Chapter XII: Part II (3)

"Nay, for heaven's sake--nay, best of chancellors!" interrupted Sir John, hastily; "plunge me no deeper into the science. I have every respect for it, and believe that it will immortalise you, among the learned, to the end of time; but, if I cannot become immortal by other means, my memory must perish, and I must be contented, in God's name, to do the best I can when living, and leave our Lord to care for the rest. Seriously speaking, sir chancellor: if a man cannot become wise and intelligent without all this vexatious trouble, and if I must twist and turn my thoughts by this method, before I can know whether they are wise or foolish--by the Lord's truth! I should be a hundred years old before I could master a single common thought, and should require the lifetime of three men before I could put an excellent thought into practice. Nay: I must make use of another method. When I know what I wish to say, I say it; and when I know what I wish and ought to do, I do it; and do not trouble myself whether the world stands or falls. There you have the whole of my system. It is not so learned as your's; but that you also follow it, in the main, you have given me excellent proof, for which I have every esteem and honour."

So saying, he shook the learned chancellor heartily by the hand, and cast a look towards Sir Lavé. "See, there stands my cousin, the commandant," he continued, gaily: "he is nearly five years younger than I, and can perhaps still learn something in the world. If you can bring him to see how we should think justly and reasonably, in these crazy times, it may not perhaps be out of the way. But I must out, and draw a breath of fresh air in the garden."

Surrendering Sir Lavé to the somewhat tiresome, philosophic chancellor, he made his exit hastily by the garden-door, and was soon plunged in serious thought in the arched walk.

On a green knoll, commanding a magnificent view over the Sound, Drost Peter stood, meanwhile, between Jomfru Ingé and Lady Cecilia, in lively conversation respecting those notable events of olden times, of which the traditions and supposed memorials were still preserved in this glorious region. Contrary to Jomfru Ingé's opinion, Drost Peter maintained that these events must be referred to other, and, to him, well-known spots in Jutland. The subject of their conversation was the great tragical legend of Hamlet. Fru Ingefried listened with interest, whilst the animated, patriotic Jomfru Ingé enlivened her description of these events by traditions and snatches of popular ballads, and pointed to every spot where, as a child, she had heard and believed that they must have happened. Fru Ingefried now perceived her husband by the end of the arched walk, and went to meet him; while Drost Peter and Jomfru Ingé continued to converse of Hamlet and his daring plans, the sagacity of which Drost Peter admired, but maintained that they still wanted truth, justice, and noble grandeur.

"This knavish cunning," he said--"this merely apparent love of truth, by means of which the real truth is concealed, when it is spoken ambiguously and figuratively--this crafty play with sound sense and madness, with jest and cruel earnest, is to me sufficiently detestable; but these features of the tradition, however un-Danish they may appear, are still founded on a remarkable peculiarity in the character of our people."

"What mean you, Drost Peter?" inquired Lady Ingé, with wounded pride. "Do you accuse yourself, and all of us, with a base proneness to craft and falsehood?"

"Understand me rightly, noble lady. The craft of Hamlet is, in the main, completely Danish, though I cannot prize it as in anywise great and noble. This kind of craft ever betrays itself in a respect for truth, even when it may not and dare not be spoken openly. Every period of disquiet and internal disturbance in Denmark will show us that, with the best and noblest of the people, our honesty, justice, and love of truth never entirely disappear, but reveal themselves where the mere semblance of truth is used as a cloak to deceit. The greatest deceiver and nidding amongst us will always blush to deny or disguise the truth openly: he is too proud to lie, even were it to save his life; and he will speak the truth even where it may endanger him, but so darkly and figuratively, that himself only and his friends can understand it, while his foes receive it in an opposite sense."

"Therein, perhaps, you maybe right," said Jomfru Ingé, gravely; "but a wish to wrest and distort the truth does not, in consequence, lie in the people's mode of thinking.

"Far be it from me to assert that it does," replied Drost Peter; "but I have observed that even the most upright of our commoners take a singular pleasure, whilst jesting, in striving to tack something on a person's sleeve, as they term it, strictly, however, without telling an untruth. In this consists a great portion of the craft and wit of our common people. It may be highly good-natured and innocent; but, in times like these, it is still a dangerous quality, which renders it extremely difficult to distinguish the true friends of the crown from its secret enemies."

"Nay, nay," exclaimed Jomfru Ingé, gladly; "in this you greatly err, Drost Peter. You know our brave and trusty countrymen better. I often see and converse with the poorest and humblest of them. They speak openly and impatiently of their burdens, and, in their language, do not spare the great and powerful. They are not afraid to utter the boldest truths, even as regards the king and his favourites; but, when I speak to them of the crown and kingdom, with the view of ascertaining their opinions respecting an illegally imposed king, you should see how readily they forget their own grievances, and how uprightly they express their devoted attachment to the ancient, legitimate, royal family. It is true that, when jesting, they often find great amusement in figurative language, and in befooling each other with old proverbs, and suchlike; but this good-natured sort of waggishness I rather admire, and certainly think there is nothing wrong in it."

"I do not blame that which is so natural to the people, and, in a manner, born with them," replied Drost Peter. "None of us are entirely free from it," he added. "We have both, perhaps, to-day, noble Jomfru Ingé, and even at this very hour, concealed what we know, and avoided the truth, to spare ourselves or others, without having said an untrue word."

