept.

"Holy Virgin," she prayed, "forgive me, that my heart does not belong

to you alone. You who can see into my inmost being, you know that I

have not enough strength to hate this heretic king as you demand of me.

He is so great, so noble. Woe unto me, I shudder to think of the holy

charge you have given me!"

"Courage, my daughter," whispered a voice close by, and Lady Regina's

evil spirit, the pale Jesuit, stood behind her.

"The hour is approaching," he said in a low tone. "The godless king

has been taken by your beauty; rejoice, my child. The Holy Virgin has

decided his destruction. This night he shall die."

"Oh, my father, my father, what do you demand of me?"

"Listen to me, my daughter. When Holofernes, the King of Assyria,

besieged Bethulia, there was a widow, Judith, the daughter of Merari,

beautiful as you, my child, devoted as you. She fasted three times,

and then she walked out and gained the favour of the enemy of her faith

and people. The saints gave his life into her hands, she drew his

sword and cut off his head, and delivered her people."

"Mercy, my father!"

"It was counted unto her great honour and ever-lasting salvation, and

her name was mentioned among the greatest in Israel. You will some day

be mentioned like that, my daughter, amongst the saints of the Holy

Catholic Church. Last night the Holy Franciscus was visible by my

bedside. He said, the time has come, go to Judith, tell her that I

will give Holofernes' head into her hands."

"What shall I do, my father?"

"Mark closely how you ought to deport yourself. This very evening you

must request a private audience of the king."

"Impossible!"

"You shall reveal to him a fictitious plot against his life. He will

listen to you. You shall entice the ring from him. Once in possession

of it, I will be ready to assist you. But if he refuses you the ring,

then take this paper, it contains a deadly poison; St. Franciscus has

given it himself to me. You shall mix it in the beverage which the

king drinks at night."

Lady Regina took the paper, and leaned her curly head against the

window-frame, and she hardly seemed to have taken any notice of the

Jesuits terrible injunction. An entirely new thought had seized this

ardent soul, and was working itself to clearness. The Jesuit

misunderstood her; he supposed that her silence proceeded from

submission to his despotism, from fanatic ecstasy over the martyr-crown

he had held up to her.

"Have you understood me, my daughter?" asked he.

"Yes, my father."

"You will, then, this evening, ask the king for a private audience?

You will..."

"Yes, my father."

"Benedicta, ten benedicta, thou thrice-blessed instrument, go to thy

heavenly glory!" And the Jesuit disappeared in the throng.

The large clock in the coronation chamber pointed to midnight. Through

an ingenious mechanism, invented by a Nuremberger, two immense tables,

set with elegant silver service, rolled out from an adjoining room at

the twelfth stroke, and stood at once, as if risen from the floor, in

the centre of the saloon. Upon a given sign from the master of the

ceremonies, the king and queen placed themselves before two crimson

chairs at the middle of the upper table, and all the guests in rows,

according to rank and dignity, around the festive boards. One of the

prelates present said grace in a loud voice, after which the king

himself recited a short psalm, and the rest with practised voices

joined in. They now seated themselves with considerable bustle, and

once arrived so far, they did not allow themselves to be too much

incommoded by ceremony. The courses were both many and savoury.

Richelieu had sent Gustaf Adolf a French cook; but the king, far from

spoiled by good living, only employed the fine Frenchman for ornamental

dishes on occasions like this; perhaps he did not rely fully upon the

cardinal's gift, for it was said that Richelieu's dinners were scarcely

less dangerous than those of the former Borgias. And besides, the

Netherland and German cooking was at that time more praised than the

French. The tables' greatest ornaments at this banquet were a wild

boar roasted whole, decorated with flowers and laurel leaves, and a

piece of pastry, presented by a baker of Frankfurt, and representing

the triumphant march of a Roman Emperor. Everyone believed that they

recognised in this small hero, Gustaf Adolf's features, and many

jesting words were exchanged, when each found a resemblance between the

attending Romans and his neighbour. The queen, whose delicate hand was

destined to break this masterpiece of culinary art, with a smile put

one of the last slaves in the triumphal march on her silver plate; but

Gustaf Adolf, generally endowed with a good appetite, seized the great

pastry hero rather ungently with his warrior hand, and placed a

considerable portion of his person upon his plate.

In the meantime the goblets were filled with the best Rhenish and

Spanish wines, and the king drank the queen's health in a plain simple

manner, and all the other guests followed his example. At the top of

the table stood the royal pages in glittering uniforms, one behind each

chair, and at the lower end one stood behind every other chair. They

refilled the goblets, and the king then drank to Frankfurt's welfare;

immediately afterwards he rose from the table and left the room with

the queen on his arm, and they retired to their own apartments. Gustaf

Adolf always lived as a plain soldier ought to do, and was generally

quick at his meals, but under favourable circumstances would stay an

hour at the table. The king, however, did not ask the others to follow

his example, and left in his place as host a high officer of the court.

This time it was the old Scotchman, Patrick Ruthwen, who was a good

boon companion, and he filled his post with great credit. Oxenstjerna

left the room with the king. The ladies also left the hall, but the

gentlemen remained behind enjoying themselves over their wine and the

nuts which had been handed round on silver dishes; amongst the latter

were artificial ones made of stone, which looked so natural that they

were constantly mistaken for real From this joke came the saying, "it

is a hard nut to crack." The heroes of the Thirty Years' War were

nearly all great topers; to empty at a draught one of the large beakers

of Rhenish wine was a small matter to them. But on this occasion they

had to restrain themselves, because they all knew the high moral

principles of the king, and hence did not dare to turn their goblets

upside down too often. They did not break up until a late hour, and

some of the commanders treated each other to a rare product just

imported from the Low Countries, and it was passed from hand to hand in

small boxes; each man bit off a piece, and some with frightful grimaces

spat it out again, whilst others kept it in their mouths with evident

enjoyment. Doubtless, the reader has already guessed, this was tobacco.

While this feasting was going on in the hall, the queen had gone to

rest with her ladies in waiting, but the king was still talking to Axel

Oxenstjerna. What these two great men were conversing about is easier

to guess than to tell. Perhaps it was about Sweden's poverty, or the

Emperor's power, or the power of God, which is still greater, or the

victory of the Light, or the crown of the Roman kingdom, or a German

Protestant empire in the future. No one knows this for certain; for

after the king's death all his secrets followed Oxenstjerna to the

grave.

It was very late, and Oxenstjerna was about to leave, when Bertel, the

officer on duty, announced that a closely veiled lady requested an

audience of the king. It was a strange favour to ask at this time of

the night, and both Gustaf Adolf and his minister were greatly

surprised; but that there must be an important reason for such a secret

visit was obvious to them both, and the king ordered Bertel to bring

the lady in, and told Oxenstjerna to remain.

Bertel left the room, and returned in a few moments with a tall lady

thickly veiled, and dressed in black. She seemed greatly agitated and

surprised not to find the king alone; she was unable to utter a word.

"Madam," said the king in a somewhat irritable tone--he did not like

such a visit at this late hour; for if it was known it would tend to

excite gossip amongst the courtiers, and perhaps awaken the jealousy of

his sensitive wife--"a visit at this hour of the night must have some

important object in order to justify it. I should first of all like to

know who you are."

The lady was still silent.

The king thought he could guess the cause of her silence, and

continued, pointing to his companion:

"This is minister Oxenstjerna, my friend, and I have no secrets from

him."

The lady dressed in black then threw herself at the king's feet and

drew back her veil. The king retreated several paces when he

recognised Lady Regina von Emmeritz; her dark eyes flashed with an

enthusiastic fire, but her face was as pale as that of a marble statue.

"Stand up, lady," said Gustaf Adolf in a kind tone, and stretched out

his hand to lift her up. "What now leads you to seek an audience with

me? Speak, I beg of you; tell me without fear what troubles you have

in your heart; will you not comply with my wish?"

Lady Regina sighed deeply, and began to speak in a low voice almost

impossible to hear, but she gradually assumed a louder tone, supported

by her enthusiasm.

"Your Majesty, I have come to you because you asked me to come. I come

to you because I have hated you, sire; for a long time I have prayed

daily to the Holy Virgin, that she would destroy you, and your whole

army. Your Majesty, I am only a weak girl, but an honest Catholic; you

have pursued our Church with war, and plundered our convents; driven

away our holy fathers, and melted down our holy golden images; you have

slain our soldiers, and dealt our cause deadly blows that can never be

repaired. Therefore I have taken a Holy Oath to bring about your

destruction, and relying upon the Holy Virgin's help I have followed

your steps from Würzburg in order to kill you."

The king and Oxenstjerna looked at each other as if they doubted the

young girl's sanity. Lady Regina saw this, and continued to speak with

more vehemence than before.

"Sire, you think me mad, because I speak thus to the conqueror of

Germany. But listen to me further. When I saw you for the first time

in the castle of Würzburg, and how kindly and generously you sheltered

the weak, and spared those who had been captured, I then said to

myself, 'This conduct seems to be inspired from Heaven, but

nevertheless it must come from hell.' But when I followed you here,

and saw your greatness as a man combined with your heroic qualities,

sire, I hesitated to carry out my vow, and my hatred became a burden to

me. I struggled with myself, and your kindness to-night has conquered

my resolve. Sire, now I love you as much as I have hated you before.

I admire you, and am devoted to you----"

The beautiful girl let her eyes sink to the floor.

"Well," said the king, hesitating with great emotion.

"Your Majesty, I have made this confession because you are great and

noble enough not to misunderstand me. But I have not come to you at

this late hour only to confess an unhappy girl's feelings. I have come

here to save you, sire."

"Explain yourself."

"Hear me, your Majesty. I am disarmed, but others much more dangerous

remain. Some of our body, men without mercy, have sworn to kill you.

Oh! you do not know what these men are capable of doing. They have

drawn lots in order to decide who shall kill you, and the most

dangerous of them is near you in disguise daily. Your Majesty cannot

escape from them. To-day or to-morrow, perhaps, you may be

assassinated or poisoned. Your death is sure."

"My life is in the hand of God, and not at the mercy of a murderous

fanatic," said Gustaf Adolf in a very calm voice. "The evil have not

as much power as Will. Be assured, Lady von Emmeritz, I do not fear

them."

"No, sire, the saints have decided your death. I know that you rely

upon this ring"--and Regina grasped the king's hand--"but it will not

help you. Sire, I say to you that your death is certain, and I have

not come here to save your life and thus betray the cause of our Holy

Church."

"Then why, lady, did you come here now?"

Lady Regina again threw herself at the king's feet with almost

adoration.

"Sire, I have come to save your soul. I cannot bear to think that a

hero like yourself, so noble, so great, should be lost for ever. Hear

me, I beg, I implore you by your eternal salvation, with certain death

staring you in the face, do not continue in your heretical faith, whose

fruit is eternal damnation. I pray you, abjure these evil doctrines

while there is still time, and come back to the only way of redemption,

the Holy Catholic Church; give up your faith and go to the Holy Father

in Rome; confess your sins to him, and use your victorious sword in the

service of the true Church, instead of using it for her destruction.

She will receive you with open arms, and whether your Majesty lives or

dies, your Majesty can always depend upon being placed among the chosen

saints in Heaven."

The king for the second time raised the young girl from the ground, and

looked straight into her burning eyes, and said in an impressive voice:

"When I was as young as you are, Lady von Emmeritz, my teacher, old

Skytte, brought me up with the same enthusiastic devotion to the

Protestant faith that you have for the Catholic. At that time I hated

the Pope with all my soul, as you now hate Luther, and I prayed to God

that the time might come when I could destroy Antichrist and convert

all those that believed in him to the true light. Since then I have

not altered my principles, but I have learned through experience that

the paths are many, although the goal is One. I stand steadily by my

faith, and am prepared to die for it, if God so decides. But I respect

the faith of a Christian, even if it is quite different from my own,

and I know that God's mercy can bring a soul to salvation, even if its

way is obscured by dark mists and illusions. Go, Lady von Emmeritz, I

forgive you; although deluded by the fanatical teachings of the monks,

you have tried to draw me from the battle for the Light. Go, poor

child, and let the Word of God, and the lessons of Life, teach you not

to rely upon saints, who are no better than we are, or images, or

rings, as they cannot alter the highest law. I thank you because your

intentions are good, although you are inexperienced. Be without fear

for my life, which is in the hand of Him who knows how to use it."

King Gustaf Adolf was truly great when he spoke these words.

Lady Regina stood there, at the same time crushed and uplifted by the

king's magnanimous spirit. Perhaps she remembered his answer to the

burghers of Frankfurt, when they asked him to be allowed to remain

neutral; "neutrality is a word which I cannot bear to hear, least of

all amidst the battle between light and darkness, betwixt liberty and

slavery." Brought up to hate the Protestant faith, she could not

understand how it was possible for the sword which had destroyed the

worldly power of the church to be laid aside in the presence of its

spiritual power over the hearts and minds of men.

The fanatical young girl raised her tear-stained eyes towards the king.

Her cheeks turned pale, on which had before burned the fire of

enthusiasm, and her eyes were fixed with terror on the scarlet-coloured

hangings which surrounded the king's bed.

Oxenstjerna, who was more suspicious than Gustaf Adolf, had closely

watched the young lady the whole time, and at once noticed her

agitation.

"Your Majesty," said he in Swedish to the king, "be on your guard,

there are owls in the marshes."

Then without waiting for an answer he drew his sword and walked

steadily towards the magnificent bed, which was a gift from the

burghers of Frankfurt; the royal hero had exchanged the eider-down

pillows for a simple mattress, and a coarse blanket of Saxon wool, the

same as his soldiers used in their winter camps.

"Stop!" cried Regina with evident reluctance. But it was too late.

Oxenstjerna had with a sudden movement pulled back the hangings, and

revealed a pale face with dark burning eyes, surmounted by a black

leather skull-cap. The hangings were still further drawn back, and the

whole features of the monk became visible; his hands were clasped round

a crucifix of silver.

"Step forward, devoted father," said Oxenstjerna in a satirical tone.

"A man of your merits should not remain in concealment. Your reverence

has chosen a peculiar place for your evening devotions. With his

Majesty's permission I will furnish you with a larger audience."

At the sound of the bell, Lieutenant Bertel with two men from the

life-guards entered, and placed themselves on both sides of the exit

with their long halberts.

The king looked at Lady Regina, but more sadness than anger was to be

seen in his eyes. It pained him that so young and beautiful a girl

could take part in such a detestable plot.

"Mercy, your Majesty! mercy for my father confessor! He is innocent!"

cried the unhappy girl.

"Will your Majesty allow me to ask a few questions in your place?" said

Oxenstjerna.

"Do as you think best, minister," said the king.

"Very well. What did your reverence come here for?"

"To bring back a great sinner to the true fold," said the monk

hypocritically, with his eyes turned upwards.

"Really, one must say that you are very zealous. And for such a holy

purpose you carry with you the image of the crucified Saviour?"

The monk bowed whilst devoutly making the sign of the cross.

"Your reverence is very humble. Give me the crucifix, that I may

admire this work of art."

The monk unwillingly handed it to him.

"A beautiful object. It required a clever artist to design this holy

image."

The minister passed his hands over all parts of the crucifix. At last,

when he touched the breast of the image, a sharp dagger sprang forth.

"See, your reverence carries a very innocent-looking toy. A keen

dagger, just suitable to thrust through a noble king's heart!

Miserable monk," said Oxenstjerna in a terrible voice, "do you know

that your horrible crime becomes a hundred times more detestable

through the blasphemous method you wish to employ?"

Like all the kings of the Vasa line, Gustaf Adolf had a hasty temper in

his youth, which more than once brought him into trouble. But the

experience of manhood had cooled his blood; still one could sometimes

see the quick Vasa disposition get beyond control. This now happened.

He was quite great enough, however, to look calmly upon this

treacherous attempt against his life, although the preservation of

Germany depended upon it, and he looked down with great disgust upon

the discovered traitor, who now stood trembling before his indignant

judge. But the horrible misuse of the Saviour's holy image as a weapon

against his life--he who was prepared to sacrifice himself for the pure

teachings of Jesus Christ--appeared to him to be such a terrible

blasphemy against all in life that he considered holy and right, that

his calmness was instantly changed to the most terrible anger.

Noble and great as a lion in his wrath, he stood in front of the

cringing Jesuit, who was unable to bear the glance of his eyes.

"On your knees," said the king in a thunderous voice, stamping

violently with his foot on the floor.

The Jesuit fell down as if struck by lightning, and crawled in mortal

terror to the king's feet, like a poisonous reptile, spell-bound by the

king's look: powerless at the conqueror's feet.

"Ye serpent's brood," continued the king beside himself with anger,

"how long do ye think that the Almighty will endure your iniquities?

By God! I have seen much; I have seen your Antichrist and Romish rule

cover the world with all the deeds of darkness; I have seen ye, monks

and Jesuits, poison frightened consciences with your devil's teachings

about murder and crimes committed for the glory of Heaven; but a deed

so black as this, a blasphemy against everything that is holy in Heaven

and upon earth, I have never before dreamed of. I have forgiven ye

all; ye have plotted against my life at Demmin and other places; I have

not taken revenge; ye have acted worse than Turks and barbarians

towards the innocent Lutherans; wherever ye have had the power ye have

destroyed their churches, and burned them at the stake, driven them

away from house and home; and what is worse, ye have tried to draw them

from their faith with arguments and force to your idolatrous religion,

which worships deeds and miserable images instead of the living God and

His only Son. For all this, I have not retaliated upon your cloisters

and churches and consciences; ye have gone free in your faith, and no

one has touched a hair of your heads. But now I know you, servants of

the devil; the Almighty God has delivered ye into my hand; I shall

scatter ye like chaff; I shall punish you, ye desecrators of the

temple; I shall follow you to the end of the world, as long as this arm

is able to wield the Lord's sword. Ye have hitherto seen me mild and

merciful, ye will now see me hard and terrible; I will destroy you and

your accursed faith on earth; it will be such a judgment as the world

has not seen since the destruction of Rome."

The king walked up and down the room with hasty steps, without deigning

to bestow a glance on the prostrate Jesuit or the trembling Regina, who

was standing by the window covering her face with her hands.

Oxenstjerna, always calm and collected, was alarmed at the king's

anger, and feared that he would go too far, and now tried to modify it.

"Will your Majesty deign to order Lieutenant Bertel to take the monk

into safe custody, and let a court-martial make a terrible example of

him?"

"Mercy, your Majesty!" cried Regina, who was blindly devoted to her

father confessor. "Mercy! I am the guilty one. I have advised him to

take this terrible step. I alone deserve to be punished for it."

At this noble self-sacrifice a faint ray of hope illumined the Jesuit's

pale features, but he did not dare to rise up. The king took no notice

of this appeal. Instead, he turned all his wrath upon the guard.

"Lieutenant Bertel," he said sharply, "you have commanded my life-guard

to-night; through your neglect this wretch has slipped into the room.

Take him at once to prison, and you shall answer for his safety with

your head. Then you can go and take your place in the ranks. From

this moment you are degraded to the position of a private soldier."

Bertel saluted, but did not speak. What pained him more than the loss

of his commission was the sacrifice of the king's favour, especially as

he knew that he had kept a ceaseless watch. It was a complete mystery

to him how the Jesuit had got in. The latter had now grasped the

king's knees and prayed for mercy. But in vain. The king pushed him

backwards, and he was taken away gnashing his teeth and his heart full

of revenge.

Gustaf Adolf then turned to the trembling girl at the window, took her

hand and looked straight into her eyes.

"Lady," he said with asperity, "it is said that when the king of the

darkness wishes to do a terrible evil deed on earth, he sends his

instruments dressed as angels of light. What do you wish me to think

of you?"

Lady Regina had courage enough to lift up her eyes once more to the

great king.

"I have nothing more to say. Kill me, sire, but save my father

confessor!" she said with fanatical resolution.

The king, still looking angrily into her eyes, could not yet control

himself.

"If your father, lady, had been an honest man, he would have taught his

daughter to fear God, honour the king, and speak the truth to every

man. You wished to convert me; I will instead educate you, you seem to

be in great want of it. Go, you remain my prisoner until you have

learned to speak the truth. Oxenstjerna, is the severe old Lady Marta

at Korsholm still alive?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"She will have a pupil to educate. At the first opportunity this girl

is to be sent to Finland."

Lady Regina, proud and silent, left the room.

"Your Majesty!" said Oxenstjerna reproachfully.

CHAPTER VI.

THE FINNS AT LECH.

Before our story proceeds further, it is necessary to bestow one more

look on Frankfurt.

Lady Regina was closely guarded after her midnight visit to the king;

and later in the spring, when the waters were released from their icy

fetters, she was sent to Finland, where we may find her again. No

religious hatred, still less revenge, prompted the anger of the usually

generous Gustaf Adolf towards the young girl; abused confidence deeply

stabs a noble heart, and Regina said nothing to remove the idea of her

guilt from the king's mind; in fact, she strengthened it more and more

by her fanaticism, and hatred still possessed her young heart, which

ought to have been given to love alone.

An extraordinary incident increased the king's resentment. On the

night that the Jesuit was taken to prison, to be executed next day, the

terrible monk escaped; no one knew how. These fearful men had allies

and secret emissaries and passages everywhere; that very night a

hitherto concealed door was discovered in the king's bed-chamber.

Bertel's innocence came to light through this, but the mysterious

escape of the monk again excited the king's wrath, and the late

lieutenant had still to remain a private soldier.

By the middle of February, 1632, the king was ready for departure; he

then took the stronghold at Kreutznach in March, after a short siege,

and left the queen, as well as Axel Oxenstjerna, in Mayence. But Tilly

had in the meantime surprised Gustaf Horn at Bamberg, and done great

mischief. The king pursued him down the Danube, and wished to invade

Bavaria by crossing the Lech. In vain did his generals object that the

river was too deep and rapid, and that the Elector, with Tilly,

Altringer, and 22,000 men, stood on the opposite side. The king spoke

like Alexander at the passage of the Granicus.

