DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.
After some time the door was opened, and an old man, bent with age, and
with snow-white hair, disclosed himself. Accustomed by the right of
war to take whatever was necessary, when it was not given voluntarily,
Bertel pushed the old man aside and entered the miserable hut without
ceremony. To his great astonishment he found it empty. A half burnt
"perta,"* stuck in between the bricks of the fire-place, threw a
flickering light around this abode of poverty. There was no door
except the entrance; no living being besides the old man and a large
woolly dog, which lay outstretched on the hearth, and showed his teeth
to the uninvited guest.
* A thin stick of pine-wood, a yard long and an inch thick, which the
peasants sometimes use instead of candles.
"Where is the man in the black leather hood, who was here a moment
ago?" asked Bertel sharply.
"God bless your grace," answered the old man humbly and evasively, "who
could be here but your grace?"
"Out with the truth! Somebody must be hidden here. Under the bed ...
no. Behind the oven ... no. And yet you have just had a large fire
kindled in the fire-place. What? I believe it is put out with water?
Answer."
"It is so cold, your grace, and the hut is full of cracks..."
Bertel's aroused suspicions were not so easily dispelled. His eyes
searched every part of the room, and soon discovered a little object
which had fallen under a bench. It was a fine and soft lady's glove,
lined with flannel.
"Will you now confess, old wretch?" burst out the excited young man.
The old man seemed dismayed, but only for a moment. He suddenly
changed his manner, nodded slyly, and pointed to the corner nearest the
oven. Bertel followed the hint ... took a few steps ... and suddenly
felt himself precipitated downwards. He had fallen into the open hole
of a cellar, whose entrance had been hidden by the heavy shadow of the
fire-place. Instantly a trap-door was closed over the opening, and he
heard the rattling of an iron hook, which secured the trap and deprived
him of all chance of opening the door from below.
Bertel had fallen into one of those places under the floor in which
poor people keep roots and home-brewed beer. The cellar was not deep,
nor his fall dangerous, but, nevertheless, Bertel's anger was quite
natural. The little glove had betrayed the whole story. She must be
here; she, the beautiful, proud, unfortunate princess, whom he had so
long adored in secret. Perhaps she had fallen into the hands of cruel
robbers. And just now, when he was near to her after years of longing,
and when, perhaps, she most needed his help and protection, he had been
caught in a miserable trap; imprisoned in a rat-hole, more miserable
than the hut itself, of which the floor this moment served him for a
ceiling. In vain did he try to lift up the planks of the floor by the
strength of his shoulders; they were as inexorable as the fate which
had so long mocked his dearest hopes.
Then he heard the footsteps of several persons passing over the floor
overhead. Then all was silent.
Pekka was now Bertel's only hope, but the former had not dared to enter
the hut. Nothing was heard of him, however, and three or four hours
passed in torturing suspense, increased by the prospect of perishing
from hunger and cold. Then steps again sounded overhead; the iron hook
was unfastened, and the trap-door raised. Half-frozen, Bertel crawled
up from the damp hole, in the firm belief that Pekka had at last spied
out his prison. He was met instead by the old man with the snow-white
hair, who, humble and submissive as before, offered his hand to help
him up.
The enraged young warrior seized him by his bony shoulders, and
proceeded to catechise him in a thorough manner.
"Wretch," he exclaimed, "are you tired of life, or do you not know what
you are doing, dotard? What hinders me from crushing your miserable
carcase against the walls of your own hut?"
The old man looked at him with an unchanging countenance.
"Do so, Bertila's son," he replied; "kill your mother's old faithful
servant if you wish; why should he live any longer?"
"My mother's old servant, do you say?"
"I am the last survivor of all those who formerly inhabited this
fertile region, which is now a wilderness. It was I who said to Aron
Bertila, when my master's house was destroyed in blood and ashes: 'Save
my young mistress.' And Bertila did it; cursed is he and blessed at
the same time! He carried my lovely young mistress out of the flames,
and she, a noble maiden, became the haughty peasant's humble wife."