Lady Ingé blushed. "Every one has a right to do so," she said, earnestly. "What I will not and ought not to say, no power on earth shall compel me to speak. If we could not be veracious and upright, without telling everything we know, there would be few honest men in existence. You shall judge between us, good Cecilia," she continued, turning playfully to her relation, who had hitherto been a silent listener. "Think you Drost Peter himself is so upright, that he would tell us truly, were we to ask him, which colour he esteems most highly?"

"We need not ask him that," replied Cecilia: "the colour you now wear in your hairband, is that worn by the drost--last year, at least."

Drost Peter blushed deeply. "I wore it last year, because it was the queen's colour," he replied. "I won the right to do so at the Helsingborg tourney. But for twelve months before last May I have not worn it; although it has, since then, become dearer to me than ever. I fancy I have known from my childhood that crimson band, with the small pearl-lilies, and it is the only band I would suffer to bind me prisoner; but were Jomfru Ingé even now to present me with it, I dare not openly wear it. The reason, too, must remain a secret."

Lady Ingé had hastily raised her hand to the crimson fillet, as if she would remove it; but, on hearing Drost Peter's latter words, she only secured it more firmly, and changed the conversation to another subject.

"Look at my handsome, watchful bird," she said, merrily. "Had Hamlet possessed him, he would certainly have known how to make use of him." As she said this, she patted a large tame fowl that had flown towards her, alarmed, as it appeared, by Claus Skirmen, who was in search of his master, to inform him, as he had been ordered, of the state of the wind.

Drost Peter paid no attention to his squire's announcement. He praised the noble bird, and looked at his mistress with a singularly blended sentiment of joy and melancholy, while many fond memories of childhood flitted across his soul, and mingled with his feelings of the present moment. It almost seemed to him as if he were in a dream, and that the knight's tall, fair daughter was again changed into the child-bride of former days.

In the meantime Sir John, with his wife, was leisurely approaching the knoll. He stopped, and gazed at the young man on the green strand-height. "A fine, brave, excellent young man," he said, pointing to Drost Peter; "he is quite another drost than Sir Abildgaard. Our Cecilia's interest in that subtle knight does not please me. The suspicions that have attached to him, since his imprisonment, ought to have cured her of her whimsy. Has she not determined yet?"

"Your silence has made her anxious," replied the mother, with concern; "and, without your consent, she gives him no decisive answer."

"She is free; but from me, she shall not hear a syllable on the matter. What I think of him, she well knows."

"Then she never becomes Drost Abildgaard's wife. God strengthen her!"

"Drost Peter takes his time," interrupted Sir John, hastily.

"His childhood's bride no longer hates him," replied Fru Ingefried; "he does not delay thus merely on account of the wind."

Sir John cast a look at the vane on the turret. "You are right," he observed: "we must away. If our good Drost Peter means to jest with us, he shall have the worst of it."

They were now close to the knoll.

"Drost Peter!" shouted Sir John, "the wind is fair, and we are ready to set sail. If you will with us, come quickly." Whereupon, the old gentleman hastily returned to the garden-hall, and the whole company followed him.

When Sir John entered the great hall, he found the learned chancellor alone, deeply engrossed in a small, neat manuscript.

"Up to the ears in study again?" said Sir John. "Is that your Logica?"

"Nay, nay, noble sir," exclaimed the learned chancellor, as his eyes sparkled with almost youthful liveliness. "See, here I have found some of the glorious old Danish ballads I heard in my childhood, besides many excellent national ones I never knew of. Your cousin, the commandant, must be a brave, patriotic-souled man, and well versed in our old legends and histories. There are some capital notes in the margin of the songs; and here, of a truth, pour living fountains from the people themselves.

"That is brave!" exclaimed Sir John, with singular interest: "that is more than I could have imagined of my good sir cousin, and I like him all the better. The ballads themselves may be pretty enough. I do not understand much of these wares; but, when they are sung, I listen to them willingly. One half of these ballads are fictions and fables, I doubt not; but their intention is good, and they must have been a brave Danish people who made them."

Jomfru Ingé, with the other ladies and Drost Peter, now entered.

"Ingelil, child," called Sir John to her, "when did thy father become so learned, and take such pleasure in old songs and ballads? Formerly, he could never endure them."

"It is not my father's--it is my own little song-book," replied Lady Ingé. "My blessed mother wrote many of them."

"And the glosses--the marginal notes?" inquired Master Martinus.

"Oh, nothing more than what I heard from my old spinning-women, and what I sometimes thought of myself."

At this discovery, Master Martinus seemed almost to blush at his zeal for a work that he had only women and unlettered lay-people to thank for; but his true attachment to the ancient ballads overcame this shock to his learned pride, and he grasped Jomfru Ingé's hand warmly, while he returned her the manuscript. "You have rejoiced my soul, noble lady," he said, much affected; "and I could almost, in exchange for this unlearned feminine manuscript, give you my own sufficiently well-known work, _De Modis Significandi_."

"Such an exchange the girl would not much desire," said Sir John, interrupting him. "But where is thy father, Ingelil? We must bid him farewell, and get on board immediately."

"I will seek him," answered Ingé, as she went hastily away.

"The commandant is in his closet, in conversation with a good friend," said Master Martin: "I had forgotten him, over the book. He is travelling in great haste."

"Do you know this good friend?" inquired Sir John, with apparent indifference.