"Shall we, who have crossed the Elbe, Oder, and Rhine, nay, even the

Baltic, stop alarmed at the River Lech?"

The passage was decided upon.

The king tried for some time to find a suitable crossing. At last he

discovered it near a bend in the stream; a dragoon disguised as a

peasant heard that the Lech was twenty-two feet deep. Trestles were

made of timber torn from cabins; four batteries of seventy cannon in

all, were erected on the bank, and breastworks thrown up for the

skirmishers, while fires of damp straw and green wood enveloped the

neighbourhood in thick smoke. Still, Tilly was old and experienced; he

soon occupied the wood on the other side with his force; dug trenches

and made fortifications, from which he directed a heavy fire. On the

3rd of April the Swedish cannon replied with terrific effect. On April

5th the trestles for a bridge were laid in spite of the fire of the

enemy; planks were then thrown across, and, as usual, the Finns led the

attack. Three hundred infantry, headed by little Larsson, and the

brave Savolaxen Paavo Lyydikain, were ordered to cross the planks, and

defend the bridge on the opposite shore; each was promised a reward of

ten riks thalers. In a few moments the fate of Bavaria would be

decided.

The Finns carried spades and trenching tools, and cheering as they

advanced, rushed at the double over the bridge. Immediately a

tremendous cross-fire from all Tilly's batteries was directed upon

them; every moment balls dropped splashing into the foaming waters, or

flew over the charging Finns, and now and then fell amongst them,

scattering death on every side. Those who got over worked vigorously

at throwing up earthworks, which soon protected their front, although

their flanks were still exposed to the enemy's fire.

Tilly realised the importance of this position, and his fire redoubled.

The Swedes riddled the opposite wood with a storm of shot, which struck

the stones and tree-tops, scattering fragments and branches far and

wide upon the Bavarians, who stood underneath awaiting the order to

charge. The king, in order to encourage his men, hastened to the

front, and himself fired sixty shots. The cannon thunder was heard for

miles.

More than half of the Finns had now been killed, wounded, or drowned,

but the entrenchments were completed. And at that instant the king

ordered the afterwards celebrated Count Carl Gustaf Wrangel to go to

their assistance. The Finns, exalted with pride by their countrymen's

success, and also anxious for the safety of their comrades, begged

eagerly to be led into the midst of the fight, and in a moment Wrangel

was surrounded by 300 Finnish volunteers, with whom he heroically

charged across the shaking planks. The gallant Duke Bernhard, who,

like the king, had a certain partiality for the Finns, received

permission to make a diversion in their favour. Followed by a troop of

Finnish cavalry, he found and passed over a ford, and fell upon the

enemy's right flank. The surprised Bavarians fell into disorder, and

in spite of their numerical superiority, gave ground before the attack.

Duke Bernhard's troop played havoc with the enemy, and soon cut their

way through to their comrades at the end of the bridge. Through this

daring exploit the Finns obtained the dreaded name, "Hackapeliter,"

from the words "hakkaa päälle!" Go Ahead! which they shouted as they

charged.

Stimulated by the Finns' success, the Swedish and German infantry now

began to cross the bridge. Tilly, avoiding exposing his troops to the

murderous Swedish fire till the last moment, now sent Altringer's

infantry to take the fortifications, and drive the enemy into the

river. The Bavarians advanced at the double, and although decimated by

the hail of bullets, threw themselves furiously on the earthworks.

Wrangel's men stood firm. Almost enveloped by the enemy's massive

column, the Finns gave them a hot reception. Pouring in a deadly

volley at fifty yards, every bullet told. The Bavarians wavered for a

moment; most of them were new recruits; they faltered. The Finns got

time to reload; another volley; and the assailants fled in disorder

along the bank. Altringer rallied them with great difficulty, and

again led them to the onset; at that moment a cannon-shot whizzed so

close to his head that he fell senseless to the ground. Again the

Bavarians gave way. Tilly saw this, and sent his favourite Wallachians

to their assistance. But even these veterans had to retreat, so

terrific was the fire. Then Tilly seized a banner, and led the attack

in person. Before, however, he had taken many steps, he fell, struck

down by a falconet ball, which had smashed one leg. The old general

was carried from the field, and died a fortnight afterwards at

Ingolstadt.

The Bavarian army now became utterly demoralised. The Elector

retreated under cover of the darkness, leaving 2,000 dead on the field,

and the way open to the heart of Bavaria.

Next day the entire Swedish army crossed the Lech. The king with a

liberal hand distributed rewards to his brave troops. Amongst these

was a horseman who had accompanied Duke Bernhard, who praised him in

the highest terms. This was Bertel; three slight wounds attested the

duke's account. Bertel regained his rank, but not the king's

confidence, which he valued above everything. But he resolved to win

this back at all costs.

Gustaf Adolf then marched to Augsburg, which took the oath of

allegiance, and gave brilliant festivals in his honour. Here report,

which joined the names Gustafva Augusta, whispered that the king had

abandoned himself, like another Hannibal in Capua, to effeminacy and

pleasure. Rumour was wrong. Gustaf Adolf was merely resting, and

revolving still more daring enterprises in his mind. But from this

time the king's pathway began to darken. The death angel went before

him with drawn sword, and aimed now here, now there, a blow at his

life, as if to cry constantly in his ear, "Mortal, thou art not a god."

One could almost think that the powers of darkness had obtained more

power over him; now ambition began to gain ground in his mind, and he

was no longer solely animated by the sacred cause of Liberty and Faith.

A secret and terrible enemy seemed everywhere in his path, dealing

deadly blows which could not as yet reach their mark. At the bold but

unsuccessful attack on Ingolstadt there was, relates Fryxell, a cannon

on the ramparts called a "Fikonet," and celebrated for shooting both

far and true. The gunner on the ramparts saw out on the field a man

with a waving plume riding a fine charger, and surrounded by attentive

followers. "There," he said, "rides a great lord, but this will stop

his career;" then he aimed and fired the "Fikonet." The ball brought

down horse and rider, and the others hastened to the place in great

dread; but the king, for it was he, raised himself up, covered with

blood and dust, but unharmed, from underneath the dead horse,

exclaiming,

"The apple is not yet ripe."

The citizens of Ingolstadt buried the horse, and stuffed his skin as a

remembrance. Shortly afterwards the king was riding at the side of the

young Margrave of Baden Durlach, who had just before been one of the

most brilliant figures at the Augsburg balls. A cannon-shot passed

very near the king, and as he looked round, a headless horseman rode by

his side and then sank to the ground.

CHAPTER VII.

NEW ADVENTURES.

From Ingolstadt the king turned to Landshut, in the centre of Bavaria.

The farther he advanced into this country, where they had never seen an

army of heretics before, the people became more fanatical, wild, and

bloodthirsty. Large bands of peasants assembled, commanded by the

monks, lying in ambush everywhere for the Swedes, and cutting off every

straggler; they also tortured their prisoners in the most horrible

manner. The king's army on their side, inebriated by their successes,

were infuriated by this cruel guerilla warfare, and began to burn and

destroy all the places they passed through. Hitherto the Swedish army

had been remarkable for its good conduct in the field, but now they

left in their rear a broad track of murder and crime; and woe to those

troops who in insufficient numbers wandered far from the main body.

The king had now marched far into the country, and wished to send some

new important orders to Baner, who followed slowly in his steps from

Ingolstadt. On account of the lawless state of the country this was

attended with great risk, and the king would not order a large body to

go. A young officer, a Finn, volunteered to try, accompanied by two

horsemen. The king agreed to this, and the three horsemen set out one

evening in May on this dangerous journey.

The young officer was no other than our friend Bertel, and his

companions were Pekka from East Bothnia, and Vitikka from Tavastland.

The night was dark and gloomy, and the three horsemen rode carefully in

the middle of the road, much afraid of missing their way in this

strange country, and dreading an ambush from their enemies. It began

to rain, which made the roads still worse; these had already been much

damaged by the passage of the heavy baggage-wagons, and at every step

they risked an accident.

"Here," said Vitikka ironically to his companion, "you are a northern

Finn, and ought to be able to practise witchcraft."

"I should not be worth much if I could not do it," responded Pekka in

the same bantering tone.

"Try, then, and take us in a minute to Hattelmala mountain and let us

see the light shining from Hämeenlinna's castle. There is a little

gipsy girl whom I once loved, and I would rather be by her side

to-night, than here in the ruts of this damned forest."

"That will be easy for me to do," said Pekka; "see, you can already see

the lights shining from Hämeenlinna."

His comrade looked sharply around, uncertain if Pekka was joking or in

earnest; he thought the latter quite as likely as the former. And

truly, in the brushwood underneath, a light appeared, but he soon

understood that he was still hundreds of miles away from his home.

Suddenly their horses stopped, and would not move. A barrier of tree

trunks was stretched across the road.

"Hush!" whispered Bertel, "I hear a noise in the wood."

The horsemen leaned forward and listened attentively. On the opposite

side of the wood they heard footsteps and the breaking of branches.

"They must be here in a quarter of an hour," said a voice in the

well-known Bavarian dialect.

"How many of them are there?"

"Thirty horsemen, and ten or twelve baggage animals. They left

Geisenfeld at dusk, and they have a young girl with them as a prisoner."

"How many are we?"

"About fifty musketeers, and seventy or eighty armed with pitchforks

and axes."

"Good. No firing is allowed until they are within three paces."

At this moment Bertel's horse neighed, whose name was Lapp; he was

small but strong and active.

"Who is there?" sounded from the road.

"Swedes!" cried Bertel boldly, just as he did at the Würzburg

sally-port, and fired off a pistol in the direction of the voice, and

saw by the flash a large band of peasants, who had encamped by the

barricade. He then turned his horse, and, calling upon his companions

to follow him, rode at full gallop on the road back to Landshut.

But the peasants had by the flash also seen the three horsemen, and now

hurried to cut off their retreat. Bertel's horse easily distanced the

pursuers, but Vitikka's fell over the stump of a tree, and Pekka's

clumsy animal was hurt by the thrust of a pitchfork in his neck as he

tried to get out of the marsh. Bertel saw his followers' danger, and

would not leave them; he turned back and killed the nearest peasants,

and caught Pekka's horse by the bridle and tried to pull him up,

calling also to Vitikka to leave his horse and jump on the back of

Lapp. This brave effort was successful, and the three were on their

way to safety, when suddenly a whizzing noise was heard, and a lasso

settled upon Bertel's shoulders, tightened, and jerked him from his

saddle. Vitikka fell at the same moment, and Lapp, thus delivered from

his heavy burden, galloped off, and Pekka followed with or without his

will. Bertel and Vitikka were taken prisoners and bound with their

hands behind their backs.

"Hang the dogs before the others arrive!" cried one.

"Hang them by the heels!" suggested another.

"With a little fire underneath!" said a third.

"No fire! no noise!" ordered a fourth, who appeared to be in command.

"Listen, comrades," whispered he Ito the prisoners lying on the ground,

"was it Finnish you spoke?"

"Go to the devil!" said Vitikka in a rage.

"_Maledicti, maledicti Fennones!_" said the former speaker in the

darkness. "You are mine!"

"Now they are coming!" cried one of the band, and the trampling of

horses was heard on the road to Ingolstadt. The peasants remained

still, and for greater safety gagged the prisoners. The approaching

troop were provided with torches, and seemed to be Germans, who were

returning from a marauding expedition. They were riding so quickly

that they did not notice the barricade until they were close upon it;

at the same moment a murderous fire opened upon them from behind this

obstruction. Ten or twelve of the foremost fell to the ground, and

their riderless horses reared and dragged them along by the stirrups;

the greatest confusion prevailed amongst them, some turned back, riding

over their comrades and the pack-horses; others fired off their pistols

towards the enemy behind the barricade. The peasants rushed from their

ambush and furiously attacked those that remained, and pulled them off

their horses with lassos. In vain the horsemen endeavoured to defend

themselves; in less than ten minutes the whole troop was scattered;

eight or ten had escaped, fifteen were lying wounded on the road, and

six or seven were made prisoners. Only four of the peasants had

fallen. The revenge of the Bavarians was inhuman. They fired blank

charges in the prisoners' faces, which burnt them black, and partially

buried some of them in the ground and stoned them slowly to death.

When this terrible work was finished, they carried away the booty to a

place of safety. Bertel and his companion were thrown across one of

the horses, and they marched deep into the forest. After some time

they stopped at a lonely farm, and the prisoners were dragged in and

thrown on the floor in a separate room, while the peasants in the next

room rejoiced over their victory, and drank captured wine. A deathly

pale monk now entered the room, carrying a sword by his side with a

rope. He held up a torch to the prisoners' faces, took away their

gags, and looked at them in silence.

"Am I right," said he at last, sarcastically; "this is Lieutenant

Bertel, of the king's life-guards."

Bertel looked up and recognised the Jesuit Hieronymus.

"You are welcome to me, lieutenant, and thank you for our last meeting.

Such an important guest must be well entertained. I fancy I have seen

this comrade before, also," he said, pointing to Vitikka.

The wild Finn looked him straight in the eyes and opened his mouth with

an obstinate grin.

"What have you done with your ears, monk?" he said tauntingly. "Take

away your skull-cap, foul thief, and let us see if you have grown any

ass's ears in their place."

At this daring remark about the incident at Breitenfeld a dark frown

contracted the Jesuit's eyebrows, and a blush arose on his pale

features; he bit his lips with rage.

"Think of your own ears, comrade," said he. "_Anathema maranatha_!

They will soon have heard enough in this world."

With these words the Jesuit clapped his hands twice, and a blacksmith

with his leather apron entered, carrying a pair of red-hot pincers.

"Well, comrade, do your ears begin to burn?" said the monk cruelly.

Vitikka replied stubbornly, "Now you think you are clever, but you are

only a fumbler in comparison with the devil. Your lord and master does

not need any pincers, he uses his claws."

"The right ear," said the Jesuit. The smith approached the Finn and

put the pincers to his head. Vitikka smiled disdainfully. A sudden

blush coloured his brown cheeks, but only for a moment. He had now

only one ear.

"Will you now abjure your faith, and believe in the Holy Father and

damn Luther, and you shall keep your other ear?"

"Niggard!" cried the Finn. "Your lord and master generally offers

countries and kingdoms, and you only offer me a wretched ear!"

"The left ear," continued the Jesuit coldly. The smith carried out the

order. The mutilated soldier smiled.

"Monk, it is shameful!" said Bertel, who was lying close by. "Kill us,

if you like, but do it quickly!"

"Who has said that I intend to kill you?" replied the Jesuit, smirking.

"Never; it entirely depends upon yourself whether you regain your

freedom this very night."

"What do you ask of me?"

"You are a brave young man, Lieutenant Bertel! I am sorry that the

king so shamefully and unjustly deprived you of your rank, which you

had gained with your blood."

"Are you really sorry? And what then?"

"If I was in your place I should take revenge."

"Take revenge? Oh yes, I have thought of it."

"You belong to Gustaf Adolf's life-guards. Do you know, young friend,

what the Catholic princes would give to anyone who brought the king,

dead or alive, into their power?"

"How could I know that, holy father?"

"A kingdom if he was a nobleman; 50,000 ducats if he was a man of the

people."

"Holy father, it is a small reward for such a great service."

"You have your choice between death and a royal reward!"

"This is the point you were trying to reach, holy father?"

"Do as you please; think it over, and we will talk about it again.

This time you can buy your life and freedom for a less price; yes, a

very small service."

"What would that be, holy father?"

"Listen to me. I wish you to swear that you will do me a very small

favour. King Gustaf Adolf wears on the forefinger of his right hand a

small copper ring. It is of no value to him, but it is of great

importance to me, young friend; as I am an antiquary, I should like to

have a remembrance of a king, whom I must hate as an enemy, but admire

as a man."

"And the ring?"

"The ring; you must swear to deliver it into my hands before the next

new moon. Do this, and you are free!"

"Oh, only a small sin against the seventh commandment? And you have

the absolution ready before-hand; is it not so? Go, miserable thief,

and thank your stars that my arm is bound; or by Heaven, it would teach

you to have respect for a Christian's honour!"

"Be still, young man, remember that your life is in my hands. When I

have finished with your comrade I shall begin with you."

Bertel looked at him with contempt.

"Smith, go on with your work!" said the Jesuit.

And the smith again took the pincers from the fire.

At the same instant a great confusion and noise arose in the next room.

They shouted:

"To arms! The Swedes are upon us!"

The door flew open. Some of the peasants seized their guns, others

were lying in a drunken sleep on the floor. Outside one could plainly

hear the Swedish officer's commands.

"Set the house on fire, boys, we have them all in a trap!"

At these words the Jesuit jumped out of the window.

A hot but short skirmish began by the door. The peasants were

overpowered in a few moments and begged for mercy. In reply to this

appeal, the foremost were killed, and the rest taken prisoners and

bound; the house and booty were taken, and Bertel and his mutilated

comrade were released.

"Is it you, Larsson?" cried Bertel.

"Thunder and lightning, is it you, Bertel? Is it here you intend to

leave the king's orders?"

"And yourself?"

"Yes, damn it, you know that I am always a lucky child! I was sent to

guard a convoy, and met on the road some rascally marauders, who told

me that there was an ambush in the forest. I hurried after them, and

delivered a brave boy and a beautiful girl. Look at her: cheeks like a

poppy, and eyes to buy fish with!"

Bertel turned round, and by his side stood a trembling girl, paralyzed

with fear.

"This is Ketchen, Lady Regina's maid!" cried Bertel, who had often seen

the bright girl in the company of her dull mistress.

"Save me, lieutenant, save me!" cried the girl, and caught hold of his

arm. "They have taken me by force from my aunt's house."

"Larsson, I beg you to give me the girl!"

"What the devil are you thinking of? Do you want to take the girl from

me?"

"Let her go free, I beg of you!"

"Later on, perhaps, yes. Let her go, I say, or..."

The hot-tempered Finn drew his sword again, with which he had just

before killed a peasant.

"The cottage is on fire!" was heard from all directions, and a thick

smoke proved that it was true. Bertel rushed out with the girl, and

Larsson followed, and the heat of his temper gave way before the heat

of the fire. When Bertel got outside and saw the flames, he remembered

that the cottage was filled with people; about thirty peasants were

bound inside.

"Come, hurry, let us save the unfortunate prisoners!" he cried.

"Are you mad?" said Larsson, laughing; "it is only a few of the rascals

who have killed so many of our brave comrades. Let it burn, boys!"

It was now too late to help. The unfortunate Bavarians were sacrificed

to the barbarities with which wars were then carried on; too often one

terrible deed was followed by another.

We turn with disgust from these wild scenes, which essentially belong

to the times in which they occurred, and hasten to the grand picture of

the Swedish lion's last struggle.

CHAPTER VIII.

NÜRNBERG AND LÜTZEN.

The incidents of the campaign followed each other quickly, like wave

after wave on a stormy sea, and history compressed into a narrow frame

is obliged to pursue the same course. Hence we must hurry over these

marvellous occurrences and into a still more extraordinary period, to

find the thread of our story, "The King's Ring," which passes through

ages and the destinies of great characters.

The terrible Wallenstein had become reconciled to the emperor, and

gathering a formidable army, turned like a dark cloud upon the rich

city of Nürnberg. Gustaf Adolf cut short his victorious career in

Bavaria, and hurried to meet him; and here the two armies remained in

entrenched camps facing each other for eleven weeks--the panther and

the lion, ready to spring, sharply watched each other's movements. The

surrounding country was stripped bare to provide for the wants of the

two hosts, and foraging parties were constantly dispatched to more

remote places to get supplies. Among the Imperialists those mostly

employed in this task were Isolani's Croats; the Swedes generally sent

Taupadel's dragoons and Stälhandske's Finnish cavalry.

Famine, heat, and plague, and the plundering German soldiers, spread

want and misery everywhere. Gustaf Adolf, having united himself with

Oxenstjerna's and Baner's forces, could now muster 50,000 men. On the

24th of August, 1632, he marched against Wallenstein, who stood behind

impregnable entrenchments. Long before daylight the thunder of

Torstensson's guns was heard against Alte Veste. In the darkness of

the night 500 musketeers of the white brigade were climbing up the

steep redoubts, and reached the tops under a terrible fire. For a

moment victory seemed to reward their strenuous efforts; confusion

reigned amongst the half-awakened enemy; the cries of the women, and

the fire from the Swedes, added to the disorder, and made the attack

easy. But Wallenstein, calm and unmoved, sent away the women, and

directed a murderous fire on the assailants. The brave brigade was

driven back with heavy losses. The king, however, would not give way;

once more the white brigade renewed the attack; but in vain. Gustaf

Adolf then called his Finns, for, as Schiller relates, "the courage of

the Northmen puts the Germans to shame." It was the East Bothnians in

the ranks of the Swedish brigade. Death stared them in the face in the

form of hundreds of guns; with unsurpassed courage and determination

they climbed up the entrenchments, slippery with rain and blood. But

against these strong works and the deadly fire, nothing could prevail;

in the midst of death and destruction they tried again to reach the top

of the redoubts, but in vain; those who escaped the shot and pikes were

hurled back; for the first time one saw Gustaf Adolf's Finns retreat;

and the attempts made by the other troops were also in vain. The

Imperialists hastened out in pursuit, but were driven back; again they

sallied forth with the same result. With heavy losses on both sides

the battle continued all day, and many of the bravest commanders were

killed. The angel of death again sent a bullet towards the king, but

it only touched the sole of his boot.

The Imperial cavalry fought with the Swedish on the left flank.

Cronenberg, with his cuirassiers, clad in iron mail from head to feet,

who were called "the invincibles," overthrew the Hessians. The

Landgrave of Hessen remarked with anger that the king by the sacrifice

of the German troops tried to save his own.