"But are you mad, old man? If you are, as you say, my mother's old
servant, why did you shut me up in that damned hole? You must admit
that your friendship is of a strange kind."
"Kill me, sir. I am ninety years of age. Kill me, I am a Catholic!"
"You! Well, by my sword now I begin to understand you."
"I am the last Catholic in this country. I belong to King John's and
King Sigismund's time. I am one of the four who buried the last nun in
Nadendal's cloister. For twenty years I have not heard mass, or been
sprinkled with holy water. But all the saints be praised, an hour
before your arrival, I had eaten of the holy wafer."
"A monk has been in your hut?"
"Yes, sir, one of ours."
"And with him a young girl and her old waiting-maid? Answer."
"Yes, sir, they were in his company."
"And on my arrival you concealed them..."
"In the garret. Yes, your grace."
"Then you decoyed me into that miserable rat-hole, while you allowed
the women and the monk to escape."
"I do not deny that it is so."
"And what do you think that your reward will be?"
"Anything--death, perhaps."
"I will spare your life on one condition: you shall show me the way the
fugitives have taken."
"My life; I told you that I was ninety years old."
"And you do not fear the torture?"
"The saints be praised, if I was worthy of so great an honour."
"But if I burn you alive in your own hut?"
"The holy martyrs have been burnt at the stake."
"No, old man, I am not an executioner. I have learnt in the service of
my king to revere faithfulness." And Bertel pressed the old man's hand
with emotion.
"But I will tell you one thing," he continued, "you think that I have
come to take the fugitives back to their prison. It is not so. I give
you my word of honour, that I will defend Lady Regina's freedom with my
life's blood, and do all in my power to favour her flight. Will you
now tell me which way she has gone?"
"No, your grace," said the calm old man; "the young lady is under the
protection of the saints, and a wise man's guidance. You are
hot-blooded and young, and would bring them all to ruin. Turn back,
you will not find any trace of the fugitives."
"Bull-head," muttered Bertel indignantly. "Farewell, I shall get along
without your help."
"Remain here quietly until to-morrow, your grace. To-night you are at
liberty to walk, if you choose, six miles through the high snow-drifts,
to the nearest farm. To-morrow you can ride comfortably."
"Wretch! you have sent my horses away?"
"Yes, your grace ... you must be hungry. Here is a kettle with boiled
turnips; may they be to your taste."
"Ah!" thought Bertel to himself, as he impatiently paced the floor, "I
would not let Larsson see me at this moment for ten bottles of Rhine
wine. He would certainly compare me to the wandering knight of La
Mancha, who, on the way to his Dulcinea, fell into the most peculiar
adventures. How shall I get away from here through these terrible
snow-drifts?"
"But," he added aloud, "I have an idea; I will try if one of the
greatest amusements of my youth cannot serve me a good turn now. Old
man, where do you keep your snow-shoes?"
"My snow-shoes?" replied the old man, confused. "I have none."
"You have, I see it in your face. No Finn in the wilderness is without
snow-shoes. Out with them, quick!"
And without heeding the old man, Bertel pushed open the door which led
to the garret, and drew out a fine pair of snow-shoes.
"Well, old friend," exclaimed the young cavalier, "what do you think of
my horses? ... I call them mine, for I will bet anything that you will
sell them to me for three hard silver thalers: swifter steeds have
seldom hurried over high snow-drifts. If you have any greeting for the
monk or Lady Regina, I will take it with pleasure."
"Do not go alone into the wilderness," said the old man. "There is
neither track or path; the woods extend for miles, and are filled with
wolves. It will be certain death to you."
"You are wrong, my friend," replied Bertel. "If I am not mistaken,
there are traces in two directions: one from my horses, the other from
the fugitives. Tell me, did they go in a sleigh, or on horseback?"
"I think they went on horseback."
"Then I am certain they drove. You are a finished rogue. But I
forgive you for the sake of your excellent snow-shoes. Farewell, in a
couple of hours I will find those whom I seek."