"I must relinquish this," replied the chancellor, in a half-absent manner, and still keeping his eye on the manuscript, which Lady Ingé had laid on the table. "He wore his visor down: it was a warlike figure."

"A masked warrior?" inquired Sir John, attentively.

"Probably, a coast-guardsman," answered the chancellor. "In a royal castle, one is always in a state of war. The commandant seems to be as cautious as he is vigilant; and I do not blame him, that, in these troublous times, he should avail himself of spies and disguised servitors."

Jomfru Ingé had now returned. She was deadly pale, and sought in vain to conceal her deep anguish and embarrassment. "My father," she said, with half-choked utterance--"my father will be here immediately."

Drost Peter, alarmed, advanced a step or two towards her, with an expression of deep concern; but he paused and was silent, as he suddenly guessed the cause of her perplexity.

"What ails thee, my child?" demanded Sir John, with an uneasy inquiring look. "Thou hast run too fast," he added, considerately, giving her time to answer.

"I am not quite well," she answered, as she supported herself by a chair. "He will come immediately: I have sent a message to him."

"He is engaged officially, I hear, and we will not disturb him. Salute him, and say we were in haste. God bless thee, child! Come, gentlemen."

Anger and deep sorrow were visible in the countenance of the old knight, and, as he regarded the pale Lady Ingé, a tear stole into his eye; but in another moment he was again calm, as usual. "See, here we have the vigilant sir commandant still," he said, in his customary lively tone, as Sir Lavé opened the door, and entered with a constrained but smiling countenance. "No excuses, cousin," added Sir John: "the king's service takes precedence of every other. We must, therefore, in all haste bid you farewell."

"Already, sir counsellor!" stammered Sir Lavé: "I thought the wind--"

"We have not the most favourable wind, if your weathercock may be depended on," replied the old gentleman; "but I fear a person would be misled, were he to depend upon that. I go by the king's yacht; and I know that vessel can make head against a contrary wind tolerably well. I understand a little of sailing, too; and we have, moreover, a good steersman in Drost Peter. Farewell."

These apparently indifferent words, which the old counsellor pronounced with a peculiar emphasis, had to Sir Lavé a serious and fearful signification, that deprived him of the power of utterance. He bowed civilly, though with embarrassment, as he followed his guests to the door. Old John once more gave his hand to Jomfru Ingé, with a warmth and heartiness unusual in him. Drost Peter bowed to her with a look that carried comfort to her soul; and Master Martinus again thanked her for the pleasure her songbook had yielded him. Fru Ingefried and Lady Cecilia, like the worthy chancellor, seemed to have no idea of the cause of her indisposition. The ladies, however, would not permit her to follow them to the door; and having embraced her with hearty affection, the mother, with kind solicitude, gave her all the domestic remedies she could think of, for sudden depression of spirits.

Scarcely had they left the door, before Lady Ingé burst into a flood of tears, and sank into a chair, with her hands before her eyes. She sat thus, immovable, for some minutes. When she took her hands from her eyes, her father stood before her.

"What is this? What means this conduct, child?" he inquired, in tones that sounded almost harshly. "Dear, best Ingé!" he added, with greater mildness, "compose yourself. What is the matter?"

"Father, father!" she exclaimed, eagerly, as she rose, "is the strange knight still in your closet?"

"What leads thee to trouble thyself about my official business?" inquired the father, perplexed: "I do not permit this interference in my affairs. Go to thy chamber, and make ready my travelling-wallet. I journey from hence in half an hour."

"Thou travellest, father? and leavest me behind alone? How long remainest thou away?"

"But a few days: it is on important business. When wert thou wont to be afraid of being alone? I shall provide for the safeguard of the castle during my absence. Thou canst therefore be calm."

"For thee, too, father? Nay, nay, I cannot maintain this painful silence: thou must know the truth, father. I tremble for thy secret schemes--I tremble for thy terrible friends--I am tortured by the most dreadful anguish for thy soul!"

"Art thou mad, girl?" exclaimed the uneasy father, exasperated, and stamping violently. "Hast thou, too, conspired against me? Is it not enough that my own tyrannical kinsman and his understrappers must torture me in my own house, and threaten me, covertly, with the despotic kingly power? Shall my own child be my betrayer? Must I not converse with a trusty friend in my closet, without being suspected and betrayed by my own? Get thee to thy apartment, child, and weep not; or, if thou must weep, let it be only in private. Guard thy tongue, also, that thou betrayest not thy father's life with thy childish nonsense. My affairs thou understandest not; and for my soul thou needest not care. I know what I dare do: my confessor is a man who better understands my salvation than thou and the conscientious Drost Peter. Do as I say, my good child, and be reasonable. I shall not have time, after this, to bid thee farewell. The gentleman I travel with is my friend, and a man I can depend upon. Farewell."

With these words he hastily departed. The unhappy daughter wept no longer: she appeared calm, almost to indifference, and proceeded to her chamber to execute her father's orders.

Scarcely had she finished packing her father's portmanteau, ere a trooper appeared, to take it to him. He was a tall, strange carl, in complete iron mail, and with a wild, audacious countenance.

"What is thy name, and who is thy master, countryman?" asked Lady Ingé, as she looked at him calmly and keenly.