"Very well," said Gustaf Adolf, "I will send my Finns, and hope that

the change of troops will bring a change of fortune."

Stälhandske, with the Finns, was now sent against Cronenberg and his

invincibles. A grand contest, which will never be forgotten, then

started between these two powerful forces; on the shore of the River

Regnitz, which was covered with bushes, these troops met in conflict,

man to man, horse to horse; swords were blunted on helmets, long

pistols flashed, and many a brave horseman was driven into the river.

The Finns' horses were hardier than the beautiful Hungarian chargers,

and thus they shared in the victory. The brave Cronenberg fell, and

his invincibles then fled from the Finns. In his place, Fugger

appeared with a great force, and drew the Finns in continuous battle

slowly towards the enemy in the forest. But here the Imperialists were

met with the fire from the Swedish infantry. Fugger fell, and his

horsemen were again routed by the exhausted Finns.

At the close of the day more than three thousand killed covered the

hills and the fields. "In the battle at Alte Veste, Gustaf Adolf was

considered worsted, because the attack failed," says Schiller. The

following day he altered his position, and on the 8th of September he

marched away to Bavaria. Forty-four thousand men, both friends and

foes, had been destroyed by plague and war during these terrible weeks

in and around Nürnberg.

* * * * *

The darkness of the autumn increased, and its fogs covered the

blood-stained fields of Germany, and still the battles did not cease.

Here it was ordained that only one great spirit should find everlasting

rest, after many storms, and pass from life's dark night to eternal

light. The angel of death came closer over Gustaf Adolf's noble head,

and threw over him a gleam of light from a higher world, which is

sometimes seen shining around the great souls of the earth in their

last moments. The bystanders do not understand it, but the departing

ones know what it means. Two days before his death, Gustaf Adolf

received the homage of a god from the people of Naumburg, but through

his soul fled the shadow of the coming change, and he said to the royal

chaplain, Fabricius:

"Perhaps God will soon punish them for their foolishness, and myself

also, the object of it; and show that I am only a weak mortal."

The king had marched into Saxony to follow the traces of the

destructive Wallenstein. At Arnstadt he bade farewell to Axel

Oxenstjerna; in Erfurt he said good-bye to the queen. There, and in

Naumburg, one could see by his arrangements that he was prepared for

what would come. Wallenstein, who thought he had gone into winter

quarters, sent Pappenheim away to Halle with 12,000 men; he himself

stood at Lützen with 28,000, and the king was in Naumburg with 20,000

men.

But on the 4th of November, when Gustaf Adolf heard of Pappenheim's

departure, he broke up his camp and hurried to surprise his weakened

enemy, in which he would have succeeded if he had made his attack on

the 5th. But Providence had thrown in the way of his victorious career

a small obstacle, the brook Rippach, which with many newly ploughed

fields delayed his march. It was late in the evening on the 5th of

November when the king approached Lützen; thus Wallenstein had time,

and he knew how to make use of it. Along the broad road to Leipzig he

deepened the ditches, and made redoubts on both sides, which he filled

with his best sharpshooters, and it was decided that with their

cross-fire they could destroy the attacking Swedes.

The king's war council advised him not to make the attack; Duke

Bernhard was the only one who advised him to the contrary, and the king

shared his opinion, "because," he said, "it is necessary to wash one's

self perfectly clean once you are in the bath."

The night was dull and dark. The king spent it in an old carriage with

Kniephausen and Duke Bernhard. His restless soul had time to think of

everything, and then history says, he drew from the forefinger of his

right hand a small copper ring, and gave it to Duke Bernhard, and asked

him to give it to a young officer in his Finnish cavalry, in case

anything should happen to himself.

Early in the morning Gustaf Adolf rode out to inspect the positions of

his troops. He was dressed in a buff waistcoat made of elk's skin, and

wore a grey great coat over it; when he was told to wear harness on a

day like this, he replied:

"God is my armour."

A heavy mist delayed the attack. At dawn the whole army sang a hymn.

The fog continued, and the king began another hymn, which he had

written himself just before. He then rode along the lines, calling out:

"To-day, boys, we shall put an end to all our trouble;" and his horse

stumbled twice as he said this.

The fog did not clear off till eleven o'clock through a strong breeze.

The Swedish army at once advanced to the attack; under the king in the

right wing was Stälhandske and the Finns, next came the Swedish troops;

in the centre were the Swedish yellow and green brigades, commanded by

Nils Brahe; on the left wing the German cavalry, under Duke Bernhard.

Against the duke was Colloredo, with his strong cavalry, while in the

centre was Wallenstein, with four heavy columns of infantry and seven

cannon in front; against Stälhandske stood Isolani, with his wild but

brave Croats. The war-cries on both sides were the same as at

Breitenfeld. When the king ordered the attack he clasped his hands,

and cried out:

"Jesus, help me to-day to fight for the glory of Thy Holy Name!"

The Imperialists started firing, and the Swedish army advanced and

suffered heavy losses from the beginning. At last the Swedish centre

passed the redoubts, took the seven guns, and routed the two first

brigades of the enemy. The third was preparing for flight when

Wallenstein rallied them. The Swedish left wing was attacked by the

cavalry, and the Finns, who had sent the Croats and the Polacks flying,

had not yet reached the redoubts. The king then rushed to the front

with the troops from Smaländ; but only a few were well-mounted enough

to follow him. It is said that an Imperial musketeer fired at him with

a silver bullet; it is true that the king's left arm was smashed, and

that he tried to conceal his wound; but soon he became so weak from

loss of blood, that he asked the Duke of Lauenburg, who was riding by

his side, to bring him unseen out of the battle.

In the midst of the conflict Gotz's cuirassiers rushed forward, and at

the head of them was Moritz von Falkenberg, who recognised the king and

fired point-blank at him, crying out:

"I have long sought for you!"

Soon afterwards Falkenberg himself fell from a bullet. The king was

shot underneath the heart, and reeled in his saddle; he told the duke

to save his own life; the latter had placed his arm around the king's

waist to support him, but the next moment the rush of the enemy had

separated them. The duke's hair was singed by the close discharge of a

pistol, and the king's horse was wounded in the throat and staggered.

The king sunk from the saddle, and was dragged a short distance along

the ground; his foot caught in the stirrup. The young page,

Leubelfingen, from Nürnberg, offered him his horse, but could not raise

him up. Some of the Imperialists now came to the spot, and inquired

who the wounded man was, and when Leubelfingen would not reply, one of

them ran him through with a sword-thrust, while another shot the king

through the head; others then shot at them, and both remained on the

field. But Leubelfingen lived for a few days afterwards, to relate for

the benefit of future generations the never-to-be-forgotten sad death

of the great hero, Gustaf Adolf.

In the meantime the Swedish centre was driven back, the battlefield was

covered with thousands of mutilated corpses, and they had not yet

gained a foot of ground. Both the armies occupied nearly the same

positions as before the battle. The king's wounded horse was then seen

galloping between the lines, with an empty saddle, covered with blood.

"The king has fallen!"

As Schiller has so beautifully put it, "Life was not worth anything,

when the most holy of all lives had ceased to exist; death no longer

had any terror for the lowliest, since it had not spared this royal

head."

Duke Bernhard flew from line to line, saying, "Swedes, Finns, and

Germans, yours, ours, and Freedom's protector has fallen. Well then,

those who love the king will rush forward to avenge his death."

The first to obey this order was Stälhandske, with the Finns; with

great difficulty they crossed the ditches and drove the enemy in front

of them; before their terrific onslaught all fell or fled. Isolani

turned back and attacked the baggage train, but was again routed. The

centre of the Swedish army advanced under Brahe, and Duke Bernhard,

disregarding his wounded arm, took one of the enemy's batteries. The

whole of the Imperial army was broken by this terrible attack; its

ammunition wagons exploded; Wallenstein's orders, and brave

Piccolomini's efforts, could not stay the rout. Just then a joyful cry

arose from the battlefield: "Pappenheim is here!" and this leader, the

bravest of the brave, appeared with his horsemen; his first question

was, "Where is the King of Sweden?" Someone pointed to the Finns, and

Pappenheim rushed to the spot. Here began a terrible battle. The

Imperialists, filled with new courage, turned back and attacked on

three sides at once. Not a man of the Swedes gave ground. Brahe died

with the yellow brigade, who fell nearly to the last man; Winckel with

the blue, died in the same order, man for man, as they stood in the

ranks. The rest of the Swedish infantry slowly retreated, and victory

seemed to smile on the destructive Pappenheim.

But he, the Ajax of his time, the man of a hundred scars, did not live

to see success. In the first attack on the Finns, a falconet bullet

smashed his hip; and two musket balls pierced his chest; it was also

said that Stälhandske wounded him with his own hand. He fell, but

still in death rejoiced over Gustaf Adolf's fall, and the news of his

loss spread consternation amongst the Imperialists.

"Pappenheim is dead; everything is lost!"

Once more the Swedes advanced; Duke Bernhard, Kniephausen, and

Stälhandske, performed prodigies of valour. But Piccolomini, with six

wounds, mounted his seventh horse, and fought with more than mortal

valour; the Imperialist centre held its ground, and only the darkness

stopped the battle. Wallenstein retired, and the exhausted Swedish

army encamped on the battlefield. Nine thousand slain covered the

field of Lützen.

The result of this battle was disastrous to the Imperialists. They had

lost all their artillery; Pappenheim and Wallenstein had lost their

invincible names. The latter raged with anger; he executed the cowards

with the same facility as he bestowed gold on the brave. Ill and

disheartened he retired with the rest of his army to Bohemia, where the

stars were his nightly companions, and treacherous plans his only

solace; and his death from Buttler's hand was the end of his glorious

life.

A thrill of joy passed over the whole Catholic world, because the faith

of Luther and the Swedes had lost a great deal more than their enemies.

The arm was paralyzed which had so powerfully wielded the victorious

sword of light and freedom; the grief of the Protestants was deep and

universal, mixed with fear for the future. It was not for nothing that

the Te Deum was sung in the churches of Vienna, Brussels, and Madrid;

twelve days' bull-fighting gratified Madrid on account of the dreaded

hero's fall. But it is said that the Emperor Ferdinand, who was

greater than the men of his time, shed bitter tears at the sight of his

slain enemy's bloody buff waistcoat.

Many stories circulated about the great Gustaf Adolf's death. Duke

Franz Albert of Lauenburg, Richelieu, and Duke Bernhard, were all said

to have had a share in his fall; but none of these surmises have been

verified by history. A later German author tells the following popular

story:

"Gustaf Adolf, King of Sweden, received in his youth, from a young

woman whom he loved, a ring of iron, which he ever afterwards wore.

The ring was composed of seven circles, which formed the letters Gustaf

Adolf. Seven days before his death he missed the ring."

The reader knows that the threads of this story are tied to the same

ring, but we have several reasons for saying that this ring was made of

copper.

On the evening after the battle, Duke Bernhard sent his soldiers with

torches to find the king's body; and they found it plundered and hardly

recognisable under heaps of slain. It was taken to the village of

Meuchen, and there embalmed. The soldiers were all allowed to see the

dead body of their king and leader. Bitter tears were here shed, but

tears full of pride, for even the lowest considered it an honour to

have fought by the side of such a hero.

"See," said one of Stälhandske's old Finns, loudly sniffing, "they have

stolen his golden chain and his copper ring; I still see the white mark

on his forefinger."

"Why should they care about a copper ring?" asked a Scotchman, who had

lately joined the army, and had not heard the stories which passed from

man to man.

"His ring!" said a Pomeranian. "Be sure that the Jesuits knew what is

was good for. The ring was charmed by a Finnish witch, and as long as

the king wore it, he could not be hurt by steel or lead."

"But see to-day he has lost it, and therefore--you understand."

"What is that fruit-eating Pomeranian saying?" said the Finn angrily.

"The power of the Almighty, and nothing else, has protected our great

king, but the ring was given to him long ago by a young Finnish girl,

whom he loved in his youth; I know more about this than you do."

Duke Bernhard, who, sad and sorrowful, was watching the king's pale

features, turned round at these words; he put his sound hand underneath

his open buff waistcoat, and said to the Finn:

"Comrade, do you know one of Stälhandske's officers named Bertel?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Is he alive?"

"No, your grace."

The duke turned to another and gave several orders abstractedly. A few

moments later, when he again looked at the king, he seemed to remember

something.

"Was he a brave man?" he asked.

"He was one of Stälhandske's horsemen!" said the Finn with great pride.

"When did he fall, and where?"

"In the last struggle with the Pappenheimers."

"Go and search for him."

The duke's order was promptly obeyed by these exhausted soldiers, who

had reason to wonder why one of the youngest officers should be

searched for this night, when Nils Brahe, Winckel, and many other old

leaders were lying uncared for in their blood on the battlefield. It

was nearly morning when the searchers returned and reported that

Bertel's dead body could not be found anywhere.

"Hum!" said the duke discontentedly; "great men have sometimes funny

ideas. What shall I now do with the king's ring?"

The November sun rose blood-red over the field of Lützen. A new time

had come; the Master had left, and the disciples had now to carry out

his work alone.

II.--THE SWORD AND THE PLOUGH.

Silence reigned after the conclusion of the narrative; everyone was

thinking of the great hero's fall, and not realising that the tale was

ended. The old grandmother sat on the stuffed sofa in her brown

woollen shawl, and near her the schoolmaster, Svenonius, with his blue

handkerchief and brass spectacles. Captain Svanholm, the postmaster,

who had lost a finger in the last war, was on the right; on the left

pretty Anne Sophie, eighteen years old, with a high tortoise-shell comb

in her long brown hair; and around them, on the floor or on stools, sat

six or seven playful children, with mouths now wide open, as if they

had heard a ghost story.

The first to disturb the silence was Anne Sophie, who sprang with a cry

from her chair, stumbled, and fell into the schoolmaster's arms.

The entranced company, who were still at Lützen, were as much disturbed

by this interruption as if Isolani's Croats had suddenly broken into

the room. The postmaster, still in the midst of the battle, sprang up

and trod heavily upon old grandma's sore foot with his iron heel. The

schoolmaster was quite upset, not at all realising the value of the

burden in his arms--perhaps the first and also the prettiest in his

whole life; the children fled in all directions, and some crept behind

the surgeon's high chair. But Andreas, who had just followed the

Finnish cavalry in their charge over the trenches, seized the surgeon's

silver-headed Spanish cane, and prepared to receive the Croats at the

point of the bayonet. Old Bäck was undisturbed; he produced his

tobacco box, bit off a piece, and mildly said, "What is the matter with

you, Anne Sophie?" The latter freed herself, blushing and embarrassed,

from the schoolmaster's arms, and declaring that someone had pricked

her with a pin, looked around for the culprit.

Old grandma, always quick to scent out mischief, immediately practised

a method, and discovered that Jonathan had inserted a pin at the top of

his rattan, and therewith upset his eldest sister, with the results

just indicated. The punishment, like that under martial law, was quick

and short, and Jonathan had then to retire to the nursery, and learn an

extra lesson for the next day.

When the principal power had thus restored order without bloodshed, the

company began to talk of the surgeon's story.

"It is too violent a tale, my dear cousin," said the old grandmother,

whilst looking at the teller with one of those mild and speaking

glances, which captured all hearts with their expression of

intelligence and sympathy; "altogether too turbulent. It seems to me

that I still hear the noise of the cannon. War is frightful and

detestable, when we consider all the blood shed on the battlefield, and

all the tears at home. When will the day arrive when men, instead of

destroying each other, will share the earth and our Lord's good gifts

together in Harmony and Universal Brotherhood?"

Now the postmaster's martial spirit rose in arms.

"Peace? Share? No war? Pshaw! cousin, pshaw! would you make an ant's

nest of the world? What a state of things! Scribblers would smother

everything with ink; cowards and petty tyrants would sit on honest men;

and when one nation domineered over another, people would lowly bow,

thank them, and act like sheep. No; the devil take me! men like Gustaf

Adolf and Napoleon move nations and things; they tap a little blood

which has been spoilt by gross living, and then the world improves. I

still remember the 21st of August, at Karstula; Fieandt stood on the

left, and I at the right----"

"If I may interrupt the speech of my honoured brother," said the

schoolmaster, who had heard this story one hundred and seventy times

before, "I would prove that the world would progress much better

through spilling ink than blood. _Inter arma silent leges_. In war

times we could not sit here by the fire, and drink our toddy in Bäck's

room; we should be serving a cannon on the ramparts; linstock in hand,

instead of a glass; powder in our pouches, and not even a pinch of

snuff. Ink has made you, brother, a postmaster; in ink you live and

have your being; ink brings your daily bread, and what would you be

with blood alone, and no ink, may I ask?

"What should I be? Devils and heretics ... I?"

"Cousin Svanholm!" said the old grandmother, with a warning glance at

the children.

The postmaster stopped at once. The surgeon saw the necessity of

re-establishing peace and concord.

"I think," he said, "that nations go through the world like the

individuals of which they are composed. In youth they are wild and

passionate, fight, rage, and tear each other to pieces. When older and

wiser, they invent gunpowder, place host against host, and let them

destroy each other in cold blood at long distances. Finally the world

comes to reason, and seizes the pen which is very sharp when necessary.

And then begins the reign of universal knowledge, which is certainly

the best, according to my mind."

"It would be ... seven devils ... all right, cousin, I will be as quiet

as a wall," said the postmaster. "I only ask what kind of a man was

Gustaf Adolf? What kind of a man was Napoleon? Were they only

birthday eaters of sweetmeats? What do you think? Were they fools or

savages? I pray you. Do you hear, cousin? I do not swear, cousin;

you should have heard Fieandt, how devilishly he swore at Karstula."

The surgeon continued, without paying any attention to the postmaster.

"Therefore, the youthful history of all nations begins with war, and

the first soldier in the world's company was called Cain. But as war

is as old as the world, it is likely to exist as long as it lasts. I

do not believe in the new ideas about a perpetual peace. I believe

that as long as human hearts retain selfish desires, the curse of war

will prevail. Eternal peace consists in no longer fighting blindly,

slavishly, as before, but with glad courage comprehending the reason

why, and for a righteous cause; then one can hack away with right

goodwill."

"Then we should always fight for an idea," said the schoolmaster

thoughtfully.

"That's it, for an idea. It is to the honour of the Finnish soldier

that with one exception he has always fought for the defence of his

fatherland. Then he has gone out to fight on foreign soil; and our

Lord has mercifully chosen that this should be for the greatest and

most righteous cause of all, namely, to defend the pure Protestant

faith and freedom of conscience for the whole world. The Finn was

proud to know this in the Thirty Years' War. He felt within himself

that his heart was the same as Gustaf Adolf's, who, I think, was the

greatest general who ever lived, whilst he fought and won victories for

one of the few causes that are worth bleeding for."

"Tell us more about Gustaf Adolf!" exclaimed Andreas, who could think

only of that one name.

"Dear uncle, a little more about Gustaf Adolf," chimed in the rest of

the children, who, with the greatest trouble, had been held in check by

grandma's admonitions and sister Anne Sophie.

"Thank you. No. The great king is dead, and we will allow him to

peacefully slumber in the royal vault of the church at Riddarholm,

Stockholm. And if the story in future loses something from this, it

will also gain something, namely, that the other characters will become

more prominent. Hitherto, we have been compelled to almost exclusively

fix our eyes on the heroic king, and grandmother was right in saying

that we have been deafened by the thunder of the cannon. Thus, Lady

Regina, and the Jesuit, and especially Bertel, who is the real hero,

have all been kept in the background."

"And Ketchen," said the grandmother; "for my part, I would like much to

know more of the good, charming child. I will leave Regina alone, but

this I will maintain that such a black-eyed wild cat, who would tear

one's eyes out at any moment, cannot come to any good."

"And the lordly Count of Lichtenstein, whom we have not heard of

lately," added Sophie. "I am certain he will become Regina's

betrothed."

"Aha! little cousin listens with delight to that part of it," said the

postmaster with a sly smile. "But say, brother Bäck, do not busy

yourself with sentimentalities; let us hear more about Stälhandske, the

stout little Larsson, and the Tavastlander Vitikka. How the d----l did

the man get along without ears? I remember to this day, that on the

21st of August, there was a corporal at Karstula----"

"Brother Bäck," interrupted the schoolmaster, "who has _justitia

mundi_, the sword of justice in his hand, will not fail to hoist the

Jesuit Hieronymus up to the top of the highest pine on the Hartz

mountains."

"Take care, brother Svenonius," retorted the post-master maliciously,

"the Jesuit was very learned, and knew a heap of Latin."

"I will tell you what I know about the Finns," said the surgeon; "but I

assure you beforehand that it is altogether too little. Wait ten or

twenty years longer, when some industrious man will take the trouble to

glean from the old chronicles our brave countrymen's exploits."

"And what became of the king's ring?"

"Why, that we shall hear to-morrow evening."

CHAPTER I.

A MAN FROM THE PEASANTS' WAR.

Beyond the fertile plains of Germany a wild sea extends itself towards

the north, whose shores are annually covered with the ice of winter,

and whose straits have sometimes borne entire armies on their

ice-bridges. For ages the surrounding nations have fought for the

possession of this sea; but at the time of our story the greatest power

in the north triumphed over nine-tenths of its wide shores, the Baltic

had almost become a Swedish lake; stretching its mighty blue arms north

and east, it folded in its embrace a daughter of the sea, a land which

had arisen from its bosom, and elevated its granite rocks high above

its mother's heart. _Finland_ is the most favoured child of the

Baltic; she empties her treasures into the lap of her mother, and the

great sea does not disdain the offering, but withdraws lovingly and

tenderly like an indulgent mother, that her daughter may develop, and

every season clothes the shores with grass and flowers. Fortunate the

land which lulls to sleep in its bosom the waters of a thousand lakes,

and stretches one hundred and forty Swedish miles along the shore. The

sea bears power, freedom, and enlightenment; the ocean is an active

civilising element in the world; and a sea communicating nation can

never stagnate in need and under oppression except by its own fault.