With these words Bertel hurried out.
It was yet early in the morning, a short time before sunrise. But
fortunately the storm had ceased, the sky was clear, and the winter
stars twinkled brightly in the blue firmament. The cold had increased,
and a sharp frost had covered all the branches and snowdrifts with
those ice diamonds, which at once dazzle and charm the wanderer's eye.
The sight of woods and snow on a starry winter morning gives the
Northerner a peculiar exhilarating feeling. There is in this scene a
grandeur, a splendour, a purity, a freshness, which carries him back to
the impressions of his childhood and the brilliant illusions of youth.
There is nothing to cramp the heart, or paralyze the soaring
imagination; all is there so vast, so solemn, so free. One might say
that nature in this deep silence of winter and night is dead, and yet
she lives, warm and rich, in the wanderer's heart.
It is as if she had in this little spot, this solitary place in the
wilderness, compressed all her throbbing life, only to let it exist all
the more beautifully in the midst of silence, stillness, and the
radiance of the stars.
Bertel also experienced this feeling of freshness and life. He was
still young and open to every impression. As he hastened along, light
as the wind, between the trees and snow-drifts, he felt like a child.
It seemed to him that he was again the boy who flew over the snow on
Storkyro plains to spread his snares for the black-cock in the woods.
It was true that he was a little unsteady in the beginning for lack of
practice, and the snow-shoes slid merrily down the icy slopes;
occasionally he made false pushes, and sometimes stumbled, but he soon
regained his former skill, and stood firm on the uneven ground.
Now it was necessary to find the traces of the fugitives, and this was
not easy. Bertel had wandered about for more than an hour in the
direction of Ylihärmä, but had not discovered the slightest sign. The
last outbreak of the storm had destroyed all indications; one could
only see the fresh track of the wolf, where he had just trotted along,
and now and then a frightened bird flew between the branches which were
heavy with snow. Want of sleep, hunger, and fatigue, exhausted the
young man's strength. The cold increased as sunrise approached, and
covered his moustache and plumed hat with frost.
At last he saw on a wood-path, which the broad pines had shielded from
the blast, fresh traces of runners and horses' feet. Bertel followed
these with renewed energy; at times the tracks were lost in the snow,
and then reappeared where the road was sheltered. The sun rose deep
red in the south-east over the tops of the trees. The day was cold and
clear. In every direction nothing was to be seen but trees and
snow-drifts, but far away in the north a little column of smoke rose
towards the morning sky. Bertel aimed at this point. The snow-shoes
regained their speed, the road seemed smoother, and at last the weary
adventurer reached a solitary farmhouse by the side of the high road.
The first person he encountered was Pekka, who was going to feed his
horses.
"Scoundrel!" cried Bertel, with glad surprise, "who sent you here?"
"Who?" repeated Pekka, equally delighted and astonished. "Well, I
shall tell you that the devil did it. I waited and waited outside that
accursed old shanty in the woods until my eyes and feet became heavy
together, where I sat in the snow-drift. After a little while I was
aroused by the neighing of horses. And then I saw a sleigh just like
ours harnessed to two horses, dashing away along the road. It is
either my master or the devil. It is all the same to me. I will
follow him, I said. Then I climbed up again on the horse's back. I
was so hungry that it is a shame to speak of it; but I went after him.
Finally the horse became tired and I lost sight of the sleigh; and
thanked are both Lutheran and Catholic saints that I came here to the
farm and got a good bowl of porridge. For was it not at Lützen and
Nördlingen ... it is damned cold at Ylihärmä, that is sure."
"Good," said Bertel, "they shall not escape us. But do you know one
thing, Pekka: there are moments when hunger and want of sleep are even
stronger than love itself. Come, let us go in."
Bertel entered, and drank a bowl of boiled milk, and threw himself,
overcome by fatigue, on a straw bed in the "stuga." Here we will leave
our wandering knight for a couple of hours in peace.