"I need not conceal my honest name here," replied the man, with a Jutland accent: "people call me long Mat Jute. My master has a better name, but I dare not mention it on Zealand's ground. The three rogues who have just left, are not worthy to see his face. He never sets foot on shore here, without being cased in steel from top to toe; and whoever merely catches a glimpse of his eyes, through the bars of his helmet, is seized--with decency be it spoken--with the gripes, on the spot. But with your father it is quite another matter, fair jomfru: he is a brave man, I wot."

"Mat Jute!" repeated Jomfru Ingé: "my little maiden Elsie's sweetheart?"

"O yes, fair jomfru," smirked the man, stroking his beard: "a little sweethearting one must have, wherever he goes: it never binds him, and it is good for both man and beast. But there goes my master to the skiff. Farewell, fair jomfru." And seizing the tolerably heavy portmanteau by the thongs, with two of his fingers he swang it on his shoulder.

Lady Ingé went to the window. At the door stood Elsie, to bid farewell to her warlike sweetheart once more. He did not waste time, however, in a long and touching adieu, giving her only one hearty kiss in passing along the narrow passage, and then pushing her aside to overtake his master.

Lady Ingé stood as if rivetted to the window. She saw her father, closely wrapt in his travelling-cloak, cross the court-yard of the castle, by the side of a tan, stalwart knight, who, in a dark, tarnished steel harness, strode proudly towards the castle-gates. The castellan paused once or twice, as if he had forgotten something, or was undecided; but the strange knight seemed to give no heed to this. Near the entrance of the dark archway, the tall, giant-like figure stopped and turned round, and Lady Ingé now saw that his face was concealed by a black iron visor. He raised his mail-clad arm and beckoned. Sir Lavé still lingered a moment. The sword of the strange knight rang sharply against the stones at his feet, and again he beckoned, with an authoritative motion of his arm, like a general, and turned away. Sir Lavé hastily followed him, and both disappeared under the dark archway of the gate.

To Lady Ingé, it seemed as if her father was drawn into an abyss by the dreadful iron giant. "Merciful God! Stig Andersen himself!" she exclaimed, as, with a scream, she fell back, devoid of consciousness, on the floor.

When her recollection returned, she found herself in the arms of her waiting-maid; and little Elsie, with all her giddiness, was almost weeping over her dear jomfru's condition. But Lady Ingé soon recovered. A sudden thought seemed to inspire her with new strength and courage, and, rising hastily, she left her waiting-maids. Taking her bunch of keys, she proceeded to her father's private closet, at the door of which she stopped doubtfully, and searched uneasily among the keys; but, to her surprise, she found the closet door ajar. On examination, however, she found that it had been locked, but probably in such haste and agitation, that the iron staple, which should have held it, was broken. This accident seemed to relieve her from every doubt, and she stepped promptly over the threshold, and looked around her.

Her attention was first directed to a well-known cabinet in the wall, wherein her father kept his private letters. The steel knob, by which it could be opened, glistened in her eyes like a dangerous snake's head. She pressed the knob, the cabinet sprang open, and a bundle of papers and letters came to view, which she instantly recognised. Shortly before Duke Waldemar's visit, in the previous year, she had seen her father receive, with great anxiety, this well-known packet from a lively, fat carl, who had sung merry songs in the servants' hall, and assisted the maids in the kitchen. That these letters were of an important and dangerous character, was, to her, only too evident. Without stopping to examine them, she placed them in an iron box, wherein her father was accustomed to keep the royal toll-money, but which now stood, empty and unlocked, near the door. Having locked the box, and placed the key in her bosom, she sank down in a praying posture, and thus remained, for the rest of the day, in the lonely closet. As soon as it was dark, she dragged the heavy iron box down into the castle-garden, where, with great effort, she buried it in the knoll, near the Sound.

"God forgive me!" she sighed; "he is my father! I bury his infamy, and thus save his name and honour! But, away from me, the key to the horrible secret! It presses on my heart with the weight of a mountain."

As if seized with extreme horror, she took from her bosom the key of the box, and threw it with all her might into the deep Sound, that roared at the foot of the height. She then returned, quietly and thoughtfully, into the fortress.

* * *

In the southern part of the parish of Felballe, in the diocese of Aarhuus, stood the famous castle, Möllerup, close by a stream with a few water-mills, and near a dark wood of half a mile[27] in extent. It was a strongly-fortified place, in the heavy Gothic style of building, with thick walls of hewn stone, and a lofty square tower in the centre. The fortress was provided with earthen ramparts and wide ditches, both before and behind.

Here resided the celebrated Marsk Stig Andersen Hvide, with his family. He had himself erected and fortified this castle, whose lofty tower was visible, from a considerable distance, over the wood. On the flat summit of the tower, within the battlements, stood four iron-clad men, day and night, as sentinels, who constantly kept their looks fixed towards the four quarters, like the stone giants on Kolding Castle. The heavy drawbridge was already up, and over the arched gateway fluttered a large banner, adorned with the arms of the lord of the castle--a seven-rayed star on azure, under a helmet with two white wings.

On the ramparts stood large bliders, or wall-slings--a kind of wooden machine, by which immense stones were thrown. At great expense, the marsk had here collected numerous defensive machines, some of which had been made in Roskild, by German artificers. Here might be seen the fearful igel-cat[28] with oak-peg bristles on the back, used for crushing besiegers; here, also, was to be found the dangerous brynkiöl, of iron, with crooked steel spikes, and pointed iron claws, whose purpose was, when let down from the ramparts, to seize besiegers, and drag them up. Shot-waggons, for red-hot stones, stood ready for defence, night and day. Seven hundred men in armour guarded the fortress. The order and quietness that reigned within the walls denoted the strictest discipline. The grim, ironclad men moved about with a silence and regularity that fearfully indicated the dark temper which ruled in that fortress.