Far away in the north of Finland a region exists which more than any

other is the fostered child of the sea, for from time unknown it has

risen with a gentle slope from the waters. Numerous green isles rise

along this coast. "In my youth," says the grey-haired old salt, "fine

ships floated where now the water is quite shallow, and in a few years

the cattle will graze on the former sea-bottom. The playing child

launches its little boat from the beach; look around you, little one,

and see well the point where the waters trace their edges; when you

become a man, you will look in vain for your present strand--beyond the

green fields you will hear their distant murmur; and when you are an

old man, a village may appear on the spot once occupied by the waves."

A strange region, where the towns built hard by deep sounds and

tributaries, are twelve miles from the waters in two hundred years,

while the keels and anchors of vessels are drawn up from the bogs fifty

miles inland.

This region is East Bothnia; greater than many kingdoms, and extending

to the verge of Lapland in the north, where the sun never sets at

midsummer, and never rises during the Christmas darkness.

Nature is awake for three months of the year in an unbroken day, and

then at midnight you can read the finest print; three months of night,

but a night of moonlight and glittering snow--clear, cold, and solemn.

The flower's beauty perishes sooner there than human joy; for seven

months the plains are covered with snow and the lakes with solid ice;

but never is spring more delightful than such a winter; still a

melancholy mingles with this joy, which the heart well understands.

Two races live on the coasts of this land, unmixed and unlike; a

variegated picture of national and local peculiarities of language and

habits; one parish sharply contrasting with another. Certain common

traits exist, however, which all present. It is not a historical

accident that the greatest and bloodiest battles of Finland have been

fought on the soil of East Bothnia.

Twenty-five miles east of Vasa, on the banks of Kyro River, is the rich

Storkyro parish--the granary of East Bothnia. Here grows the

well-known rye-seed, which is exported in large quantities to Sweden.

The parish presents a plain of waving grain-fields, from which arose

the saying, "that Storkyro fields and Limingo meadows have no equals in

length and breadth." The people are Finns, of Tavastlandish origin in

remote times. Their old church, built in 1304, is one of the oldest in

the country.

We now ask our reader to follow us there. At the time of our story

this region was badly cultivated, compared with later times. The

ravages of the Peasants' War had retarded its growth, so that for a

generation traces of this disastrous struggle were visible, whilst

other wars, with heavy conscriptions, prevented time from healing these

wounds. Hence, in the summer of 1632, many farmhouses still stood

empty; the grain-fields did not spread far from the river banks, and

unhealthy fogs covered the country when the nights were cool. The

forests, then already thinned, still yielded fuel for the tar pits;

part of the peasantry fished among the Michel Islands, and the worthy

pastor, Herr Georgius Thomoe Patur, had not then, like his present

successor, a yearly income of 4,000 silver roubles. Therefore the eye

lingered with delight on Bertila's farmhouse close to the church, finer

and better built than any of the others, and surrounded by the most

fertile fields.

The summer had advanced to the middle of August, and the harvesting had

just begun. More than sixty persons, men, women, and children--for the

East Bothnian peasant women work the whole summer out of doors--were

busily cutting the golden rye, which they gathered into sheaves and

placed with skilful hands in high, handsome ricks. The day was hot,

and the stooping posture of the work wearisome; so it often happened

that the petted boys amongst the reapers threw longing glances at the

soft grass round the edge of the field, which evidently seemed intended

for a resting-place. At the same time they did not forget to look for

the overseer, an old man in a loose, grey homespun jacket. Whenever

anyone stopped, he heard his neighbour whisper, "Larsson is coming!"

which had an instantaneous effect, like the stroke of a whip.

But Larsson, a small man, between whose bushy head and eyebrows a

good-hearted look glanced forth, was now concerned with one of the

women, who, on account of the heat and work, had sunk to the ground.

Judging from her features this woman was no longer young; perhaps about

thirty-six; but to look at her slender figure, and the mild sympathetic

expression of her blue eyes, she seemed no more than twenty. She

exhibited a rare but prematurely faded beauty, with much suffering and

resignation. She wore a fine white flannel jacket, which being thrown

aside on account of the sun, showed sleeves of the finest linen, a red

bodice, like the peasantry wore, with a short striped woollen skirt,

and a little plaid handkerchief tied around her head, to support her

long flaxen hair. She had worked hard, but her strength was

insufficient; she had fallen with her scythe in her hand, and those

nearest to her, with respect and love, had carried her to the soft

turf, and tried with fresh water from the spring to bring her back to

life.

"There now, Meri!" said old Larsson with fatherly sympathy, as he held

the fainting woman's head on his knees and bathed her forehead with

cold water; "there, my child, don't be foolish enough to die and leave

your old friend; what joy would he then have on earth? ... She cannot

hear me, poor child! Who ever had such a father as hers? To compel

this delicate thing to work in such heat! ... Drink a little--that's

right ... it is very good of you; now open your lovely eyes once more.

Do not trouble, Meri; we will go to the house, and you shall not work

any more to-day."

The pale and delicate creature endeavoured to rise and seize her sickle.

"Thank you, Larsson," she said in a low but melodious voice, "I am

better now. I will work; father washes it."

"Father wishes it!" exclaimed the old man testily. "You see, I do not;

I forbid you to work. Even if your father turned me out of doors, and

I had to beg my bread, you should not work any more to-day. Well,

well, my child, don't take it so hard; your father is not so foolish.

He knows that you are not strong; you are like your dead mother, who

was a lady by birth, and from your education in Stockholm ... There,

there; let us go home; don't be obstinate now, Meri!"

"Let me go, Larsson; see, he comes himself!" cried Meri, tearing

herself free and grasping the scythe, with which she again tried to mow

the golden rye. But as she stooped down, it grew dark before her eyes,

and for the second time she sank fainting between the waving stalks.

At that instant the efforts of all the workers redoubled; he approached

in person, the severe and dreaded owner of Bertila farm. Like a gloomy

shadow he came slowly along the path--a tall old man of seventy, but

little bent by age. His costume was the same as that of the peasants

in summer: wide shirt-sleeves, a long red-striped vest, short linen

pantaloons, blue stockings, and bark-shoes. He wore a high pointed cap

of red yarn on his white head, which made his tall figure still more

imposing. In spite of his simple costume, his whole bearing was

commanding. The decided carriage, sharp penetrating look, resolute

expression, love of authority around the tightly drawn upper lip,

indicated the former political leader and the rich and powerful

land-owner, accustomed to rule over many hundreds of subordinates.

Seeing this old man, one understood why he was known in many

neighbouring parishes as the _Peasant King_.

Cold and calm, old Aron Bertila approached the spot where his only

daughter lay in a dead faint.

"Put her in the hay-wagon and take her up to the house," he said. "In

two hours she will be back to her work."

"But, Bertila!" exclaimed Larsson excitedly.

Bertila looked round with a glance before which the other quailed; then

he stalked on through the field as if nothing had occurred, observing

with a keen eye the labours of the reapers; here and there breaking off

an ear and closely examining the number and weight of the seeds. From

the barn the whole harvest-field was visible; it was new, and more than

a hundred acres in extent. The old man looked with great pride on the

waving sea of golden ears; his carriage became more erect, his breast

expanded, as he beckoned Larsson to him.

"Do you remember this tract thirty-four years ago, when Fleming's

cavalry scoured the country like savages, the village lay in ruins, and

the fields were trampled down by the horses' hoofs. Here, close to the

village, was the desert; naked, charred stumps stood between mud

puddles and quagmires; no road or path led here, and even the forest

wolves avoided the desolate spot."

"I remember it well," said Larsson in a monotonous tone.

"Look now around, old friend, and say. Who rebuilt this village, more

lovely than ever before? Who tilled this wilderness, made roads and

paths, measured the land, drained the morass, ploughed this fertile

soil, and sowed this great field which now waves in the breeze, and

will soon supply hundreds of human beings with its harvest? Say,

Larsson, who is the man who did this mighty work?" and the old man's

eyes flamed with enthusiasm.

But the little, plump person at his side seemed to be possessed with

quite another feeling. He humbly took off his old hat, clasped his

hands, and earnestly said,

"Nothing is he who sows; nothing is he who waters; God alone gives the

growth!"

Bertila, absorbed in thought, heeded him not, and continued,

"Yes, by God! I have seen evil times, days of want, misery, and

despair, which the sword brought upon earth, and I have myself drawn

the weapon to destroy my enemies. I have had victory and defeat, both

to my injury. Hence I can rejoice in the work of peace. I know the

fruit of the sword, and what the plough produces. In the sword lurks a

spirit of evil, which revels in blood and tears; the sword kills and

destroys, but the plough gives life and happiness. You see, Larsson,

the plough has made this field. Over at Korsholm is the Finnish coat

of arms, a lion with a naked sword. Were I king, I would say, Away

with the sword and take the plough. The latter is the true weapon of

Finland; if we possess bread we have plenty of arms; with arms we can

drive our enemies from our homes. But without bread, Larsson, what use

is steel and powder to us?"

"Bertila," said Larsson, "you are a singular man. You hate war, but

that I understand; in war they burnt your farm, and drove your first

wife and her little children into the woods to perish. You yourself

have fought at the head of the peasantry, and barely escaped _the blood

bath on Ilmola's ice_. Such things are not easily forgotten; but what

I cannot comprehend is, that you, a friend of the peasants, a soldier

hater, first took me, an old starving soldier, as overseer on your

farm, then equipped my Lasse--God bless the boy--for the war, and

finally sent your own grandson, Meri's child, little Gösta,* yet

beardless, to the field among the king's cavalry."

* From Gustaf.

Old Bertila's look darkened. Some sensitive chord had been touched,

and he glanced around as if he feared a listener behind the barn walls.

"Who dares to speak to me of Meri's child?" he said in a low tone. "I

know none other than my son Gösta, born of my second wife during the

journey to Stockholm; and God be merciful unto you if ever ... Let us

forget that matter. Why I took you? Why I sent your boy into the

field? H'm! it does not concern anyone."

"Well, keep it to yourself; I know too much already."

"Tell me, if you can, Larsson, what constituents are required for an

honest Christian Government?"

Larsson looked at him with surprise.

"I will tell you. The sword has two parts, the blade and the handle.

Two forces are likewise necessary for the plough: one that draws and

one that drives. And two forces united form a Christian Government,

namely, the people and the king. But that which comes between brings

discord and ruin; it arrogates to itself the king's power and the

people's property. It is a monster."

"I know you hate the nobles."

"And therefore," Bertila laid an emphasis on his words, and uttered

them with an almost ironical smile, which seemed to turn his meaning

into a jest, "you see, _my_ son must either be _peasant or king_;

nothing more or less!"

Larsson looked at him with dismay. He had not imagined the depth of

ambition which had hitherto glowed concealed in the old peasant's

heart. He thought it the extreme of crazy presumption.

"You can certainly never hope," he timidly said, "that Meri's son, with

his birth----"

The old man's eyes flashed, but the words were inaudible that came from

his lips, as if he tried to struggle against an inner impulse, to

express for the first and perhaps for the last time, the bold idea

which had already for many years grown in his tempestuous soul.

"King Gustaf Adolf has only a daughter," he said finally, with a

peculiar look.

"Princess Christina ... Yes."

"But the kingdom at war with half the world, after his death, needs a

man upon the throne."

"Bertila, what do you mean?"

"I mean that in my childhood I heard King Erik's son, in spite of his

peasant wife, Karin, declared the successor to the crown."

"Are you in your senses?"

Again an ironical smile played around the old man's lips.

"Do you not understand," he coldly said, "how it is possible to hate

soldiers and aristocrats, and yet send one's son to war as the nearest

road to distinction, under a king's eyes?"

"I beg of you, Bertila, put aside such wild fancies; you are a

reasonable man when the demon of pride does not get possession of your

restless mind. Your plan will fail; it must fail."

"It cannot fail."

"What! Not fail!"

"No! Have I not told you that Gösta must be either king or peasant?

Either. I do not care. If he wishes to remain a peasant, so be it."

"But if he will not remain a peasant? Supposing he wishes to fight for

a coat of arms, and becomes a nobleman? Remember, you have started him

on the right road for that end; as an officer he is already an equal of

the nobility."

Bertila seemed to be cogitating.

"No!" he cried, "it is impossible. His blood ... his education ... my

will."

"His blood! Then you no longer remember that nobility is in it from

both sides? His education! and you sent him to Stockholm at twelve,

and allowed him to grow up amongst young aristocrats, whom he has

constantly heard express themselves with contempt about the peasantry.

Your will! foolish father to think that you can bend a youth's desires

from the direction given to them by such powerful influences."

The old man remained silent for a time, then he said, coldly,

"Larsson, you are a credulous fool; I joke, and you take it seriously.

I will answer for the youth. Let us say no more about it; but take

care, not a word of what has passed! Do you understand?"

"I am your old friend, Bertila. Since the time when I, a horseman with

Svidje Klas, helped you to escape from Ilmola, you have repaid me the

service many times over; I shall never betray you. But, you see, I

love your children as my own, and cannot bear to see you make the boy

unhappy; and Meri ... are you a father, Bertila? How do you treat your

child, your only daughter, who attends to your lightest wish, and does

everything to atone for the fault of her youth? You treat her worse

than any of your servants; you allow her frail and weak body to perform

the hardest work; she sinks to the ground, and you do not raise her.

You are cruel, Bertila; you are an inhuman father."

"You do not understand the matter," answered the morose old man. "You

are too tender-hearted to comprehend what it means to go straight ahead

without compunction. Meri, like her mother, has the fine lady in her,

and that must be uprooted. She cannot become a queen; well, then, she

shall be a thorough peasant. I have said what I think about the

intermediate class, and now you know the reason for my actions. Come,

let us return to the labourers."

"And Meri ... spare her to-day, at least."

"She shall work with the rest this afternoon."

CHAPTER II.

ASHAMED OF A PEASANT'S NAME.

The log-house of the East Bothnian peasant is now always more roomy,

lighter, and more pretentious in its whole appearance than in any other

part of Finland. It sometimes consists of two storeys, or has at least

a garret; the windows are of good size; it it almost always painted red

or yellow, with white corners, and occasionally possesses window

shutters. The whole bears evidence of mechanical skill and comfort.

The East Bothnian never builds such large and fine villages as the

Tavastlander and the Abo peasants do, but in cases of necessity

constructs good solitary farmhouses. At the time of our story the

smoke-huts were in use by nearly the whole Finnish population; only

peasants of Swedish origin used fire-places and regular chimneys. But

even then one could see in East Bothnia, close to the coast, some

buildings constructed in a more modern style, copied from their Swedish

neighbours.

The newly settled towns had attracted the country people to the coast,

and they had already begun to be accustomed to greater comfort; and the

wealthier the peasant, the quicker his house and person assumed a more

civilised aspect. It is true that the luxury, against which the laws

of the sixteenth century so severely protested, was found only on the

estates of the nobility and among the wealthy Abo burghers--but the

home-brewed ale foamed over in the tankards of the peasants, and the

Holland spices were produced from his cupboards for festive occasions.

Since the fires of the Peasants' War had destroyed the huts of Storkyro

village, one could often see the Swedish and Finnish styles of building

side by side. Bertila's farm was the largest and the richest in the

village, and was built in the new style, with steps and a small

verandah, and two small chambers beside the large room; one for the

master of the family and one for his daughter. The rest of the people

on the farm lived together in the large room, but in summertime the

younger ones slept out of doors in the sheds and some in the lofts.

At this time one would not see the large clock, with its red and blue

painted cover, which to-day is the chief ornament in every peasant's

cottage. The long plain table with its high seat for the master, stood

surrounded by benches on the sides towards the door. It was close to

dinner-time, and in the big fire-place the porridge-kettle was boiling.

The room was nearly empty, only a large cat purred on a bench, and a

girl of fourteen stirred the porridge; and Meri was sitting by the fire

with her work. Poor Meri had just recovered from her fainting attack,

but she was still very pale. Her long golden hair fell down over her

almost bare shoulders; her eyes were often shyly turned towards the

door, as if she feared the sudden entrance of her father. She was

knitting a girdle of the most beautiful colours, and sang at the same

time an old Swedish song.

"This girdle with roses fair

Shall only my loved one wear,

When he from the perils of war

Returns to us from afar."

It has been said that Meri was no longer young. The traces which

suffering had left on her finely formed features told of many a year of

sorrow and pain; but at this moment as she watched the girdle, her face

assumed an almost childish expression of delight. One could see that

her work was a joy to her, and that she sang of someone much beloved

and far away.

Her life with her severe father was full of hardship, and when she

looked at the girdle she semed to read in its bright-coloured loops of

a future full of joy and peace. In this girdle she lived, it was the

same to her as the thought of her only joy--her idolized son.

Again she sang:

"I weave in beads so fine

For this dear beloved of mine,

And no king upon his throne

Shall the like of this girdle own."

Just then Bertila, her father, entered, followed by Larsson and all the

rest of the working people. Old Bertila's looks were dark; he could

not deny to himself that Larsson's predictions were only too likely to

be true. His son a nobleman. This possibility was in his eyes a

disgrace, and up to this time had not troubled his mind.

The last words of Meri's song had just died away. At her father's

entrance she quickly concealed the girdle under her apron; but the

suspicious eyes of the old man fathomed her secret.

"You are again sitting with your dreams, lazy thing, instead of serving

out the porridge," he said in a sharp tone. "What have you underneath

your apron? Out with it."

And Meri was obliged in the presence of them all to reveal the

unfinished girdle--her dearest secret. Her father snatched it from

her, looked at it for a moment with contempt, then tore it in two, and

threw the pieces behind the oven.

"I have told you many a time," he said severely, "that an honest

peasant woman has nothing to do with fancy work. Let us say grace."

The old man then clasped his hands in the usual way, and the rest

followed suit. But before the prayer could be uttered, Larsson stepped

to the middle of the floor, his naturally good-humoured face purple

with rage.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bertila," he said, "to insult

your own daughter in front of all the people! She works like a slave

night and day, more than anyone of us, yet you call her a lazy thing!

I tell you this straight in the face, that although you are my master,

and I eat your bread, and without you I have nothing but the beggar's

staff, that such an unrighteous father does not deserve to have such a

good daughter; and rather than see this misery day after day, I will

beg my bread. But you will have to answer before the Almighty for your

children. And may you now say your grace, and let the food taste well

to you if you can. Farewell, Bertila, I cannot stand this life any

longer."

"Cast out the rascal who dares to speak against the master of the

house," said Bertila with more than usual violence. No one moved. For

the first time the peasant king saw his orders disobeyed.

"Dear master," began the oldest of the labourers, "we all think the

same----"

A terrible blow from the master struck the speaker to the ground before

he finished his remarks. In vain Larsson offered to go of his own

accord; in vain Meri tried to mediate between the disputants. So

strong were the principles of right in these people, that without

consulting anything but their own convictions, they arrayed themselves

as one man against the master's tyranny. Fourteen muscular men stood

erect and resolute before the enraged Bertila, whose tall figure stood

threateningly in the midst of the throng. One more blow, and they

would all have left his service, and perhaps shut him up in his own

little chamber until his anger had subsided; for the farther towards

the north one goes, the more sensitive is the Finnish peasant to blows.

Bertila, however, knew his people, and saw as a wise man that his anger

had led him too far. He sought a means of getting out of the dilemma

without too great a humiliation.

"What is it you want?" he asked with regained self-possession.

The workers looked at each other in silence for a moment.

"You are wrong, master," said one of the boldest at last. "You have

insulted Meri for nothing. You wished to turn Larsson out of the

house, and struck Simeon; you have done wrong."

"Meri, come here."

She did so.

"You are no longer a child, Meri. If you cannot endure to live with

your aged father, then you are at liberty to stay on my farm at Ilmola.

You are free--go, my child."

Bertila knew his daughter. These few words, "go, my child," pronounced

in a milder tone than she was accustomed to hear, were sufficient to

melt his daughter's heart.

"Do not reject me, father," she said, "I will never desert you."

These words made her defenders waver, and the old man saw his

opportunity.

"Bring hither the catechism," he said in a commanding voice.

The fourteen-year-old Greta stepped forward as was the custom on sacred

days, and read aloud:

"Ye servants obey your temporal masters with fear and trembling, in the

simplicity of your hearts! Ye servants be submissive to your masters

in all fear, not only the mild and good, but also the unworthy!"

These words, thus uttered at the right time, did not fail in their

effect.

In these times the power and authority of father and master were at

their zenith, and were not only by word, but in deed, a power by "God's

mercy." The words of obedience heard from childhood, the old man's

commanding tone, and Meri's example of ready submission to her father's

authority, all combined to tone down the hot tempers of the rebels.

They took their places at the table without another word. Only old

Larsson stood sad and hesitating with his hand on the door-latch.

Suddenly the door was opened, and a stranger entered.

The new-comer was a soldier, in a broad-brimmed hat, decorated with a

gracefully fastened eagle's plume. He wore a waistcoat of yellow wool,

short top-boots, bore a cudgel in his hand, and a long sword hung at

his side.

"By St. Lucifer," he said joyfully, "I have come at the right time.

God's peace, peasants, make room at the table; I am as hungry as a monk

during mass, and I am not able to go to the vicarage on this damned

heath. Have you any ale?"

The old man in the high seat, who had not yet quite overcome his

temper, although he appeared to be calm, rose from his chair, but at

once sat down again.

"Sit down, countryman," said the old man softly; "Aron Bertila has room

at his table for self-invited guests also."

"Very well," continued the new-comer, helping himself freely to the

food, which seemed to be a familiar habit with him. "You are Bertila,

then. I am glad to hear it, comrade. Confidence for confidence, I

will now tell you that I am Bengt Kristerson, from Limingo, sergeant in

his Majesty's brave East Bothnians. I am sent here to look after the

conscripts. Some more ale in the tankard, peasants ... well, do not be

afraid, girls, I will not bite you. Bertila," added the soldier with

his mouth full, "what the deuce is this? Are you Lieutenant Bertel's

father, peasant?"

"I do not know that name," replied the old man, who was nettled by the

soldier's impudent remarks.

"Are you mad, old man? You do not know Gustaf Bertel, who six months

ago called himself Bertila?"

"My son! my son!" cried the old man in a voice of anguish. "I am an

unfortunate father! He is ashamed of a peasant's name!"

"Peasant's name," said the soldier laughing, and striking the table

violently, so that the tankards and dishes jumped. "Do ye peasants

also have names? I think I will go without mine. You are a fine

fellow, old man; tell me what the d----l you want with a name?"

He then looked at his host with such an air of naïve impudence, that

the insulting words were somewhat modified in effect.

Old Bertila, however, scarcely honoured him with a glance.

"Fool that I was! I sent out a beardless boy and thought that I sent a

man," he gloomily said to himself.

But the sergeant, who had indulged in many drinks before, and had now

seen the bottom of the jug, did not seem inclined to drop the subject.

"Do not look so fierce, old boy," he said in the same aggravating tone.

"You peasants associate so much with oxen and sheep, that you become

just like them yourselves. If you were a bit civil you would send a

pretty girl to fill my jug. It is now empty, you see; as empty as your

cranium. But you turnip-peelers do not appreciate the honour which is

conferred upon you, of having a royal sergeant for guest. You see, old

fellow, a soldier in these times is everything; he has a name that

rings because he has a sword that rings. But you, old ploughshare,

have nothing but porridge in your head and a turnip in your breast;

fill your mug, old fellow; here's to Lieutenant Bertel's success! So

you refuse to drink the health of an honest cavalier? Out upon you,

peasant."

And the sergeant, in the consciousness of his dignity, struck the table

with his fist, so that the wooden bowls jumped and seemed disposed to

make for the floor with all their contents.

The first effect of this martial joke was to induce six or seven of the

men to rise from their benches, with the object of giving the uninvited

guest a salutary lesson in politeness. But old Bertila stopped them.

He rose composedly from his seat, approached the rowdy sergeant with a

firm step, and without saying a word, grasped him by the neck with his

left hand, and with his right on his back, he lifted the soldier from

the bench, carried him to the door and threw him out on a heap of chips

outside the steps. The funny sergeant was so surprised at this

unexpected attack, that he did not move a muscle to defend himself. If

he had, it was not likely that the seventy-year-old man would have

gained the victory in the struggle.

"Go," cried Bertila after him, "and keep your treatment as a

remembrance of the peasants in Storkyro."

Nothing impresses the multitude so much as resolute courage combined

with a strong arm. When the old man entered the room again he was

surrounded by his people, who now greatly admired him; and this feat

destroyed the difference which had existed a few moments before between

them.

The conflict between the sword and the plough is as old as the world.

The Peasants' War was based on this rivalry, and served to keep it

fresh and alive in the minds of all. These independent peasants had

not been subjected to the tyranny of the landed proprietors. They

witnessed with delight their honour defended against the soldier's

outrageous insults; they forgot at the moment that they might shortly

be compelled themselves to don the soldier's jacket, and fight for

their country. Even the old peasant chief, elated at his exploit, had

surmounted his bad temper.

For the first time in a long while they saw a smile on his lips; and

when the meal was over, he began to relate to them some of his former

adventures.

"Never shall I forget how we cudgelled the rascal Abraham Melchiorson,

the man who, here in Kyro, seized our best peasants, and had them

broken on the wheel like malefactors. With fifty men he had gone up

north. It was winter time. He was a fine gentleman, muffled up from

the cold, and rode so grandly in a splendid wolf-skin cloak. But when

he approached Karleby church we placed ourselves in ambush, and rushing

upon him like Jehu, beat twenty-two of his men to death, and pommelled

him black and blue; but every time he expected a rap he drew the

wolf-skin cloak over his ears, so that no club could disable the

traitor. 'Wait,' said Hans Krank, from Limingo, who led us on that

wolf hunt, 'we will whip him out of his skin yet'; with this he drubbed

Abraham so soundly that he was obliged to let go of his fine fur.

Krank had nothing on but a jacket, and it was cold enough, God knows;

he thought the fur cloak a good thing, and drew it unobserved over his

own shoulders. But, as all this occurred in the twilight, we others

did not notice who was now in the wolf-skin, and we kept on belabouring

the cloak; it is very certain that Krank had a very warm time of it

that evening. But Abraham Melchiorson became so light and nimble after

getting rid of his cloak, that he ran off to Huso farm; but there he

was taken by Saka Jacob from Karleby, and the rascal was taken to

Stockholm; but he did not get much time to mourn over the loss of his

cloak, for the duke soon made him a head shorter."

"Yes," said Larsson, who always tried to defend Fleming and his people,

"that time you had the best of it. Eleven soldiers remained alive, but

seeming to be dead, you took all their clothes. And at midnight they

crept half dead with cold to the vicarage, and were there taken in; but

in the morning you wanted to put them in the water underneath the ice,

alive, as you had done in Lappfjard's River. You were wolves and not

human beings. The water was so low in the river that you had to push

the men down with poles to keep them there; and when they tried to get

up, the women knocked them on their heads with buckets."

"Keep quiet, Larsson, you do not know all that Svidje Klas did," said

Bertila angrily; "I say nothing about all the men that he and his

people have killed and broken on the wheel. Do you remember Severin

Sigfridson at Sorsankoski? He surrounded the peasants, and ordered his

subaltern to behead them one by one; but he was not able to kill more

than twenty-four, and asked the nobleman to finish the rest himself.

The gentleman got angry, and ordered the peasants to cut the subaltern

into five parts, and then do the same to each other as long as one

remained alive."

"But what did you do, you mad brutes, on Peter Gumse's farm? Your men

destroyed the place, broke the windows, slaughtered all the cattle, and

set their severed heads with wide open mouths in the windows as a

scare. Then the beams of the house were cut three parts through, so

that when the folk came home it would fall upon their heads; and when

you caught a horseman you used him as a target for your arrows."

"It is not worth while, Larsson, to try to take Svidje Klas' part. Do

you remember when Axel Kurk's men came and killed a woman's children

before her eyes? The poor mother could not stand this, she and her

half-grown daughter seized the brute by the waist, hit him on the head

with a pole, and pushed him fainting in the water. Svidje Klas then

came and had that same woman cut in two."

"Loose talk, which has never been proven," replied Larsson gruffly.

"The dead keep silent like good children. The 5,000 killed at Ilmola

do not speak."

"Instead of molesting the sergeant, you should have asked him for news

about your son and mine," said Larsson, to get away from their usual

contentious subject--the fatal Peasant War.

"Yes, you are right. I must hear more about the boys and the war. I

am going to Vasa to-morrow."

"Will he soon return?" asked Meri in a shy voice.

"Gösta. He will take his own time," said the father angrily. "He has

now became a nobleman; he is ashamed of his old father .... he blushes

for a peasant's name."

CHAPTER III.

THE SOUTHERN FLOWER COMES TO THE NORTH.

Some miles south of Vasa, on the sixty-third degree of latitude, the

Bay of Finland, which has hitherto gone straight north and south, makes

a perceptible bend towards the north-east. The great blue Baltic

following the same direction, narrows for a moment in the "Qvark,"

widens again, and leans its bright brow against Finland's breast.

Freer there than anywhere else, the winds from the Arctic Ocean sweep

over these coasts and drive the waves with terrible violence against

the rocks. In the midst of this stormy sea, lie Gadden's bare flat

ledges, with their warning lighthouse and far projecting reefs. When

the mountain winds shake their wings over these breakers, then woe unto

the vessel which, without a sure rudder and lightly furled sails,

ventures through the narrow passage at "Understen"--its destruction is

certain. But in the middle of summer it often happens that a slightly

northern wind is the most welcome, and promises clear skies and fine

weather. Then fly many hundreds of sails from the coast out towards

"Qvark's" islands and reefs, to cast their nets for shoals of herrings;

and the restless, murmuring sea dances like a loving mother, with her

daughters, the green islands, resting upon her bosom.

With the exception of Aland and Ekenäs there is no part of Finland's

coast so rich with luxuriant vegetation as "Qvark" and its neighbouring

east shore. These innumerable islets, of which the largest are

Wallgrund and Björkö, are here sprinkled about like drops of green in

the blue expanse, and formed a parish by themselves called

"Replotchapel," inhabited only by fishermen. So numerous are these

groups, so infinitely varied the sounds, so intricate the channels,

that a strange vessel could not find its way out without a native pilot

at the helm. Thirty cruisers here would be insufficient to prevent

smuggling; there is only one means of putting a stop to this inherited

sin of the coast, and this method is a light tariff with but few

prohibitions; Finland during later years has tried it with success and

to her own advantage.

At the same period as described in the preceding chapter, therefore in

the middle of August, 1632, the waters of the Baltic were divided by

the royal man-of-war "Maria Eleonora," bound from Stockholm to Vasa to

transport the recruits for the German War. It was a bright fine summer

morning. Over the wide sea played an indescribable glitter, which was

at the same time grand and enchantingry beautiful. A boundless field

of snow, illumined by the spring sun, can rival it in splendour, but

the snow is stillness and death, the shimmering waves are motion and

life.

A slumbering sea in its resplendency, is grandeur clothed in the smile

of delight; he is a sleeping giant, who dreams of sunbeams and flowers.

Gently heaves his breast; then the plank rocks underneath thy feet, and

thou tremblest not; he could swallow thee up in his abyss, but he

mildly spreads his golden carpet under the keel, and he, the strong,

bears the frail bark like a child in his arms.

It was immediately after sunrise. The monotonous silence of sea-life

prevailed on board the vessel during the morning watch, as when no

danger is feared. Part of the crew were still asleep below the deck,

only the mate, wrapped in a jacket of frieze, walked to and fro on the

aft deck. The helmsman stood motionless at the rudder, the man in the

round top peered ahead, and here and there on the fore deck stood a

sailor, fastening a loose rope end, carrying wood to the caboose, or

polishing the guns which were to salute Korsholm when they entered that

port.

The stern discipline of a modern man-of-war was at that time almost

unknown. There were no uniforms or steam whistles, nor any of the

complex signals and commands which are now carried to such perfection.

Then a man-of-war scarcely differed from a merchant vessel, excepting

in size, armament, and the number of officers and men she carried.

When one remembers that at that time there was neither whisky or coffee

on board to protect against the chill morning air--they had, however,

already learned from the Dutch to use an occasional quid of tobacco for

this purpose--then it is readily perceived that life on the "Maria

Eleonora" bore very little resemblance to that on board one of our

modern men-of-war.

By the green gunwale of the deck stood two female figures, with wide

travelling hoods of black wool on their heads. One of these passengers

was small in atature, and showed under her hood an old wrinkled face,

with a pair of peering grey eyes; she had wrapped herself up in a thick

wadded cloak of Nurberg cloth. The other figure was tall and slender,

and wore a tight-fitting capote of black velvet lined with ermine.

Leaning against the gunwale, she regarded with a gloomy air the fast

receding waves left in the vessel's wake. Her features could not be

seen from the deck; but if one could have caught her countenance from

the mirroring waves, it would have exhibited a classically beautiful

pale face, illuminated by two black eyes, which surpassed in lustre the

shining wave-mirrors themselves.

"Holy Mary!" cried the old woman in strongly pronounced Low German,

"when will this misery come to an end, that the saints have imposed

upon us on account of our sins? Tell me, my little lady, in what part

of the world we are now? It appears to me as if a whole year had

passed since we sailed from Stralsund; for since we left the heretic's

Stockholm I have not kept account of the days. Every morning when I

rise, I say seven _aves_ and seven _pater nosters_, as the revered

Father Hieronymus taught us, as a protection against witchcraft and

evil. One can never know; the world might end here, and we have now

come far away from the rule of the true believing Church and Christian

people. This sea has no end. Oh, this horrible sea! I now praise the

River Main, which flows so peacefully underneath our turret windows in

Würzburg. Say, lady, what if over there, on the horizon, the earth

ends, and that we are sailing straight into purgatory?"

The tall slender girl did not seem to listen to her loquacious duenna.

Her dark brilliant eyes under the black eyelashes were resting

pensively on the water, as if in the waves she could read an

interpretation of the dream of her heart. And when at times a long

swell from former storms rolled forth under the smaller waves, and the

ship gently careened, so that the gunwale dipped close to the water,

and the image in the sea approached the girl on board, then a smile

could be seen on her beautiful features, at once proud and melancholy,

and her lips moved inaudibly, as if to confide her inmost thoughts to

the waves.

"It is only the great and majestic in life that deserve to be loved."

Then she added, transported by this thought:

"Why should I not love a great man?"

And she whispered these words with unbounded enthusiasm. But instantly

a shiver ran through her delicate frame, a bright flash shot from her

dark eyes, and she said, almost trembling at the thought:

"It is only the great and majestic in life that deserve to be hated!

Why should I not hate----?"

She did not finish the sentence. She bent her head towards the ground,

the fire in her eyes disappeared, and in its place a tear was seen.

Two mighty opposing spirits fought with each other in this passionate

soul. One said to her "Love!" the other said to her "Hate!" And her

heart bled under this terrible struggle between the angel and the demon.

It is unnecessary to mention what the reader has already divined, that

the slender girl on board the "Maria Eleonora" was no other than Lady

Regina von Emmeritz, the beautiful fanatical girl who tried to convert

King Gustaf Adolf to the Catholic faith at Frankfurt-on-the-Main. The

king who knew the human heart, considered with reason, that this

religious enthusiast was capable of anything if left a prey to the

Jesuit's influence. It was, therefore, not from revenge, which was

unknown to this great heart, but, on the contrary, from noble

compassion for a young and richly endowed nature, that he had sent her

away for a time to a far-off country, where the black monk's influence

could not reach her. The reader will remember that the king, on the

night of the feast at Frankfurt, ordered the Lady Regina to be sent by

Stralsund and Stockholm to the strict old lady Marta at Korsholm. The

noble king did not know that the dark power, from whom he was trying to

save his beautiful prisoner, followed her even to the far-off coast of

Finland. Lady Regina had permission to choose one of her maids to

accompany her; accordingly she selected the one in whom she had the

greatest confidence; unfortunately this was not the bright and fair

Ketchen--she had been sent back to her relations in Bavaria--but old

Dorthe, who had been her nurse, and who was controlled by the Jesuit;

for a long time this old woman had nourished the fanatical fire in the

young girl's soul. So the poor unprotected maiden was still given up

to the dark powers that had warped her mind since childhood, and

perverted her rich, sensitive heart with their terrible teachings. And

against this influence she could only place a single but mighty

feeling: her admiration, her enthusiastic attachment to Gustaf Adolf,

whom she loved and hated at the same time--whom she would have been

able to kill, yet for whom she would herself have suffered death.

The shrewd Dorthe seemed to guess her mistress' thoughts; she leaned

forward, and peering with her small eyes, said in the familiar tone

which a subordinate in her position so easily assumes:

"Aye, aye.... Is that the way it stands; do they come up again, the

sinful thoughts about the heretic king and all his followers? Yes,

yes, the devil is cunning; he knows what he is about. When he wishes

to catch a little frivolous girl of the usual kind, he puts before her

eyes a young handsome cavalier, with long silken curls. But when he

wishes to entangle a poor forsaken girl, with great proud thoughts and

noble aspirations, he brings forward a great king, who gains castles

and battles; and little does the poor child care that the stately

conqueror is a sworn enemy to her Church and faith, and is working for

the ruin of both."

Regina turned her tearful and glistening eyes away from the sea, and

looked for a moment with indescribable doubt at her old counsellor.

"Say," said she, almost vehemently, "is it possible to be at once the

greatest and the most hateful of human beings?"

Regina looked again towards the sea. The peaceful tranquility of the

mornine lay over the glittering waters, and stilled the tempest within.

The young girl remained silent. Dorthe continued:

"By their fruits ye shall know them. Just think, what evil has not the

godless king done to our Church and us? He has slain many thousands of

our warriors; he has plundered our cloisters and castles; he has driven

out our nuns and holy fathers from their godly habitations, and the

devout pater, Hieronymus, has been frightfully abused by his people,

the heretic Finns; ourselves he has sent away to the ends of the

earth..."

Again Regina looked over at the islands and the inlets bathed in the

mild morning effulgence. While the dark demon whispered hatred in her

ears, beaming nature seemed to preach only love. On her lips hovered

already the ravishing thought:

"What matters it if he has slain thousands; if he has driven away monks

and nuns; if he has forced us into exile! What matters all this, if he

is great as an individual, and acts according to the dictates of his

faith!"

But she kept silent from fear; she dared not break from all her

preceding life. She caught up, instead, one of Dorthe's words, as if

to dispel the thunder-cloud of hatred and malice, which enveloped her

heart in its dark mist, in the midst of this calm and lovely scene.

"Do you know, Dorthe," she said, "that the Finns whom you hate live on

the coast of this sea? Do you see that strip of land over there in the

east? It is Finland. I have not yet seen its shores, and yet I cannot

detest a country which is bathed by so glorious a sea. I cannot think

that evil people can grow up in the heart of such a land."

"All saints protect us!" exclaimed the old woman, and her lenn hand

hastily made the sign of the cross. "Is that Finland? St. Patrick

preserve us from ever setting foot upon its cursed soil; my dear lady,

you have then never heard what is said of this land and its heathen

people? There prevails an eternal night; there the snow never melts;

there the wild beasts and the still wilder men lie together in dens and

caves. The woods are so thick with hobgoblins and imps, that when one

of them is called by name, a hundred monsters immediately come forth

from the leaves and branches. And among themselves, these people

bewitch each other with all kinds of evils, so that when anyone carries

food to another person, he changes his enemy into a wolf; and every

word they speak takes life, so that when they wish to make a boat or an

axe, they say it, and directly they have what they wish."

"You are drawing a fine picture," said Regina, smiling for the first

time in a long period, for the freshness of the sea had a good

influence on her dreamy soul. "Happy is the land where the people can

create all they wish for with a word. If I am hungry, and desire a

beautiful fruit, I have but to say, _peach_, and right away I have it.

If I feel thirsty, I say, _spring_, and instantly a spring gurgles at

my feet. If I have sorrow in my heart, I say, _hope_, and hope

returns. And if I long for a beloved friend, I mention his name, and

he stands by my side. A glorious land is Finland, were it such as you

represent it to me. Even if we lived with wild beasts in a cave under

the eternal snows, we would look at each other and say, Fatherland, and

at the same moment we would sit hand in hand on the banks of the Main,

beneath the shadows of the lindens, where we often sat when I was a

child, and the nightingales of our native land would sing to us as

before."

Dorthe turned angrily away. The vessel steered between the rocks and

islands, and moved with gentle speed past the outermost cliffs, many of

which now stand high above the surface of the water, but at that time

these were washed by the briny waves.

"What is the name of the long, richly wooded stretch of land to the

left?" asked Regina of the helmsman standing near.

"Wolf's Island," answered the man.

"There you have it yourself, dear lady ... Wolf's Island! That is the

first name we hear on Finland's coast, and shows us what we have to

expect."

The vessel now turned to the north, and sailed between Langskär and

Sundomland, again veered towards the east, passed Brändö, went safely

over the shoals, which now exclude large vessels from its waters, into

Vasa's at that time superb harbour, and then saluted with sixteen

cannon the castle of Korsholm.

CHAPTER IV.

THE PEASANT--THE BURGHERS--AND THE SOLDIER.

When the rich Aron Bertila seated himself in his nice chaise to take a

short journey to Vasa, it was decided, as a pledge of the restored good

feeling between father and daughter, that Meri should take the seat by

his side, and purchase in town some salt fish, hops, and certain

spices, ginger and cinnamon, which already began to be seen in the

houses of the wealthiest peasants. Both father and daughter had their

private interests in the journey; but neither would confess that it was

news from Germany which each sought. Larsson had charge in the

meantime of the home work.

It was just when Gustaf Adolf and Wallenstein stood opposed at

Nürnberg. Soldiers were badly wanted, and Oxenstjerna wrote constantly

from Saxony to hasten the arrival of additional reinforcements. The

harvesting at its height, clashed with the harvesting of war, also at

its greatest altitude. A large number of conscripts were compelled to

go down to Vasa from the neighbouring villages, then they were taken to

Stockholm, and thence to the scene of war in Germany.

At that epoch military drill was not nearly so complicated as it is

now; to stand fairly in the ranks, rush straight at the enemy on

command, to aim well--as the East Bothnians had learned beforehand in

the seal-hunts--and to hew away manfully, these were the chief things.

Thus one can understand why many of these peasant boys, just taken from

the plough, were able to fall with honour by the side of their king at

Lützen.

The town of Vasa was then only twenty years old, and much smaller than

now, not merely on account of its youth, but because all expansion was

stopped on the south side by the crown fields of Korsholm. Around the

old Mustasaari church, on the northern side of "Kopmans" and "Stora"

streets, were a few rows of newly built one-storey houses, with six or

eight small shops. Near the harbour stood storehouses, and that

neighbourhood was also filled with fishermen's and sailors' huts in

groups, for regular streets were considered superfluous by the

architects of that time, and the closer the houses stood together, the

greater the mutual protection in stormy periods.

A borough, like Vasa, held one common family, and the inhabitants

looked with pride on the high green battlements of Korsholm.