The powerful master of the castle was now absent, but his return was daily expected; and the place was filled with grave and quiet guests. Every night the drawbridge was lowered at a secret signal, and the gate opened for the admission of strangers, who came disguised in the gray cloaks of friars, or in knight's full armour. In the large riddersal, and in the lofty arched apartments, were daily assembled a great number of guests; and although the clatter of knives, and other table utensils, might be heard, there was no loud conversation, nor any sound of social glee. Among these guests no woman was to be seen; a remote wing of the castle being devoted to the female portion of its inhabitants, who there passed their hours in almost conventual separation from the more warlike community.

It was now the afternoon of the third day after Sir Lavé's departure from Flynderborg with the mailed knight, in whom, for the first time, and with so much terror, Lady Ingé had seen the powerful marsk. In the women's vaulted apartment of Möllerup sat the reserved lady of a knight, in a dark coloured dress, with her countenance concealed by a black head-dress.

Two little maidens, also in black, but without veils, sat on high stools by her side. They were both beautiful children, with light hair and blue eyes. One, who was almost a head taller than the other, and had her smooth, plaited locks tied up with a dark pearl-band, appeared to be about fourteen years old: her cheeks were so faintly coloured, and her skin was so clear and white, that she almost resembled a beautiful marble statue, miraculously endowed with life, but still only half belonging to the world of mortals. A deep, calm melancholy overspread her fair, earnest countenance: there was nothing painful and consuming, however, in its grief, which was softened by a pious and kindly expression, as if she had already overcome some awful sorrow, and had found her lost, youthful joys in the far-off mysterious world to which she appeared to belong. She sat, with a weaving-frame in her lap, working, with threads of silk and gold, a picture of the Virgin and Child, surrounded by a halo of worshiping angels.

The other little girl had yellow flaxen hair, which hung down her neck in ringlets. She did not appear more than nine years old, and had a merry and extremely lively, childish countenance, red rosy cheeks, and a pair of wild, playful eyes, which were never at rest, but constantly twinkling. She was rather handsome, but violent, impatient, and restless: scarcely remaining quiet for an instant on her stool; now throwing aside her work, and then taking it up again; with a thousand other antics, which she abandoned as rapidly as they were conceived.

"Still, Rikké!" said the veiled lady, without looking at the child, or uncovering her face. "Wilt thou into the nursery again?"

"Yes, willingly, mother: it is much more pleasant," exclaimed the little restless girl, running out.

The veiled lady heaved a deep sigh, and relapsed into her former silence. She was busied in rubbing spots of rust from a large broad battle-blade, which lay across her knees; but she appeared to direct her thoughts to her work with difficulty, and her hands often fell inertly on her knees.

"Mother," said the quiet, grave maiden with the gold embroidery, "I am thinking of what our Lord and Redeemer would say, if he still journeyed about the world, and were to come to us here."

"If the Just One stood amongst us, child, he would ask why justice slumbers so long."

"Ah, mother, think you not he would rather say as he said to the holy Peter, the night he was betrayed by the false Judas?"

"I have forgotten it," answered the mother. "Has Father Anton taught it you? What said he, then?"

"It stands in the holy text, dear mother." And she repeated, with folded hands, and in a singing tone, the passage in Matthew--"'Put up again thy sword into his place; for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword. Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of angels?'"

The mother was silent, and sank into a gloomy reverie. "Thou art a pious child, my Margarethé," she said, at length; "but thou art little like thy brave father. Thou art still too young to understand the cruel injustice and the monstrous scandal that befell his house. Thou canst not understand wherefore thy mother will not suffer any one in the world to look upon her face. There are stains, unmerited stains, that can only be washed out in a manner that is costly, and dangerous, and dreadful, but necessary as eternal justice. Thy mother has not quite forgotten the pious instructions of her childhood. Knowest thou what our righteous Lord and Judge said, when he foresaw the cruel injustice he should suffer?--'He who hath not a sword, let him sell his garment and buy one!'"

"Yea, right, right, my daughter Ingeborg!" was uttered by a broken, aged voice, from an obscure corner of the apartment: "so it stands written. It is God's own word. Buy me a sword for my garment: I need no garments. All the garments in the world will not hide our shame!"

The person who thus spoke now made his appearance--a little, bent, aged figure, greatly emaciated, who groped his way forward, for his red, half-shut eyes were without vision. His head, almost entirely bald, appeared all scratched and torn; and his coarse gray beard was in tufts, as if it had been half plucked out. His lean fingers were crooked, and provided with monstrous nails. His dress was of a new and fine black fur, but hung about him in tatters; and his wild, crazy expression clearly enough indicated that he had thus maltreated it himself, in his fits of madness.

"Ah, poor old grandfather!" exclaimed the little Margarethé: "he has got his hands loose, and has been tearing himself again."

"Call a couple of the house-carls, child," whispered the mother, hastily; "but with all quietness. Perhaps I, myself, can talk to him best."

The little Margarethé went hastily out, with her hands folded over her breast, as if praying.