The long-credited story, confirmed by Messenius, that Korsholm was

built by Birger Jarl, and received its name from a large wooden cross

raised as a symbol, refuge, and sign of victory, was founded on the old

tradition that the great "Jarl," on his expedition to Finland, landed

on this very coast. Later researches have thrown some doubt on this

story of Korsholm's origin; but it is certain that the fortress is very

old, so old that it is beyond calculation. It has never been besieged;

its situation renders it of no importance to Finland; and after Uleä

and Kajana castles were built, shortly before the time of our story, it

had ceased to be considered a military position. It now served as the

residence of the Governor of the Northern districts, to lodge other

crown officials, and serve as a prison; and its so-called "dairy"

yielded a nice income to the Governor. The Stadtholder of Northern

Finland, Johan Mansson Ulfsparre of Tusenhult, lived only at intervals

at Korsholm, and it is said that his seventy-year-old mother, Mistress

Marta, ruled with a stern hand over both castle and dairy in his

absence. Between the peasants and burghers an unnatural and injurious

rivalry prevailed at that time, owing to the efforts of the Government

to suppress the country trade for the benefit of the towns, and in a

very ignorant way to regulate the exchange of commodities. Therefore,

when the rich old peasant with his daughter drove in through the

country toll-gate on the Lillkyro side, a few of the citizens, it is

true, nodded a greeting to the well-known old man for the sake of his

wealth; but the proudest amongst the merchants, who feared his

influence with the king, gazed on him with hostile eyes, and gave vent

to their ill-feelings in sarcastic words, uttered loud enough to reach

the old man's ears.

"Here comes the peasant king of Storkyro!" they said, "and Vasa has no

triumphal arch! He considers himself too good to thrash in the barn;

he means to enter the army and become commander at once. Take care!

Do you not see how angry he looks, the log-house king? If he had his

way, he would plough up the whole town and make it into a rye-field!"

The hot-tempered Bertila concealed his resentment, and hurried up the

horse, so as to arrive quickly at the widow's house, where he generally

resided when in town. He had not gone far, however, up Kopman Street,

which was not one of the widest, before it was blocked by a crowd of

drunken recruits, who, in an ale-house near by, had inaugurated their

new comradeship and strengthened themselves for the long journey ahead.

Two sub-officers had joined the crowd as its self-appointed leaders,

and rushed with a bold "out of the way, peasant!" towards the new-comer.

Bertila, already irritated and unable to control himself, answered the

summons with a cut of the whip, which knocked off the foremost

sub-officer's broad-brimmed hat with an eagle's feather. At once the

affray began. The man struck rushed upon the chaise, and the whole

crowd followed him.

"Aha, old fellow!" exclaimed the jovial serjeant, Bengt Kristerson,

whom Bertila had so ignominiously expelled from his house, "now we have

got you, and I will recompense you for your gracious treatment

yesterday. Make way, boys; the old fellow is mine; this fish I will

scale myself."

Bertila was too old to rely upon the power of his fists, and he looked

around for a place of refuge. Whip in hand, he leaped from the chaise,

which had stopped close to the entrance of a shop, and gave the horse a

lash, so that the latter, chaise and daughter, rushed through the

yielding crowd and galloped up the street. But before Bertila could

find a refuge in the shop, the door was slammed in his face by the

timorous owner. The old champion, seeing escape cut off, placed his

back to the door, and menaced the assailants with his long whip.

"Let us thrash the proud Storkyro peasant," cried a young Laihela boy,

who, by carrying a musket for a week, had forgotten his peasant origin,

but not his rustic language.

"Your father was a better man, Matts Hindrickson," said Bertila

contemptuously, "instead of assailing his own people, he helped us,

like an honest peasant, to pommel Peder Gumse's cavalry in former days."

"Do you hear that, boys?" cried one of the subalterns; "the dog boasts

of thrashing brave soldiers."

"We will not allow anyone to lord it over us!"

"The peasant shall dance to our tune!"

"And not we to his."

And five or six of the most excited, who had lately worn the jacket of

the peasants themselves, rushed to drag Bertila down the steps. The

old man would have got the worst of it, had not the aforesaid jolly

sergeant thrown himself between him and the assailants.

"Hold on, boys!" cried Bengt Kristerson in a stentorian voice. "What

the devil are you about? Are you honest soldiers? Do you not see that

the old man is seventy years old, and yet you go six to one at him!

Blitz-donner-kreutz-Pappenheim (the sergeant had learned this potent

oath in the proper school, and it never failed in its effect), is that

warlike? What would the king say about it? Out of the way, boys; the

old man is mine; I alone have the right to wash him clean. You should

have seen how he threw me down the steps yesterday like an old glove.

It was a fine stroke, and now it has to be repaid."

Courage and magnanimity seldom fail. The nearest willingly gave way.

The sergeant advanced to the steps. Bertila could reach him with his

whip, but he did not strike. He knew his people.

"Do you know what it means, peasant," cried the sergeant with an

authoritative air, which would have become General Stälhandske himself,

"to throw a soldier of the great king down the steps? Do you know what

it means to knock off the hat of a defender of the evangelical faith,

and a conqueror who has gained fourteen battles and run his sword

through sixteen or seventeen living generals? Do you know, peasant, if

I were in your place----?"

"If I stood in the place of a soldier of his Majesty," coolly answered

Bertila, "I would respect an honest man in his own house, and a

grandsire's old age. And if I stood in the shoes of Bengt Kristerson,

and had conquered the Roman Emperor, and run my sword through seventeen

living commanders, still I would not forget that Bengt Kristerson's

father, Krister Nilsson, was a Limingo peasant, and fell on Ilmola's

ice like an honest fighter against Fleming's tyranny."

The sergeant was abashed for a moment. Then he stepped close up to his

opponent, and said in a bragging manner:

"Do you know, peasant, that I could impale you on this?" and so saying,

he drew his long sword half-way from its sheath.

Bertila looked calmly at him with folded arms.

"Are you not afraid, old man?" resumed the hero of fourteen battles,

evidently taken aback by the peasant's firm attitude.

"Did you ever see an honest Finn afraid?" said the old man, almost

smiling.

The sergeant was not malicious. He suddenly felt much inclined to be

generous; his fierce mien changed into the blustering, jovial air which

became him so well.

"Do you know, boys," he said, with a look at his companions, "that the

old ox has got both horns and hoofs? He might have become something in

the world if he had been in good society. Yesterday, when they were

fourteen to one--for you should know, boys, that all fourteen of the

hands helped to lift me on the clodhopper's back, and then I gave

everyone of them a remembrance of it--yes, as I say, yesterday I would

have beaten the old fellow black and blue, had it not been for the

presence of ladies at the table. But to-day we are fifteen against

one, and so I propose that we let the old fellow go."

"He is as rich as Beelzebub," shouted some of the conscripts; "he shall

treat us to a cask of ale."

Bertila produced a little purse, and threw some Carl IX. silver coins

contemptuously among the crowd. This irritated the soldiers afresh;

and again the storm threatened to burst forth, when suddenly

cannon-shots were heard, and the whole crowd rushed down to the

harbour. It was the Swedish man-of-war, "Maria Eleonora," saluting

Korsholm.

CHAPTER V.

LADY REGINA ARRIVES AT KORSHOLM.

All who had life and sound limbs in Vasa had gone down to the shore, to

see the uncommon sight of a man-of-war. Five or six hundred people

lined the shore--rowed out in boats, climbed the masts of the vessels,

or got on the roofs of the warehouses to get a better view.

Two hundred recruits regarded with mixed feelings the vessel which was

perhaps destined to take them from their Fatherland for ever. Behind

them stood a large crowd of mothers, sisters, and sweethearts, crying

bitterly at the thought of the approaching separation.

The Commissary-General, Ulfsparre, was away in Sweden. The next

authority, Steward Peder Thun, as well as the military commander,

received the new-comers; the recruits formed in ranks, and the captain

of the "Maria Eleonora" offered his arm courteously to Lady Regina, to

escort her to Korsholm. But at this moment the proud young girl felt

that she was a prisoner; she declined the officer's arm, and walked

alone with a royal bearing between the ranks of the recruits and the

gaping crowd.

Such a strange sight put the whole town in a great commotion. In a

moment the strangest rumours about her arose and spread.

"She is an Austrian princess," said some; "the Emperor's daughter,

taken prisoner during the war, and sent here for safety."

Others pretended she was the Queen Maria Eleonora; but why did she come

to Korsholm?

"I will tell you," said one, whispering with an important air to

another. "She is in league with her German countrymen against the

king, and therefore she is to be confined in remote Korsholm."

"That is not true," rejoined another, who had heard some vague stories

of the conspiracies against the king's life. "It is," added he in a

low voice, as if fearing to be heard by the object of his remarks, "a

nun from Walskland, hired by the Jesuits to make away with the king.

Six times she has given him deadly poison, and six times he has been

warned in dreams not to drink. When she offered him the draught for

the seventh time, the king drew his sword and forced her to swallow her

own poison."

"Then how can she be here alive?" said an old lady very innocently.

"Alive!" repeated the story-teller, without being put out in any

degree; "oh, that is another matter. These creatures can dissemble to

such an extent... Yes, indeed; do you remember the Hollanders last

year, how they bolted molten lead? I do not wish to say anything, but

just look--the black-haired nun is as pale as death!"

"Has she given the king poison?" cried a trembling female voice close

behind.

It was Meri, who with bated breath had listened to every word.

"What rubbish!" said a sea-captain with a mysterious knowing air.

"When I was at Stralsund, last spring, I saw those eyes, which one

cannot easily forget. The girl was then taken to Stockholm, and one of

the guards told me the entire story. She is a Spanish witch, who has

sold herself to the evil one, in order to be the most beautiful woman

on earth for seven years. Look at her: do you not see that the devil

has kept his word? Take care; in those eyes there is something that

charms and bewitches. When she became as beautiful as she is now, she

entered the Swedish camp, and gave the king a love-potion, so that he

could neither see or hear anyone else but herself for seven whole

weeks. His generals thought this a sin and shame, and the enemy

pressed them sorely; so one night they took her secretly and sent her

to spend the seven enchanted years at Korsholm."

"Did the king love her?" asked Meri with emotion.

"Of course he did," answered the blunt sea-captain.

"Did she also love the king?"

"What is there more curious than a woman? How the deuce do you expect

me to know all about it? The foul-fiend is wiser than other folks,

that is certain. She gave the king a copper ring..."

"With seven circles inside each other, and three letters engraved on

the plate..."

"What the devil do you know about that? I have heard of the seven

circles, but not of the plate."

Meri took a deep breath. "He wears it still!" she said to herself with

a great joy.

Meri was superstitious, like all the people of that period. She never

doubted the existence of witches, enchantments, and love potions; but

this strange dark girl, who loved the king and was beloved by him in

return ... was she really guilty of the horrible things they said about

her? The poor forgotten one was seized with the most violent wish to

approach this extraordinary being, who had been so near the great

monarch. Each moment was precious. In a few hours she must return to

Storkyro. She took heart and followed the stranger to Korsholm.

The old residence inside the ramparts, in spite of its fine outlook,

was more sombre than magnificent. Frequent changes of Stadtholders,

who only lived there a little while at a time, had given to the

double-storied granite building, with its side wings for prisoners, a

terribly deserted appearance. It certainly more resembled a jail than

a great governor's residence. The dreariness was increased by its

present inhabitants, stern Fru Marta, with her aged maid-servants, some

invalid soldiers, and gruff jailors. Had Gustaf Adolf recollected the

condition of the place, he would probably not have sent his young

prisoner to such a depressing abode.

Fru Marta expected her guest, who had been described to her as a

dangerous and depraved young person, of superhuman cunning. She had,

therefore, prepared a little dark chamber within her own for Lady

Regina and her attendant, and made up her mind to keep the closest

watch on the wild young lady. Fru Marta was a good, honest soul, but

sharp and severe like a lady of the old school, who had brought up all

her children with the rod. It never entered her mind that a lonely,

defenceless, and forsaken young girl, isolated in a strange land,

needed a comforting, sympathetic hand and motherly kindness; Fru Marta

felt that discipline ought to tame a spoilt child, and then milder

treatment could be introduced.

When Lady Regina, accustomed to the freedom of the sea, entered this

gloomy dwelling, an involuntary shudder passed through her slight

frame. This feeling remained when she was received on the threshold by

the old lady, in a close linen cap and a long dark woollen cloak.

No doubt Lady Regina's inclination of the head was somewhat stiff, and

her whole bearing somewhat reserved, when she greeted Fru Marta on the

castle steps. But Fru Marta was not intimidated by it. She took the

young girl by both hands, shook them vigorously, and nodded a greeting,

about half-way between a welcome and a menace. Then she surveyed her

guest from head to foot, and the result of the examination was muttered

aloud:

"Figure like a princess ... no harm; eyes black as a gipsy's ... no

evil; skin as white as milk ... no mischief; proud ... ah, ah, that is

bad; we shall be two about that, my young friend."

Regina impatiently made a motion to proceed, but Fru Marta did not let

go her hold.

"Wait a bit, my dear," said the stern dame, as she endeavoured to

recollect her ancient stock of German words; "it takes time to go a

long way. One who crosses my threshold must not be taller than the

door-post. Better to bend in youth than creep in old age. There ...

that's the way for a young girl to greet one who is older and wiser..."

And before Lady Regina knew it, the strong old lady had put her right

hand on her neck, her left against her waist, and with a sudden

pressure, forced her proud guest to bow as deeply as one could desire.

Lady Regina's pale cheeks were covered with a flush as red as the

sunset sky before a storm. More erect and prouder than before rose the

girl's slender figure, and her dark eyes flashed fire. She said

nothing, but old Dorthe was determined to give Fru Marta a lesson in

politeness on her mistress' behalf. She advanced with lively southern

gesticulations, and screamed, beside herself with anger:

"Miserable Finnish witch, how dare you treat a high-born lady in such a

manner? Do you know, vile jailor, whom you have the honour of

receiving in your house? You do not! Then I will tell you. This is

the exalted Lady Regina von Emmeritz, _née_ Princess of Emmeritz,

Hohenloe, and Saalfield, Countess of Wertheim and Bischoffshöhe,

heiress of Dettelsbach and Kissingen, &c. Her father was the Prince of

Emmeritz, who owned more castles than you, miserable wretch, have huts

in your town. Her mother was Princess Würtemberg, related to the

Electoral House of Bavaria, and her still living uncle, the Right

Reverend Bishop of Würzburg, is lord of Marienburg, and the town of

Würzburg, with all the lands belonging to it. You take advantage of us

because your heretic king has taken our land and town, and made us

prisoners; but the day will come when St. George and the Holy Virgin

will descend and destroy you, you heathen; and if you harm a hair of

our heads, this castle shall be levelled to the ground, and you,

miserable witch, and your whole town, annihilated ..."

It is probable that old Dorthe's outpourings would not have come to an

end for some time, had not Fru Marta made a sign to her servants, at

which they carried off the old woman without any ceremony, and in spite

of her strenuous resistance, to one of the small rooms on the lower

floor, where she was left to herself to further reflect upon the high

lineage of her young lady.

But Fru Marta took the astonished Regina, half by force, half

voluntarily, by the arm, and led her to the allotted room near her own,

with a view over the town. Here the stern old lady left her for the

present, yet not without adding the following admonitions at the door:

"I can tell you, my young friend, to obey is better than to weep; the

bird that sings too early in the morning is in the claws of the hawk

before evening. Follow the laws of the country you are in. It is now

seven o'clock. At eight supper is served, at nine you go to bed, and

at four in the morning you get up, and if you don't know how to card

and spin, I will give you some sewing, so that time shall not hang

heavy on your hands. Then we will talk together, and when your waiting

woman learns to hold her tongue you may have her back again. Good

night; don't forget to say your prayers; a psalm Prayer Book lies on

the dressing-table."

With these words Fru Marta shut the door, and Lady Regina was alone.

Solitary, imprisoned, in a foreign land, left to the mercy of a hard

keeper ... her thoughts were of the most depressing kind. Lady Regina

fell on her knees, and prayed to the saints, not from the heretic

Prayer Book, but with the rosary of rubies which her uncle, the bishop,

had formerly given her as sponsor. What did she pray for? Only Heaven

and the black walls of Korsholm know that; but a sympathetic heart can

imagine her petitions. She prayed for the saints' assistance; for the

victory of her faith and the downfall of the heretics; she prayed also

that the saints might convert King Gustaf Adolf to the only saving

Church; that he, another Saul, might become another Paul. Finally she

prayed for freedom and protection ... the hours fled; her supper was

brought in, and still she continued her supplications.

At last Lady Regina arose and looked out of the little window. There

lay a landscape in the sunset glow; it was not Franconia, with its

luxuriant vineyards; it was not the rushing Main; the town yonder was

not rich Würzburg, with its rows of cloisters and high turret spires.

It was poor, pale Finland, with an arm of its sea; it was young little

Vasa, with its church, Mustasaari, the oldest in East Bothnia; one

could plainly see the reflection of the sun on the small Gothic

windows, of stained glass belonging to Catholic times, and it seemed to

Regina as if she saw the transfigured saints looking out from their

former temple. And at this moment, had not the eye of the setting sun

itself such a beatific look, as it serenely gazed down upon the world's

strife! All was silent and still--the evening glow, the landscape's

pretty verdure, the newly mown fields with their rows of sheaves, the

small red houses with their shining windows--all conduced to devotion

and peace.

Suddenly, Lady Regina heard in the distance a mild, plaintive song,

simple and unaffected, as if proceeding from nature's own heart, on a

lonely evening, with a setting sun on the shore of a silent sea, when

all sweet memories awaken in a longing breast. At first she did not

listen, but it came nearer ... now it was obstructed by a cottage wall,

now by a group of hanging birches; now it was heard again, high, clear,

and free; and finally one could distinguish the words.

CHAPTER VI.

THE LOVE OF THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH.

When the lonely singer approached one could gradually understand the

import of the song. It was a gentle heart, which sang in uneven but

impressive numbers, its longings and its sorrows on the shore in the

glow of a beautiful August evening far off in the north country.

"The sun shines bright and clear

O'er the waters far and near,

And the moon wanders in the night

Above in the heavenly sphere.

But never again will the sun supreme

Shine down on the forgotten troth,

And never again shall the gentle moon's beam

Illumine the brave knight's holy oath.

"The only one I loved so dear

Lives far away in a palace fine,

Surrounded by splendour he leaves me here

Alone with grief and sorrow mine.

He is served by many, I have but one knight,

He has castles, towns, and land.

I spread my pearls in the evening light

And sing to the waves on the strand.

"The bird flies to the south so fair,

Far away to the castle grand,

And sings on the tree a sorrowful air,

As I in my lonely land.

The brave knight listens to the song,

How strangely his heart doth beat,

And before one knows the evening long

Hath gone like the joys that never repeat."

The more Lady Regina listened to the simple strains, which to her were

foreign and strange, and yet appealing through their deep melancholy,

the more she was affected by this sorrow so like her own. She wished

to breathe the fresh evening air; the little window, however, long

resisted her attempts to open it, but all Lady Marta's prudence could

not prevent the hinges from being old and rusty, and at last they

yielded to the young girl's persistent efforts. She had only been a

guest in this castle for a few hours, and yet she inhaled the evening

fragrance as a prisoner for long years finally breathes the air of his

freedom. Her heart expanded and her eyes regained their fire; her mind

became filled with a dreamy ecstasy, and she sang softly, so as not to

be heard by her custodian, but clearly and melodiously.

REGINA'S SONG.

"Great as my sufferings are

Still to thee I will repair.

Holy Virgin, wilt thou bless

What to thee I now confess,

My soul's desire sincere

To die without fear.

"Amongst the kings of the earth

My loved one hath his birth,

Far flash his dread strokes

As the Almighty's lightnings rend the oaks.

But victor and conqueror tho' he be

Yet mild and merciful is he.

"I'll all forget, and firmly stand,

If you give me the dread command

To stop the hero's great career.

O holy Virgin, bright and dear,

God's mother, thou me hear,

Spare the noble heart that knows no fear.

"Make the heretic king his faults forswear,

And that he will our glorious faith declare.

Then my weary heart will gain its rest.

O Mary, grant me this request,

Spare his life, his throne,

Let me with my death for his crime atone."

The solitary figure which had sung the first song now slowly approached

the castle walls; it was a woman of the people, with once beautiful

features, now pale and expressing a winning and sympathetic heart. She

tried to listen to the strange girl's song, but could not succeed on

account of the foreign language and suppressed tones. She then seated

herself on a stone a short distance from the castle, and fixed her mild

gaze on the prisoner at the window. In her turn, Regina also fastened

her dark penetrating eyes on the visitor. One would think that they

perfectly understood each other, for the language of songs needs no

other lexicon than the heart. Or did a presentiment tell them, the

girl of seventeen and the woman of thirty-six, that their loves were

concentrated on the same object, and that both sang their shipwrecked

hopes on the lonely shore, but in an infinitely differing way?

Up in the north the summer nights are clear until the beginning of

August, then a light veil spreads itself over land and sea as soon as

the sun goes down. By the middle of August this veil has already

become thicker, and casts a mild soft shade over the summer leaves and

grass. When the moon rises upon this world of vanishing green, then

there is nothing more sadly beautiful to be found in all nature than

one of these lovely evenings in August. Then the eye accustomed to

three months unbroken day, shrinks from the darkness and yet sees this

darkness in its loveliest aspect, like a mild sorrow softened by a ray

of heavenly glory. This impression would return every year even if one

lived for centuries; it is light and darkness which at the same moment

are struggling in the world and in the human heart.

The two lonely singers felt the power of this impression; they both sat

fixed and mute, quietly regarding each other in the twilight; neither

of them spoke, and yet they understood each other's inmost thoughts.

Then the pale woman suddenly rose and turned her face towards the town.

She seemed to be listening to a noise which disturbed the holy peace of

the evening.

Lady Regina followed every movement of the stranger, and leaned out of

the window so as to be able to see better. All nature was calm and

silent, only the strokes of oars were heard from the sea, or the

melancholy prolonged note from some shepherd's horn. This stillness

increased by the first darkness of the autumn, had something solemn and

inviting to worship about it, and made the noise which now came from

the distant town still more singular. It was not the surges of the

sea, or the roar of the fors,* or the crackling of a fire in the wood.

Although it resembled all these. It was more like the murmur of an

enraged populace, at once actuated by rage and want. Directly

afterwards the reflection of a fire was seen afar off in the northern

portion of the town.

* Fors, a stream peculiar to the north, like rapids.

With the speed of the wind the lonely woman outside the wall hurried

away in the direction of the sounds and light .... We will now precede

her for a moment.

The arrival of the man-of-war, which was destined to transport the

conscripts, had placed the latter in a state of excitement much

augmented by sorrow, pride, and ale. With their under officers at

their head, they had thronged around the ale-shops, and at this time,

when the soldier was all important, one was often obliged to overlook

his irregularities and keep him in a good humour. The superior

officers consequently pretended not to notice that 200 young men, with

the combative temperament of East Bothnia, were in a state of

intoxication more or less; and it is possible that this policy might

have been the right one at the time, had not a special circumstance

detrimental to peace brought their unrestrained passions into full play.

The brave sergeant, Bengt Kristerson, did not neglect this opportunity

to do himself every possible justice. Filled with a sense of his own

great importance, he had jumped on a table and easily demonstrated to

the crowd of conscripts: first, that he especially had conquered

Germany; secondly, that long before this he would have driven the

Emperor Ferdinand into the River Danube, had not the latter been in

league with Satan and bewitched the whole Swedish army, and the king

himself first of all; thirdly, that Bengt, on the night of the

Frankfurt ball, was on guard outside the king's bed-chamber, and there

he had plainly seen Beelzebub in the form of a young girl, who then

made a terrible commotion; fourthly--this thought naturally struck him

during his inspired address--that the weal or woe of the country, yes,

of the whole world, depended upon the witch, who was a prisoner at

Korsholm...

"You will see that the black-haired witch will bring the plague to the

town," observed thoughtfully a Malax peasant, with very fair hair and

shabby appearance.

"The wolf-cub!"

"The king's murderess!"

"Shall we allow her to sit in peace and destroy both king and country

with her witch-shots?" cried a drunken clerk of assizes, who had just

joined the company.

"Let us duck her in the sea!" shrieked a Nerpes peasant.

"Let us club her on the spot!" yelled a Lappo cottager, with an eagle

nose and dark bushy eyebrows.

"And if they do not give her into our hands, we will set fire to

Korsholm and burn the owl and the nest at the same time," said a

ferocious Laihela peasant.

"Better that, than to have the kingdom ruined," remarked a

grave-looking seal-hunter from Replot.

"Here, take brands!" shouted a Worä peasant.

"To Korsholm!" cried the whole crowd. And stimulated as usual by their

own clamour, they rushed to the big open fire-place in the large room,

and pulled out all the brands from it. But, unfortunately, there was a

lot of hemp hanging in bundles on the wall in the room. One of the

conscripts in the scramble swung his brand too high, and the hemp

caught fire; the strong draught from the open door fanned the flame,

and in a few minutes the ale-house was in full blaze.

All inside rushed out, and no one had time to realise how it happened.

"It is a witch-shot!" cried some of them.

"The witch at Korsholm will have to pay for all this!" shouted the

others.

And the whole raging mass rushed off at full speed towards the old

castle.

CHAPTER VII.

THE SIEGE OF KORSHOLM.

As soon as Meri--for she was the lonely singer--understood the wild

crowd's intention, she flew back to Korsholm. By the silver rays of

the moonlight, which shone over the landscape, she plainly

distinguished Regina's dark locks, which, blacker than the night, stood

in relief from the room in the background, like a shadow in the midst

of the shade. Under these locks shone two eyes, dreamy, deep, like the

glimmer of the stars in the dusky mirror of a lake. The words died on

Meri's lips; all the strange rumours rose like spectres in her mind.

She who sat up there alone at the window, was she not, after all, a

southern witch, weeping over her fate in being compelled to spend the

seven years of her wondrous beauty within these walls, and then

reassume her normal shape; a terrible monster, half-woman and

half-serpent?

Meri stood as if petrified at the foot of the wall.

But nearer and nearer was heard the murmur of the wild crowd, and the

light of the torches began to be reflected on the castle. Then the

superstitious countrywoman gathered courage, and raised her voice to

the window.

"Fly, your grace," she said rapidly in Swedish; "fly, a great danger

threatens you; the soldiers are intoxicated and frantic; they say that

you have tried to kill the king, and they demand your life."

Regina saw the pale form in the moonlight, and before her imagination

rose all the stories she had heard about this land of witchcraft.

During her ten months' stay in Sweden she had in some degree learned to

understand the language; she did not immediately comprehend the other's

meaning, but a single word sufficed to attract all her attention.

"The king?" she repeated in broken Swedish. "Who are you, and what can

you tell me about the great Gustaf Adolf?"

"Lose not a moment, your grace," continued Meri, ignoring Regina's

question. "They are already at the gates, and Fru Marta, with six

soldiers, will not be able to protect you against two hundred. Quick!

don't come out by the door, but tie together sheets and shawls, and let

yourself down through the window; I will receive you."

Regina saw that a danger threatened, but far from being terrified by

it, she heard it with a secret joy. Was she not a martyr to her faith,

transported to this wild land for her zeal in trying to convert the

mightiest enemy of her Church? Perhaps the moment was at hand when the

saints would grant her a martyr's-crown, richly earned by her devotion.

Was it not the tempter himself, who in this pale woman's form, tried to

lure her from an imperishable glory?

And Regina answered:

"And Satan saith unto Him: 'Cast Thyself down: for it is written, He

shall give His angels charge concerning Thee, that they may preserve

Thee, so that no harm may befall Thee...'"*

* Compare Matthew iv. 6, where the Lutheran text differs from the

Catholic.

At these words the moon appeared round a corner of the wall and threw

its pale beams on the beautiful girl's face. Her cheeks glowed, and

her eyes burned with an ecstatic fire. Meri looked at her with wonder

and dread ... and again it seemed to her that it was not well with a

being, who possessed such a singular appearance, and uttered such

strange sounds from her lips. An overwhelming fear seized her, and she

fled, without knowing why, back to the town.

In the meantime Regina heard the murmur from the castle yard up in her

chamber. The drunken horde had been checked by a stout gate, and stood

clamouring outside, threatening to burn down the fortress, unless the

witch was immediately given up to them. But Fru Marta, just awakened

from a sound sleep, was not one easily scared. She had been in more

than one siege in her younger days, and understood like a wise

commander, that a fortress does not fall at big words.

"One who gains time, gains all," she thought, and therefore began to

negotiate about the capitulation, wishing to know what the besiegers

especially wanted, and why they wanted it. In the meantime six old

muskets were hunted up, with which the defenders were armed; the

soldiers were also provided with clubs and pikes; the servant girls

themselves received orders to take the poles, with which more than one

of Fleming's horsemen received their doom during the Club or Peasants'

War. Thus prepared, Fru Marta thought that she could safely break off

all negotiations; she therefore advanced to the inside of the gate, and

began a tirade which meant action and no play.

"Ye crazy boors!" shrieked the brave dame with more energy than

courtesy, "may the devil take you all, drunken ale-bibbers! Be off

this instant, or, as sure as my name is Marta Ulfsparre, you shall have

a taste of 'Master Hans' on the back, you villains, sots, shameless

knaves, and night loafers!"

"Master Hans" was a good-sized braided rattan, which seldom left Fru

Marta's hand, and for which all the inmates of the castle entertained a

profound respect. But whether the noisy crowd did not know of "Master

Hans'" fine qualities, or whether Fru Marta's words were only

imperfectly heard in the uproar, the mob continued to press on with

loud cries, and the strong gate shook on its hinges.

"Out with the witch!" shouted the most excited, and some threw lighted

brands against the gate, hoping to set it on fire.

Fru Marta had on the ramparts two old cannon from Gustaf I.'s time,

called "the hawk" and "the dove." Their functions were to respond to

the salutes of vessels arriving in the harbour, and to roar forth the

delight of the people on royal christening days and nuptials. It is

true that the ramparts lay outside the high fence with its iron spikes,

which constituted the only fortification of the castle, and were thus

easily accessible to the besiegers. But Fru Marta thought correctly,

that a cannonade from the ramparts would frighten the enemy, and serve

as a signal of distress, to summon assistance from the man-of-war and

the town. She therefore ordered two of her soldiers to steal out under

cover of the night, load "the hawk" and "the dove," and directly after

the blank charges were fired, to return quickly to the castle.

The effect was instantaneous. The uproar ceased at once, and Fru Marta

did not let the opportunity slip from her grasp.

"Do you hear, you pack of thieves?" she screamed, mounted on a ladder,

so that her white night-cap was seen in the moonlight just above the

gate, "if you don't take yourselves off this minute from his Majesty's

castle, I will make my cannon shatter you into fragments, like cabbage

stalks, you noisy, drunken swine! Angry dogs get torn skins; and the

chicken who sticks his neck in the jaws of the fox will have to look

around to see where his head is. I will cut you to pieces, you rowdy

set," continued Fru Marta, getting more and more excited. "I will let

them make mince-meat of you, and throw you to the----"

Unhappily the brave commander was not allowed to finish her heroic

speech. One of the crowd had found a rotten turnip on the ground, and

hurled it with such good aim at the white night-cap, which shone in the

moonlight, that Fru Marta, struck right on the brow, was obliged to

retreat, and for the first time in her life had her tongue silenced. A

huge laugh now spread through the crowd, and with it Fru Marta's

supremacy was at an end. The enemy battered still more arrogantly

against the gate, the hinges bent, the boards gave way, and finally

half of the gate fell in with a great crash, and the whole crowd rushed

into the courtyard.

Now one would say that Fru Marta would have to surrender. But no, she

quickly withdrew with all her force to the interior of the castle,

barred the entrance, and placed her musketeers at the windows,

threatening to shoot down the first comers. Such determined courage

ought to have succeeded, but the infuriated mob neither heard or saw.

One of the front men, who had found a crowbar, began to batter the

door...

Then confusion and outcries arose in the rear of the crowd ... those in

the middle turned round and saw through the broken gate, as far as one

could discern in the moonlight, the whole way filled with heads and

muskets. It was as if an army had sprung from the earth in order to

annihilate the besiegers. Could it be the shades of all the dead

champions of Korsholm, who had risen from their graves to avenge the

violence offered against their old fortress?

In order to explain the unexpected sight which now alarmed the crowd,

one must remember that a large portion of the country people from the

adjacent hamlets had flocked to the town to witness the departure of

the recruits. It should also be mentioned that the peasant king had

remained all night in Vasa, probably in the secret expectation of

hearing some news about Bertel from the crew of the "Maria Eleonora."

The burning of the ale-house and the march of the intoxicated crowd

towards Korsholm had set all Vasa in commotion, and when Meri arrived

in breathless haste, imploring her father to rescue the imprisoned

lady, she found everywhere willing ears. The East Bothnian is soon

ready for battle, and when the peasants learned the insults put upon

old Bertila, their best man, the ancient animosity arose within them

against the soldiers. They forgot that many of their own sons and

brothers were conscripts; they could not neglect such a fine chance to

give the soldiers a thrashing, both in the name of humanity and loyalty

to the crown. They marched therefore, with Bertila at their head,

about a hundred strong, to the rescue of the castle, and what in the

moonlight appeared to be pikes and muskets, were mostly poles and

rails, which had been hastily snatched up, the usual weapons employed

in the battles of that region.

As soon as the soldiers saw that they were attacked in the rear, they

tried to conceal their alarm with loud shouts and cries. Uncertain of

the enemy's strength, some of them already wished to beat a dangerous

retreat over the spiked fence; others imagined that they had to deal

with an army of goblins, called up by the incantations of the foreign

witch. They were soon aroused from this delusion, however, by hearing

the sounds of Malax Swedish, and Lillkyro Finnish, which could

reasonably be thought to come from human and not spectral lips. At the

moment the outer enemy blocked the gate with his forces, a silence

arose on both sides, during which one could hear two voices speaking,

together: one from the castle window, and the other from the ramparts.

"What did I tell you?" shrieked Fru Marta from the window; "didn't I

tell you, drunkards and vagabonds, that you ought to think seven times

before putting your noses between the wedges of the tree, and if the

tail has once got into the fox-trap, there is nothing left but to bite

it off. A large mouth needs a broad back, and now hold yourself in

readiness to pay the fiddler."

With this outburst Fru Marta drew back; possibly from fear of another

rotten turnip.

The other voice was that of an old man, who, in powerful tones, cried

to the soldiers:

"Lay down your arms, and give up your leaders, then the rest may go in

peace. If not, there will be a dance, the like of which Korsholm has

never seen, and we will see to it that the bows are well rosined."

"May all the demons seize you, rascal peasant!" answered a voice from

the courtyard, which clearly belonged to the jovial sergeant, Bengt

Kristerson. "If I had you down here I would,

blitz-donner-kreutz-Pappenheim, teach you to insult brave soldiers with

offers of surrender. Go ahead, boys; clear the gateway, and drive the

crew back to their porridge kettles!"

Fortunately none of the conscripts had muskets, which had not yet been

distributed, and very few possessed swords. Most of them had only

extinguished brands, fragments of broken carriages, and faggots

snatched from a wood-pile in the yard. Thus armed, the warriors bore

down upon the entrance.

At the first onset the recruits were received with such vigorous blows,

that numbers had broken heads. Soon the press at the gate became so

dense that no arm could be raised or blow dealt; those in front

struggled furiously to extricate themselves, whilst the rest closed

upon them and rendered all movement impossible. Strong arms and broad

shoulders exerted themselves fruitlessly to make a way through the

crowd. At last the pressure from within became so great, that the

first ranks of the peasants were broken, and about half of the soldiers

cleared a way towards the open plain outside the ramparts, whilst the

remainder were again penned up in the courtyard.

A regular battle began. Poles, sticks, whips, and fists were used.

Many a vigorous blow was delivered, which would have been much better

bestowed on Isolani's Croats; many a fine exploit was performed, more

in place on the German battlefields. The soldiers were split in two

parties by the gate, and although the most numerous, soon had the worst

of it. The youngest recruits took to flight, and ran towards the town;

some were overpowered and badly beaten; others, including the old

veterans, retired to the ramparts, and with backs to the wall defended

themselves valiantly.

Victory now seemed on the side of the peasants, when their opponents

received new assistance. The peasants at the gate, who on account of

the struggle outside, forgot the enemy within, were surprised by the

penned-up soldiers, who now rushed out to help their comrades. The

latter thus relieved, fell upon the peasants with redoubled ardour; the

affray became more and more involved, and victory more and more

uncertain; both parties had defeats to avenge, and the rage on both

sides increased as their strength became equal.

Over this scene of tumult, confusion, and wild conflict, the silvery

August moon beamed like a heavenly eye. All the inlets shone in the

moonlight; and in the tree-tops and the moist grass glittered millions

of dewdrops, like pearls on summer's green robe. All nature seemed at

peace; a gentle breeze from the west rippled the surface of the sea,

and passed softly over the land; the monotonous roll of the surf upon

the beach was heard in the distance, and the twinkling, silent stars

looked down into the dark waters. When the yard was empty, Fru Marta

and her men ventured out again to behold the strife from the ramparts.

The courageous old lady undoubtedly wished to join in some way in the

contest, for she cried to the peasants in a loud voice:

"That's right, boys, go ahead; let the sticks fly; many have danced to

worse tunes!"

And to the soldiers she screamed:

"Good luck to you, my children; help yourselves to a little supper;

Korsholm offers what it can give. Be at ease; your witch is in good

keeping; Korsholm has bolts and bars for you too, miscreants!"

But as if a capricious destiny wished to convict the old lady of error

and put her to the blush, a tall, dark female figure now appeared on

the top of the ramparts, and was outlined against the clear night sky.

Fru Marta's words froze on her lips from dismay, when she recognised

the figure of her well-guarded prisoner. How Lady Regina had got

through locked doors and closed windows was an inexplicable problem,

and for a moment she was infected by the common belief in the strange

girl's alliance with the powers of darkness. She renounced all idea of

arresting the fugitive, and expected each moment to see large black

wings grow out of her shoulders, that she might take flight like a

monstrous raven, and soar aloft to the starry heavens.

The reader, however, can easily discover a natural solution of the

difficulty. The din of the conflict and the cannon-shots had reached

Regina's isolated chamber. Every moment she expected her room to be

invaded, and herself seized by executioners and dragged to a certain

death; and so glorious did this martyrdom seem to her, that her

impatience increased to the highest point. Then an hour passed, and

whilst the noise below continued, no footsteps approached her door. At

last the thought took possession of her fanatical soul that the Prince

of Darkness envied her so grand a fate, and that the strife was

fomented by him to ensure her a languishing life in captivity, without

profit to herself or the Holy Faith. Then she remembered the advice of

the singing woman, to let herself down through the open window by means

of sheets and shawls; she took a sudden resolve, and in a few minutes

stood on the ramparts in full view of all the combatants.

As soon as the latter saw the tall form in the moonlight, they were

seized with the same superstitious dread which had just paralyzed Fru

Marta's nimble tongue. The conflict gradually subsided in the

vicinity, and continued only at the most remote points; friend and foe

were affected by a common horror, and near the ramparts rose a silence

so profound, that one could hear in the distance the sea's low murmur

on the pebbly beach.

Lady Regina then spoke with a voice so strong and clear, that if her

terribly imperfect Swedish had not stood in the way, she would have

been understood by all those within hearing.

"Ye children of Belial," she said in tones, trembling at first, but

soon calm and composed, "ye people of the heretic faith, why do ye

delay to take my life? I am defenceless, without human protection,

with the high heavens above me, and the earth and sea at my feet, and

say to you: Your Luther was a false prophet; there is no salvation

except in the orthodox Catholic Church. Be converted, therefore, to

the Holy Virgin and all the saints, acknowledge the Pope to be Christ's

vicegerent, as he truly is, that you may avert St. George's sword from

your heads, which is already raised to destroy you. But you can kill

me in order to seal the veracity of my faith; here I stand; why do you

hesitate? I am ready to die for my faith."

It was Lady Regina's good fortune that her speech was not understood by

the crowd, for so strong was the power of Lutheranism at this fanatical

time, when nations and individuals sacrificed life and welfare for

their creed, that all were filled with flaming zeal, and a blind hatred

for the Pope and his followers--of which our crabbed but pithy old

psalm-books bear witness to-day. Had this crowd, whether peasants or

soldiers, heard Regina extol the Pope, and declare Luther a false

prophet, they would have certainly torn her to pieces in their rage.

As it was, the young girl's meaning escaped them; they saw her bold

bearing, and the respect which courage and misfortune together always

inspire, did not fail to have its effect upon them; they now stood

wavering, and at a loss what to think or do.

Lady Regina again expected, in vain, to be dragged to death. She

descended from the rampart, and mingled with the irresolute crowd; they

all saw that she was quite unprotected, and yet not a hand was put

forth to seize her.

"She is not honest flesh and blood; she is a shadow," said an old Worä

peasant doubtingly. "It seems to me that I see the moon shine right

through her."

"We will soon prove that," exclaimed a rough fellow from Ilmola, laying

his coarse hand rather heavily on Regina's shoulder.

It was a critical moment; the young girl turned round and looked her

molester right in the face with such deep, shining eyes, that the

latter seized with a strange feeling, immediately drew back, and stole

away abashed. Some of the nearest bystanders followed him. None could

understand the power of these dark eyes in the moonlight, but all felt

their wondrous influence. In a few moments the space near Regina was

empty, and the strife had ceased. A patrol, who now arrived, arrested

the ringleaders.

Not long, however, did the rivalry engendered by the Club War continue

between the peasants and the soldiers; between the peaceful _plough_,

Finland's pride, and the conquering sword, which at this time was drawn

to subdue the Roman Emperor himself.

Of Regina we need only say that she willingly allowed herself, yet with

a sigh over the martyr's-crown she had missed, to be taken back to the

dark, solitary prison-chamber. But Bertila returned with his daughter

to Storkyro; the old man with thoughts of coming greatness, the young

woman with the memory of a past joy. All this occurred during two days

in the summer of 1632, thus, before King Gustaf Adolf's death.

Days and months elapsed, and human destinies changed their forms, so

that the swift word is obliged to check its flight, and remain silent

awhile in expectation of the evenings which are to come. For the

surgeon's stories, like a child's joy or sorrow, lasted but a brief

time--long enough for those who with friendship listened to them, and

perhaps sufficiently long for the others. But never was the thread of

the story clipped in the middle of its course without both young and

old anticipating more. And the surgeon had to promise this. He had so

much still left to relate about the half-spun skein of two family

histories, that next time it will probably be spun; longer--if not to

the end, at least to the knot, which says that the skein has reached

its right length.

III.--FIRE AND WATER.

Six weeks passed before the surgeon and his circle of listeners

gathered again. During that time an accident had happened to old Bäck.

Most of us in this world possess hobbies, and old bachelors in

particular. Bäck had got it into his mind that he ought to have a

certain comfort in his old age; he had in his garret a good-sized sack

of feathers, which he increased in spring and autumn by bird-shooting.

To what use these feathers were to be put no one knew; when he was

asked about it, he said:

"I will do like Possen at the 'Wiborg explosion'; if Finland is in

need, I will go up some tower and shake my feathers into the air, then

there will be as many soldiers as the sack has feathers."

"You talk like a goose, my brother," replied Captain Svanholm, the

postmaster. "In our days one must have different stuff to make

soldiers of. By my soul, I think you consider us warriors like

chickens!"