"Quiet, quiet, father!" said the veiled lady, placing the sword under the table, and advancing leisurely towards him. "The time is not yet come; but it draws near: thou shalt yet, perhaps, before thou diest, hear thy daughter's voice without blushing. To see me and my scandal, thou art free."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the old man, wildly: "that freedom, old Pallé Little has taken himself; for that he has asked neither king nor pope. If thou wilt bind me again, my daughter, do so; but quickly, and touch not my claws, I advise thee! They will serve to tear out the tiger-heart and the blinking goats' eyes. Only promise me that you will yourself unbind me, and hand me my Toké's sword, when the time arrives."

"That I have already sworn and promised you, dearly and holily, my father. But you must also keep the promise you have given me, and ill-use neither yourself nor others in the meanwhile."

"Well, bind me, then, child, and lead me back to my owlet's hole. You spoke of a sword, my daughter, and I thought the time had come. It is long, long--it is now nine long winters. There is not much life left in me; but die I cannot, before it comes to pass: that knowest thou well."

"Unhappy father!" sighed the tall female form. She knelt; and, with her own wasted fingers, took up the crooked and trembling hands of the old man, which she kissed through her veil, and then bound loosely, behind his back, with a silk riband. "Now that thou art again bound, my father," she continued, rising, "let me lead thee back to thy corner of hope. Refuse not, father. The day of retribution is certain, and not far distant."

Quietly and silently the trembling old man followed her to his nook, where he sank, as if in a slumber.

The little Margarethé now returned with two servants, who remained standing by the door.

"Hold back! I require you not!" said the lady, giving them a signal to go. The servants bowed respectfully, and retired in silence.

"The dear Holy Virgin be praised! grandfather again sleeps calmly," said little Margarethé, sitting quietly down to her work.

The mother and daughter remained a long time in silence, and all was as still as death around them, until they heard the noise of horses in the courtyard.

"Listen! more strangers have come," said Margarethé: "there are still many of father's good friends to defend us." She went to the window. "It is father himself, and a strange gentleman," she exclaimed, hastily: "he dismounts on the great stone by the stairs. God be praised, he is come! I was almost afraid of so many strangers."

The unhappy house-mother heard this account, with emotions that betrayed a momentary gladness. She arose, but, without saying a word, again seated herself, with a deep sigh.

In the large riddersal of Möllerup, thirteen grave strangers awaited the arrival of the master of the castle. They were seated at a long oaken table, which stood in the middle of the hall, covered with black cloth. Eighteen chairs stood around the table. One of these chairs was higher than the rest, and covered with red velvet: it was vacant. That on the left side of it was also vacant; but on the right sat the heavy Count Jacob of Halland, with his legs stretched out, and drumming on the table with his fingers. Between him and his brother, Niels Hallandsfar, who resembled him in manner and disposition, sat the notable dean, Master Jens Grand, regarding, with a grave and scrutinising look, the assembled personages, most of whom were his kinsmen, and as proud as himself of belonging to the great family of the Absaloms. He appeared particularly gratified at seeing four knights, whose dark visages and haughty mien indicated displeasure and resoluteness for revenge. These were Sir Jacob Blaafod, Arved Bengtson, Peder Jacobsen, and Niels Knudson of Scania, who had all distinguished themselves, under Stig Andersen and Count Jacob, in the Swedish war, but had, along with their general, fallen into disgrace for their arbitrary proceedings in dethroning the previous Swedish king.

The dean had, opposite to him, a smart young gentleman, with a proud but lively and frivolous countenance: this was Duke Waldemar's drost, and fellow-prisoner in Sjöborg, Sir Tuko Abildgaard. Next to him sat a personage who had long been regarded as one of the king's true men--Chamberlain Ové Dyré: he, and the man by his side, Peder Porsé, had recently come to an open rupture with the king, on account of a debt which the latter would not acknowledge; and in consequence of this quarrel, they had taken refuge with King Magnus in Sweden.

All these gentlemen the dean seemed to observe with satisfaction. A noble old squire, Aagé Kaggé, who had long vainly expected the honour of knighthood from the king, the dean likewise appeared to regard with confidence and pleasure; but he cast a doubtful glance at the tall, overgrown person by his side, whose crafty countenance wore a smile of self-satisfaction, while he seemed to fancy himself a man of considerable importance in this secret council. This was the king's double-minded, cunning counsellor, Chamberlain Rané.

In the midst of the company, with an air of boorish pride, sat a short, coarse, splendidly dressed personage, with diamonds on the hilt of his dagger, and a gold chain about his animal-looking neck. His countenance was fierce, rough, and hideous, and he seemed to be tired of the long silence. This was the Norwegian freebooter chief, Jarl Mindre-Alf.

"Now, by Satan! how long will it be ere they get off their horses?" he at length growled forth, breaking the silence. "They must first in, and comfort the women, we shall find. I have ridden three beasts to death to be in time, and yet I have to wait. My time is precious, but here have I now been sitting for half an hour, like an empty barrel, without tasting either wet or dry. I have only three words to tell you from my good king, ye worthy gentlemen, but they are worth gold: if you keep me much longer, I must ride my own way, with the devil's help; and then, we shall see what comes of all your whispering and sour mouths."

"Highborn sir jarl," replied Master Grand, hastily, "after such a hurried journey, you must needs require a heart-strengthening, before you can think of more grave affairs. Please to follow me into the next apartment: there we shall find a magnificent gammon, and excellent old wine, which you have scarcely found a match for in any of our convents."