"Yes," added the surgeon, when the captain was about to continue, "I

know what you wish to say: exactly like Fieandt at Karstula."

However, the fact was, that the surgeon had one fine April day gone to

the sea-shore on a shooting expedition, with artificial decoy ducks.

He was accompanied by an old one-eyed corporal called Ritsi (Finnish

for Fritz), who had been a pedlar in his youth, and wandered over

Germany with a pack on his back; but he brought home nothing except a

change in his name.

The ice still remained in patches, with gaps between; both the old men

strolled along the edge, and discharged a shot every now and then; but

it amounted to very little, as both of them had rather poor eyesight.

It happened early one morning that Bäck thought he saw a pair of fine

ducks at the further end of the ice, which could only be reached by

making a long circuit. He set off, and sure enough the ducks were

there. He crept as near as he dared, aimed, and fired ... the ducks'

feathers were slightly agitated, but they did not stir from the spot.

"Those creatures are pretty tough," thought Bäck; he reloaded, and

fired again at thirty paces. The same result followed. Much

astonished, Bäck went nearer, and discovered for the first time that he

had been shooting at his own decoy ducks, which the wind had

imperceptibly driven from the inner to the outer edge of the ice.

The old gentleman now thought about returning; but this was easier said

than done. The wind had separated the ice on which _he_ stood, from

the ice which held Ritsi, and the loose block was drifting out to sea.

The two old friends looked sadly at each other; scarcely a dozen yards

separated them, and yet the corporal could not assist his companion,

for there was no boat. Bäck was drifting slowly and steadily out to

sea.

"Good-bye, now, comrade," cried the surgeon, whilst still within

hearing. "Tell Svenonius and Svanholm that my will is locked up in the

bureau-drawer to the right. Tell them to have the bells rung for me

next Sunday. As for the funeral, you need not give yourself any

trouble; I will attend to that myself."

"God have mercy!" yelled the corporal, putting the wrong side of his

jacket to his eyes, and returning to the shore slowly and tranquilly,

as if nothing had happened.

For the honour of the good town, it must be said, that the rest of the

surgeon's friends were far from taking the matter like the corporal.

The postmaster cursed and swore; the schoolmaster marched out at the

head of his boys; and the old grandmother quietly sent off a couple of

able-bodied pilots in their boats to cruise between the blocks of ice.

The greatest excitement prevailed; confusion and running about

everywhere; and those who made the most fuss accomplished the least.

Two days passed without any trace of the surgeon; on the third the

pilots came back from a fruitless search. All gave the surgeon up for

lost. There was sincere mourning in the town for such an old

institution as Bäck--everyone's friend, and everybody's confidant--he

was one of the little town's house-spirits, without whom the community

could not get on. But what could be done? When the third Sunday

arrived, without any news of the unfortunate bird-hunter, the bells

were rung for his soul, according to custom, and a fine eulogy composed

by Svenonius, was read in the church, and the city magistrate appointed

a day in the ensuing week for taking an inventory of his effects.

I hope, however, that the reader, who has noticed the title of this

veracious story, will not be alarmed. In reality it would be very hard

if the surgeon should be called away just now, when Regina sits

imprisoned at Korsholm, under Fru Marta's stern control, and Bertel

lies bleeding on the battlefield of Lützen. And what would become of

the gentle Meri, of the peasant king of Storkyro, and of so many other

important personages in this narrative? Patience! the surgeon had

certainly gone through worse experiences in his day ... he had not been

born for nothing on the same day as Napoleon!

Everything was arranged to take the inventory. Astonishing order

prevailed in Bäck's garret; something unusual had happened there; the

place was swept and cleaned. All his things were set out: medicine

chest dusted, stuffed birds placed in a row, the collection of eggs

exposed to view. The silver-headed Spanish cane stood in a corner; the

old peruke hung with a melancholy look on its hook; the innermost

mysteries of Bäck's bureau, the pale locks of hair from former days,

were drawn forth to be valued in roubles and kopeks; probably not at

high amounts. An alderman, with an official air, had taken his place

at the old oak table, where a large sheet of official paper now

occupied the space usually reserved for the surgeon's carpenter's

tools; a clerk was sharpening his pencil opposite the alderman, and the

old grandmother as hostess, had presented herself with moist eyes to

deliver up Bäck's property, as the old man had no relations. One

thing, however, was still unopened: it was the old seal-skin trunk

under the surgeon's bed. The official's eyes occasionally wandered

there with a pious thought of the profit to be derived from the

inheritance; but no one knew what the trunk contained, and who was the

rightful and legal heir.

It was time to begin. Svanholm and Svenonius were called as

appraisers. The alderman coughed once or twice, assumed a judicial

air, and then said:

"Whereas it has come to the knowledge of the worthy magistrate that the

deceased surgeon of the High Crown, Andreas Bäck, met his death on the

ice whilst engaged in bird-shooting; and although not found in body, is

in soul, rightfully and lawfully killed..."

"I would most humbly beg to contradict that!" suddenly interrupted a

voice from the door.

The effect was truly marvellous.

The magistrate lost both his wits and official bearing; he turned his

eyes upwards, and his eloquent tongue for the first time refused its

office. The secretary sprang up like a rocket, and knocked over the

learned Svenonius, who, being somewhat deaf, had not heard the cause of

the sudden commotion. The brave Svanholm was in a terrible plight; one

could have sworn that not even at Karstula had he gone through such an

ordeal. He looked as white as a ghost, and tried in vain to compel his

left foot to advance. The old grandmother was the only one who showed

self-possession; she put on her spectacles, went straight to the

new-comer, and shook her ancient head dubiously, as if to say that it

was very wrong of corpses to come to life again.

But old Bäck--for who else could it be?--was not at all daunted. His

feelings had quite a different character. When he beheld his dear old

garret so altered, his precious effects on show, and the magistrate in

full activity with what Bäck thought none of his business, he was

seized, excusably enough, with righteous anger, and took the myrmidons

of the law by the neck, one after the other, and threw them without

ceremony from the room. Then came the turn of brother Svenonius, who

was not spared, and finally Svanholm, before he could utter a word,

found himself rolling headlong down the stairs. All this happened in

the twinkling of an eye. Only the grandmother remained. When Bäck met

her mild, reproachful glance, he was ashamed, and came to his senses.

"Well, well," said he, "you must not take it ill, cousin; I shall teach

brooms and dusters to disorder my room ... be so kind as to take a

seat. It would provoke a stone to see such actions. See how these

wretches have scrubbed my room and dusted my birds. It is a positive

crime!"

"Dear cousin," said the grandmother, at once vexed and delighted, "I am

the one to be blamed; we thought you must be drowned."

"Drowned, indeed!" muttered the surgeon. "I tell you, cousin, that

poor powder isn't so easily got rid of. It is true that I floated

around on that miserable ice-floe for three whole days and nights. It

wasn't exactly a warm bed and spread table, but it served. I shot a

venturesome seal. It was pretty oily, I assure you, but 'better that

than nothing.' I had a tinder-box and salt, too; so I made a fire of

my game bag, and fried a steak. On the fourth day I drifted to firm

ice at West Bothnia, and marched ashore. 'Now it's time to go home,' I

thought. Said and done; I sold my gun and hired a team. And I tell

you what, cousin, they would have been spared from upsetting my room,

and sticking their noses into my affairs, had not the Swedes quadrupled

the rate, compared with old times. My purse was empty before I came to

Haparanda. Then I thought, 'let the Medical College go to the dogs!'

and began my old practice with the lancet and 'essentia dulcis,' as I

went along; and all the old women--God bless you, I thought you were

going to sneeze--and all the old women were amazed to see former times

revived. In this manner I was able to reach home--a little too late,

but still in time to throw out my uninvited guests."

The surgeon had great difficulty in pardoning his friends for their

invasion of his peaceful kingdom. Had they taken his treasures, or

slandered his good name, he could have forgiven them, but to put his

room in order was more than he could stand! Little by little, however,

the storm was allayed through the old grandmother's wise diplomacy; and

so the day came when the reconciliation was celebrated with a third

tale. It is true that some plain people still looked upon the surgeon

as a ghost; the magistrate doubted his right to live when he had been

legally declared dead; the postmaster swore over his sore back, which

still bore the marks of the meeting with brother Bäck; Svenonius sighed

over a hole in his twenty-year-old black coat, which he had worn in

honour of the solemn occasion. But the old grandmother smiled as

usual; Anne Sophie was friendly as ever; the little folks were as

noisy; and--thus it happened that the sunshine scattered the morning

mists, and the horizon was cleared for the captive Regina.

* * * * *

"My dear friends," began the surgeon, "it may puzzle you why I call

this story 'Fire and Water.' You understand _The King's Ring_, and how

_The Sword and the Plough_ came into conflict. Perhaps you think that

I shall now treat you to natural history. That would be well and good.

But I entertain the opinion that in a story, humanity is the great

thing. If we look at pictures, we heartily admire a fruit or a game

painting, but I believe figure-painting, with fine human forms, is

nevertheless superior. Therefore I do not intend to describe

conflagrations and deluges, but have chosen my title from the fact that

human temperaments correspond to the elements--some to fire, some to

air, others to water and earth. I intend to tell you about four

persons: two of whom possessed a fiery nature, and two a watery. All

is not said that could be said, for most titles have the fault of only

giving one aspect of many. I thought of calling this part 'The Coat of

Arms,' when I realised that it might also be called 'The Axe.' I might

have alarmed you with the terrible title of 'The Curse'; but when I

came to think it over, I found that it could just as well be styled

'The Blessing.' Therefore you will have to be contented with the

elements; I have now said all I wished, and I will leave you to guess

the rest."

CHAPTER I.

THE TREASURE FROM THE BATTLEFIELD.

The first thing to be borne in mind is, that the story of the Sword and

the Plough happened before the Battle of Lützen. On now going back to

that combat, on the 6th of November, 1632, we may forget for a time

that the "Sword and the Plough" ever existed, and imagine that we still

stand by the great hero's dead body, as it lay embalmed in the village

of Meuchen.

It was a fine but terrible spectacle when the Pappenheimers charged the

Finns on the east of the River Rippach. These splendid cuirassiers

rushed upon Stälhandske; the tired Finns and their horses reeled and

gave way before this terrific onslaught. But Stälhandske rallied them

again, man to man, horse to horse; they fought to the death; and

friends and foes were mixed together in one bleeding, confused mass.

Here fell Pappenheim and his bravest men; half of the Finnish cavalry

were trampled under the horses' hoofs, and yet the battle raged till

nightfall.

Bertel rode at Stalhandske's side, and here he encountered Pappenheim.

The youth of twenty could not cope with this arm of steel; the brave

general struck Bertel on the helmet with such tremendous force, that he

reeled and became unconscious. But in falling he mechanically grasped

his horse by the mane, and the faithful Lapp galloped away, dragging

his master with one foot in the stirrup.

When Bertel opened his eyes he was in utter darkness. He vaguely

remembered the last incident of the combat, and Pappenheim's uplifted

sword. He thought he was now dead, and lay in his grave. He then put

his hand to his heart; it was beating: he bit his finger; it hurt him.

He realised that he was still in existence, but how and where it was

impossible to guess. He reached out his hand and picked up some straw.

He felt the damp ground under him, and the empty space above. He tried

to raise himself up, but his head was too heavy. It still suffered

from the blow of Pappenheim's sword.

Then he heard a voice not far from him, half-complaining, half-mocking,

saying in Swedish:

"Saints and fiends! Not a drop of wine! Those rascally Wallachians

have grabbed my flask; the miserable hen-thieves! Hollo, Turk, or

Jew--it is all one--here with a drop of wine!"

"Is it you, Larsson?" said Bertel in a faint voice, for his tongue was

also parched with a burning thirst.

"What sort of a marmot is it whispering my name?" replied the voice in

the darkness. "Hurrah, boys, loose reins and a smart gallop! Fire

your pistols, fling them to the devil, and slash away with swords!

Cleave their skulls; peel them like turnips! Grind them to powder!

The king has fallen ... Devils and heroism, what a king! ... to-day we

bleed. To-day we shall die, but first revenge. That's the way, boys,

hurrah ... pitch in, East Bothnians!"

"Larsson," repeated Bertel; but his comrade did not heed him. He

continued in his delirium to lead his Finns to the combat.

After a time a ray of the late autumn morning shone through the window

of the miserable hut upon Bertel. He could now distinguish the straw

upon the bare ground, and two men asleep.

Then the door opened, and a couple of uncouth, bearded men entered, and

thrust roughly at the sleepers with the butts of their muskets.

"_Raus!_" they cried in Low German; "it is the signal to start!"

And outside the hut was heard the well-known trumpet-blast, which at

that time was the usual signal for breaking up the camp.

"May they spear me like a frog," said one of the men in a bad humour,

"if I can guess what the reverend father wishes to do with these

heretic dogs. He should have given them a passport to the arch-fiend,

their lord and master."

"Fool!" replied the other; "do you not know that the heretic king's

death is going to be celebrated with a great festival at Ingolstadt?

The reverend father intends to hold a grand _auto-de-fé_ in honour of

the happy event."

The two sleepers now stood up half-awake, and Bertel could recognise by

the faint morning light the little, thick-set Larsson and his own

faithful Pekka. But there was no opportunity for explanations. All

three were brought out, bound, and put into a cart, and then the long

caravan, composed of wagons for the wounded and baggage, under the

charge of the Croats, began slowly to move.

Bertel knew that he and his companions were now prisoners of the

Imperialists. He soon recovered his memory, and learned from his

countrymen in captivity how it all happened. When the faithful Lapp

felt the reins loose, he galloped with his unconscious master back to

camp. But this was being plundered by the wild Croats, and when they

saw a Swedish officer dragged along half dead by his horse, they took

him prisoner, in the hope of a good ransom. Pekka, who would not

forsake his master, was also taken prisoner. Larsson, on the other

hand, had, at the Pappenheimers' attack, charged too far amongst the

enemy, and having received a sabre thrust in the shoulder, and a wound

in the arm, was unable to extricate himself. Who had triumphed Larsson

did not know with certainty.

It was now the third day after the battle; they had marched for a day

and night in a southerly direction, and then stopped for a few hours in

a deserted village.

"Accursed crew!" exclaimed the little captain, whose jovial disposition

did not abandon him under any circumstances; "if they had not stolen my

flask, we might now drink Finland's health together. But these Croats

are thieves of the first water, compared with whom our gipsies at home

are innocent angels. I should like to hang a couple of hundred of them

from the ramparts of Korsholm, as they hang petticoats on the walls of

a Finnish garret."

The march continued with brief halts for several days, not without

great suffering and discomfort to the wounded, who, improperly

bandaged, were prevented by their fetters from helping each other. At

the outset they travelled through a desolated country, where provisions

were obtained with great difficulty, and whose population took to

flight at the sight of the dreaded Croats. But they soon arrived in

richer parts, where the Catholic inhabitants assembled to curse the

heretics, and exult over their king's fall. The whole Catholic world

shared this rejoicing. It is stated that in Madrid brilliant

performances took place, in which Gustave Adolf, another dragon, was

conquered by Wallenstein as St. George.

After seven days' wearisome journeying, the cart with the captive Finns

drove late one evening over a clattering drawbridge, and stopped in a

small courtyard. The wounded prisoners were led out, and conducted up

two crumbling flights of stairs into a turret room in the form of a

semi-circle. It seemed to Bertel as if he had seen this place before,

but darkness and fatigue prevented him from making sure. The stars

shone through the grated windows, and the prisoners were revived with a

cup of wine. Larsson said with satisfaction:

"I will bet anything that the thieves have stolen their wine from our

cellars, while we lay in Würzburg, for better stuff I have never

tasted!"

"Würzburg!" said Bertel thoughtfully. "Regina!" added he, almost

unconsciously.

"And the wine-cellar!" sighed Larsson, mocking him. "I will tell you

something.

'The greatest fool upon the earth

Is he that believes in a girl's worth.

When love comes, the little dear,

Marry instead the cup of good cheer.'

"The black-eyed young Regina now sits and knits stockings at Korsholm.

Yes, yes, Fru Marta is not one of the folks who sit and weep in the

moonlight. Since we last met I have had news from Vasa through the

jolly sergeant, Bengt Kristerson. He said he had fought with your

father. You had better believe that the old man is a trump; he carried

Bengt out at arm's-length and threw him down the steps there at your

home in Storkyro. Bengt cursed and swore, declaring that he would put

the old man and twelve of his hands into the windmill at once, and

grind them to groats; but Meri begged for them. Smart fellow, Bengt

Kristerson! fights like a dragon, and lies like a skipper. Your

health!"

"What else did you hear from East Bothnia?" inquired Bertel, who with

the bashfulness of youth, blushed at the thought of revealing to his

prosaic friend the secret of his heart--his love for the dark-eyed and

unhappy Lady Regina von Emmeritz.

"Not much, except the bad harvests, immense drain caused by the war,

and heavy conscriptions. The old men on the farm, your father and

mine, quarrel as usual, and make it up again. Meri pines for you and

sings doleful songs. Do you remember that splendid girl, Katri? round

as a turnip, red as mountain-ash berries, and soft about the chin as a

lump of butter. She has run away with a soldier. Your health, my boy!"

"Nothing more?" said Bertel abstractedly.

"Nothing more! What the devil do you want to know, when you don't care

for the prettiest girl in the whole of Storkyro. 'Yes, _noch etivas_,'

says the German. There has been a great affray at Korsholm. The

conscripts got it into their heads that Lady Regina had tried to kill

the king with 'witch-shots,' and then they stormed Korsholm, and burned

the girl alive. Cursedly jolly! here's to the heretics! We also know

the art of holding _autos-da-fé_."

Bertel started up, forgetting his wounds; but pain mastered him.

Without a cry he sank fainting into Larsson's arms.

The honest captain was both troubled and angry. While he bathed

Bertel's temples with the remainder of the noble fluid in the tankard,

and presently brought him to life once more, he gave vent to his

feelings in the following manner, crescendo from piano to forte.

"There, there, Bertel ... what next? What the deuce, boy? Are you in

love with the girl? Faint like a lady's maid! Courage! did I say that

they had burned her? No, my lad, she was only a little scorched,

according to what Bengt Kristerson says, and afterwards she tore Fru

Marta's eyes out, and climbed like a squirrel to the top of the castle.

Such things happen every day in war ... Well, I declare, you have got

both your eyes open at last. You are still alive, you milk-baked wheat

loaf ... are you not ashamed to behave like a poltroon? You are a

pretty soldier! blitz-donnerwetter-kreutz-Pappenheim, you are a pomade

pot! D--n it, now the tankard is empty also!"

The stout little warrior would perhaps have continued to vent his bad

humour for some time longer, especially as there was no consolation now

left in the cup, had not the door opened, and a female figure then

stepped over the threshold. At this sight the captain's pale and

fluffy face brightened up. Bertel was laid aside, and Larsson leaned

eagerly forward, in order to see better, for the light of the single

lamp was very faint. But the result of his observation did not seem

very satisfactory.

"A nun! Ah, by Heaven ... to convert us!"

"Peace be with you," said a youthful voice from underneath the veil.

"I am sent here by the worthy prioress of the cloister of 'Our Lady' to

bind your wounds, and heal them, if it is the will of the saints."

"Upon my honour, charming friend, I am much obliged; let us become

better acquainted," said the captain, as he stretched out his hand to

lift the nun's veil. In a flash the latter retreated, and two soldiers

appeared at the door.

"The devil!" exclaimed Larsson, startled, "What proud nuns they have

here! When I was at Würzburg, I used to get a dozen kisses a day from

the young sisters at the convent; such sins always obtain absolution.

Well," he continued, seeing the nun still hesitating at the door, "your

venerableness must not take offence at a soldier's freedom of speech;

an honest soldier is a born gallant. Although an unbelieving heretic,

I can talk Latin like a monk. When we stayed at Munich I was very

intimate with a plump Bavarian nun, twenty-seven years old, with brown

eyes and a Roman nose."

"Hold your tongue!" impatiently whispered Bertel, "you will drive the

nun away."

"I haven't said a word. Walk in; don't be frightened. I will bet it

is a long time since you saw twenty-seven. _Posito_, says the

Frenchman, that your venerableness is an old woman."

The nun returned in silence, with two others, and examined Bertel's

wounded head. A delicate white hand drew out some scissors and cut his

hair off on each side of the wound. In a short time Bertel's wound was

dressed by an experienced hand. Bertel, touched by this compassion,

kissed the nun's hand.

"Upon my honour, charming matron," cried the voluble captain, "I am

jealous of my friend, who is fifteen years younger than I. Deign to

stretch out your gentle hand and plaster this brave arm, which has

conquered so many pious sisters' pity..."

The silent nun began to undo the bandages which covered Larsson's

wounds. Her hand touched his.

"_Potz donnerwetter!_" burst out the captain in surprise. "What a fine

and soft little hand! I beg your pardon, amiable Fru doctoress; _ex

ungua leonem_, says one of the fathers of the church ... that is to say

in good Swedish: by the paw one knows the lion. I will wager ten

bottles of old Rhine against a cast-off stirrup, that this little white

hand would much rather caress a knight's cheek than finger rosaries

night and day."

The nun drew her hand away. The gallant captain feared the

consequences of his gallantry.

"I will say no more; I am silent as a _karthäuser_ monk. But I will

say that this hand is not an old woman's ... well, well, your lovely

venerableness hears that I keep silent."

"_Tempus est consummatum, itur in missam_," said a solemn voice at the

door, and the nun hastened her task. In a few moments the prisoners

were again alone.

"I have heard that voice before," said Bertel thoughtfully. "We are

surrounded by mysteries."

"Bah!" replied the captain, "it was a mangy and jealous monk. Bless

me, what a dear little hand!"