"Ha, I can understand that!" growled the heavy gentleman, rising "You are a man who understands both body and soul: you know what an honest sea-dog stands in need of, on the cursed land. A house without a host, or wine, or women, the devil may set foot into! Come, then. But it must only be a slight strengthener," he added, thoughtfully: "if I set myself regularly down to the drinking-board, you will scarcely get a word out of me concerning these vile land-crab affairs."

Master Grand took him hastily by the arm, and led him out of the riddersal.

"By St. Canute! I think I shall go too," said Count Jacob, rising: "my good comrade the marsk does not remember whom he has invited as guests."

"There he is! there is the marsk!" exclaimed one knight to another. Count Jacob remained standing, while all the others rose, and looked, with fixed attention, towards the door, which was thrown open for the powerful lord of the castle.

Proud and majestic, entered the well-known heroic figure, in his black harness and closed visor. He was accompanied by Sir Lavé Little, who looked anxiously around him, and appeared highly disquieted as his eye fell on Chamberlain Rané.

The marsk saluted the company in silence, and advanced to the table, where he placed himself on the left side of the vacant, velvet-covered chair. He then struck aside the visor of his helmet, and made a scrutinising and earnest survey of the company. On his stern, energetic, and commanding countenance was an expression of almost painful sadness, which singularly affected them all. "Be seated," he said, with a subdued voice: "my father-in-law and my wife are agreed in what we may determine; their seats may therefore remain empty. But I miss two important men."

At that instant, the door of the side apartment opened, and Master Grand led the pacified jarl into the hall. They both bowed in silence, and took their places. The lofty marsk alone remained standing.

"Secure the doors--we are all here," he said to the two at the further end of the table.

Squire Kaggé and Chamberlain Rané rose, and placed bars across both doors of the hall. They again took their seats, and there was an expectant silence, all eyes being fastened on the marsk.

"You all know wherefore we are again assembled, my trusty friends," began the grave marsk, in a deep, subdued voice, betraying powerfully suppressed indignation: "you all know what has rendered this castle, for the last nine years, a dismal and sorrowful abode. I declared it before the people of Denmark, and before all the world, in the hour when I denounced the King of Denmark in the Ting of Viborg, and swore to revenge my shame or to lose my life. I have not had my revenge, and Marsk Stig Andersen still lives. Had I delayed so long from base fear, and had I rather wished to be a braggart and perjurer than to risk my life for my honour, then might you all despise me--then might every drop of blood in my body suffuse these cheeks with shame, in presence of my friends and kinsmen. But see! I blush not: I am calm and cool, as beseems a man who can keep his revenge until his hair becomes gray, and suffer his thoughts to grow until they ripen. My own disdain I have hitherto borne for your sakes and for the sake of my country. I have had a greater and more important aim in view than merely to wipe out the stains on my own and my house's honour. The great hour of retribution has not yet arrived; but it approaches. No impatience--no precipitation, friends--and it shall surely come. I see no one present who has not been deeply wronged and injured by this same tyrant, whom I have denounced, and whose death and downfall I have sworn; but none of you have so much to revenge as I. So long, then, as Stig Andersen can brook delay, so long may you also."

Count Jacob exhibited some impatience, and seemed desirous to speak; but a look from the marsk immediately quieted him.

"It is for more than one man's revenge," he continued; "more than the weal and woe of our whole race together: it is for the deliverance of a degenerate, but still a noble, though cast-down and unhappy people. It is not enough that we overthrow the tyrant who contemns all law, both human and divine: he must fall, but the throne must stand. While we overthrow the nidding, we must not only secure ourselves and our privileges, but must, at the same time, secure a worthy ruler for the throne. We certainly hoped to have found him, and we hope so still; but his imprisonment put a stop to our grand designs, and his oath and renunciation have, for the present, deprived us of his participation in our council. We have him not amongst us--his elevated seat stands empty; but I see here, nevertheless, his chivalrous friend and fellow-prisoner; and I see, moreover, his confessor, the sagacious, worthy sir dean. Speak, noble sirs: what may we expect of the duke?"

"Everything--everything possible!" replied Drost Tuko Abildgaard, rising. "These are not the words of my prince and master, but my own. The oath binds his tongue; but I know his heart, and dare pledge my head, that now, as formerly, he is your friend and secret defender, and that, when the time comes, he will step forward and act with energy."

"I confirm this testimony," began Master Grand, solemnly, and rising with bold dignity. "Our secretly chosen David has selected me for his spokesman here. I have, with peril to my life, shown him the way to freedom, as you desired; and he is now serving our heaven-abandoned Saul till the hour of doom arrives. He is too conscientious to break his oath, and too magnanimous to demand a dispensation of it from the father of Christendom. He cannot, and will not, at present, take any open part in your great undertakings. He will and ought not to know anything that his friends may determine for the freedom of the country. But when the time arrives, to which, in calm self-denial, he looks forward--when the way and place stand open for him--he will come forward, with the aid of the Church and the Almighty, as he can and ought, and, with honour, crown the work. This, in his name and by his princely soul, I dare swear to you, faithfully and piously."

"'Tis well!" resumed Stig Andersen: "two such creditable witnesses we may rely upon. But the tyrant has bold and sagacious friends: a great portion of the blinded people remain inconceivably firm, both with him and his sons; and without certainty of powerful assistance from the noble Norwegian king, our undertaking would be foolishness. I see our trusty sworn friend, the bold Jarl Alf of Tönsberg, in the midst of us. The answer he brings from his king must determine us when to act."

"Now, then, by Beelzebub! comes my turn, at last, to say a word," muttered the pirate chief, who had long been impatiently rubbing the jewels on his dirk. "My king's answer is short and good, Marsk Andersen," he continued, aloud, rising leisurely, and standing with his legs apart, as if he had been on a ship in motion. "You are a man, every inch of you, says my king and master; and he is to you a faithful friend, whether in fair weather or foul. Your friends are also his; and he who offends you has to do with him. With your secret councils he will have nothing to do; but as a true and honest Norseman, he will openly defend you against every foe, and stand by you with a fleet when it is wanted. His land and kingdom are open to you and your friends, should mischance befall you; and I, his jarl and admiral, do not quit these coasts with my own seadogs, so long as you want help, and there is anything to take a hand in. In all this I am clear and ready. What you farther do here does not concern me. What comes in at the one ear, I shall let go out of the other. Talk is not my business; and you have had my oath once. But, sooth to say, you go on too quietly and sour-mouthed here. I cannot relish these secret councils and fine projects. I am good for nothing but the rude work of giving the order, and setting to, without more ado. In a word: I will burn all Denmark before your eyes, if that will help you. As for the rest, it matters not to me who is king of the country. So long as good booty is to be had, I am with you; and how I can hit, you well know. Let me now drink to your health, and waste no more time in talk. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly, sir jarl," answered the marsk. "Yet a word. Will you keep the promise you made to Duke Waldemar, concerning my wife's sister's son, Chamberlain Rané Jonsen, who is sitting there? On that condition he is our friend; and his assistance is of greater importance than you may suppose."

While the marsk uttered these words, Chamberlain Rané had risen, and approached the jarl.

"Is it thee who would be my son-in-law?" inquired the jarl, with a smile, and measuring him with a proud look. "Now this I must say, that thou dost not look exactly the kind of carl who should woo a jarl's daughter. I gave the duke the word in an honest guzzle, and I doubt if my daughter will say yea to it. But if you are as cunning a fellow as you have credit for, we can talk of it when the time comes: if the child don't refuse you, well, the sober jarl will answer for what the Count of Tönsberg promised when he was drunk."

"Farther my bold wishes do not extend, sir jarl," replied Rané. "When the terms on my side are fulfilled, I shall show you that I have not aimed higher than I can reach."

"Good: with the time comes the care!" muttered the jarl. "Show me first, by some able exploit, what thou art worth, and in exchange I will dub thee a knight with a stroke that shall crack thy puny collar-bone?"

"That is the word, sir jarl. You all hear this, gentlemen?" said Rané, looking boldly round the assembly. He then returned to his seat; whilst the freebooter, without giving farther heed to him, nodded to the others, and withdrew into the drinking-room. At the marsk's signal, all the rest resumed their seats, and there was a death stillness amongst them.

"We have held counsel long and often enough," resumed the marsk, mysteriously. "What shall and must happen, we all know. The time has now arrived when we ought to take the last resolute determination. But what is to be resolved in our souls at this hour, even these silent walls shall not hear. An approving or disapproving sign is sufficient, and we understand one another."

Thereupon he whispered a few words in Count Jacob's ear, who immediately answered by a grave nod. In the same manner the secret word was communicated from man to man. A long and deep silence prevailed during this proceeding. Several of the gentlemen considered long before they nodded, and among these was Sir Lavé Little. He, at length, made a motion with his head, which was understood to be a nod, but which more resembled an involuntary convulsive contraction of the muscles.

At last it came to Chamberlain Rané's turn. The marsk scrutinised him with a penetrating look, and Master Grand's eyes were fixed upon his countenance. The crafty chamberlain heard the whispered word, and he opened his eyes as if greatly astonished, whilst with secret pleasure he seemed to enjoy the triumph of beholding the general attention turned on him alone. He assumed a highly thoughtful air, and still delayed giving the decisive nod. It was necessary that all should be unanimous in a project which the meanest of the witnesses could betray and ruin. The chamberlain was the last, and, next to Squire Kaggé, the humblest in rank of all; but, as the king's familiar, he was an important man; and he seemed to feel with pride that a king's life, and perhaps the weal or woe of a whole nation, solely depended on a slight motion of his cunning head. Whilst he thus remained considering, and apparently undecided, three knocks were heard at the barred entrance-door. All started, and looked in that direction. At a signal from the marsk, Squire Aagé Kaggé opened it, and the gaze of all was turned with a degree of terror towards the open door, through which a tall veiled lady, dressed in black, entered, leading by the arm a blind, decrepid old man, whose hands were bound behind his back, and on whose sightless countenance appeared an expression of quiet, but horrid insanity. These two silent figures remained standing at the end of the table. All arose, and remained motionless as statues.

"Friends and kinsmen!" exclaimed the marsk, in a voice nearly suffocated with anger and sorrow--"descendants of the great race of Absalom! look upon my wife and her hapless father! Need I say more? Would you see the unmerited blush of shame through that veil, which, for nine years, has concealed, even from me, the face of my wife? Would you hear the mad, despairing shriek of her dishonoured father? Is there one amongst you who yet hesitates in coming to the conclusion that shall cast down the tyrant, and free our unhappy fatherland?" As he uttered these words, his keen glance rested on Chamberlain Rané, who also, for a moment, appeared surprised and affected.

Rané nodded.