Chapter VIII: Part I (7)

Sir Lavé Little certainly had not been guilty of any act that could have been brought against him as evidence of treason; but he had been at the recent Möllerup meeting with Stig Andersen, and had there, for his friend and kinsman's sake, declared himself against the king with more decision than formerly. That this meeting and its transactions had been discovered, he knew; and he now feared, with reason, that he would be called to account for expressions he could not deny, or even be deprived, without legal trial, of his important post as commandant of this castle. This secret anxiety pained him the more, that he was obliged to confine it to his own breast. He held no familiar intercourse with any soul in the castle. He lived there as a widower, with his daughter, whom he regarded as still in some degree a child, and feared to entrust her too freely with his affairs.

This, his only child, he loved exceedingly, albeit she little agreed with him on many important public questions, in which she appeared to take more interest than might have been expected in a girl of her age. She was scarcely fifteen, but of a tall, erect growth; and already expressed her will so decidedly, as often to astonish her wavering, hesitating father. She was a granddaughter of the recently deceased, powerful Sir Absalom Andersen, who traced his lineage from Asker Bag and Skjalm Hvide, and who, in his testament, had duly remembered Sir Lavé Little and his daughter.

Proud Ingé, as the froward damsel was already called by the people of the castle, exceedingly resembled her high-souled deceased mother, and had not only inherited the genuine Danish exterior of her mother and the whole Absalom family, but also their ancient patriotic spirit, true love of country, and attachment to the legitimate reigning family, in inseparable conjunction. When she heard of the perils that threatened the crown and kingdom, her dark blue eyes flashed, and she wished that she could only, like her noble kinsmen, John Little, or David Thorstenson, or Drost Peter Hessel, watch over the safety of the throne and country with manly vigilance and vigour. Drost Peter's name she seldom mentioned, and; as it always seemed, with somewhat of dislike. That she had, from her childhood, been destined as his future wife, was to her an insufferable thought, and aroused her sense of freedom and womanly dignity to the bitterest degree. She could only faintly remember the drost as a handsome, kindly youth, whom she had played with when a child. At that time she appeared to have had some fondness for him; but, from the moment that she became aware that she was destined for his wife, his remembrance had become loathsome to her. It was as if an unseen power had made him her hereditary enemy, and he was the only man of whom she was disposed to think ill, without sufficient reasons. She could not, however, conceal the interest she felt in the many good deeds and excellent qualities she had lately heard ascribed to the active young drost, whose important services to the crown tended still further to elevate him in her estimation. Sometimes, indeed, she would even forget their hated relationship, and break forth into involuntary expressions of admiration. But the reports that, during the last year, had been circulated to the drost's prejudice, had also come to her ears. That he was much indebted to his comeliness and talents for his rapid promotion, was a general opinion among the people, even where they expressed themselves with the most delicacy and reserve; and the supposed taint on Drost Peter's honour, which envy was only all too zealous to exaggerate, converted Ingé's esteem for her preordained bridegroom into contempt, almost amounting to abhorrence. She had often, from that instant, begged her father rather to bury her in a convent for life, than wed her to a men who, with all his merit, she could never love and respect.

Until recently, the father had given only vague replies to these petitions, and begged her at least to suspend her judgment until she had seen him, and renewed her half-forgotten acquaintanceship. The drost, he told her, was a distinguished man, a true favourite of fortune, and that, except in case of absolute necessity, a promise made to a deceased friend should be held sacred. Moreover, its fulfilment had reference to the fortunes and future fate of two illustrious families, through their prosperity and influence. But, during the last half year, the father had frequently expressed himself dissatisfied with Drost Peter, and with his zealous efforts to exalt the misused power of the king.

On these points, however, proud Ingé warmly defended his conduct, and also extolled him as a brave friend to his sovereign and country; yet her joy was great when her father, on his return from the Dane-court, declared her entirely free from every engagement with respect to Drost Peter Hessel. He had given her his assurance that she should never be required to wed this zealous royalist, whom every open-minded Dane had the greatest reason to shun, though a certain degree of respect could not be denied him for his sagacity and bold uprightness.

Never had proud Ingé felt herself so glad and lighthearted as on that day; and she now seized every opportunity to evince her gratitude to her father for a promise that first gave her a full consciousness of her womanly dignity, and of being the free, highborn daughter of a knight. When needful, she played draughts and chess with him, and induced him to drive away his anxiety and discontent with a recreation to which he was exceedingly attached. She was careful, however, to conceal from him the slight interest with which she removed the taken pieces, whilst her thoughts flew over the whole free and glorious world she now saw opened up to her, and she joyfully recalled to her imagination a long line of famous ancestors, amongst whom the noblest women of Denmark had, from her earliest childhood stood before her eyes as glorious images of light.

Father and daughter were still sitting silently at the game of chess, and the Lady Ingé perceived that her abstracted parent heeded not his moves, and often lost his pieces. He seemed as if in a dream.

"But tell me, then, dear father," she said at length, breaking the long silence, "do you think it possible, as it was asserted when you were away, that King Waldemar's grandson, the foolhardy Duke Waldemar, really aspires to the crown, after the king's death?"

"Silence, child! Do not speak thus! It may cost us our lives," replied the father, anxiously, and looking round him. "It is mere silly talk. But those who bring such reports into circulation ought never more to see the light. Do not listen to such conversation, my dear, good Ingé, and give no heed to things you cannot understand. Discreet young damsels should not busy themselves with state affairs, but attend to their looms and household matters: I have often told you so. I rebuke you needfully, my good child; for your discourse frequently makes me anxious and uneasy."

"But when it concerns the country and kingdom, my father, we young damsels are as much Danes as the young knights and swains; and it is not the first time that Danish women have been obliged to think on affairs of equal importance. Had the Lady Ingé, and the proud Ingefried, not dared to think on something more than their looms and kitchens, they had not bored Swain Grathé's fleet, and sank it to the bottom; and then, perhaps, the great Waldemar had not been King of Denmark."

"Where get you these stories, my dearest child? Whom have you heard repeat these silly old tales that you have always at the tip of your tongue? You have never heard them from me--that I know."

"Ah, my mother related them to me when I was very young; and she, also, it was who taught me so many of our pretty old ballads."

"Ballads! There we have it! All ballads and chronicles lie, my child. They are but fables and superstitions, which people invent who have nothing to do but to please fools and children. When do you hear me relate stories or sing ballads? People who have serious matters in their heads, have other things to think about than such silly trifles."

"Truly, father, never have I heard you sing ballads or tell tales; but my mother loved the old songs much, and delighted to sing them, and to recite the pretty tales. If there were no true ballads, and if our wild young maidens did not sing about our old kings and heroes, and our true noble women, no great man or woman would be remembered longer than a lifetime. Then it were not worth living in the world, when the most glorious events that happen among us were mere passing show. What avails it that we are rich and powerful, if we perform nothing that deserves to be remembered when we are dead? and what to posterity would be the lives of the greatest of mankind, if people had not a pleasure in preserving their names and their exploits in songs and chronicles?"

"Ah, child, dearest child! this is only enthusiasm and superstition. Whatever is worth being preserved is remembered well enough without writing chronicles and singing songs about it; and in our times, people should have something better to think of than such trifles and old stories. Yet sing, in God's name, as much as you please, about old kings and warriors: it will do no greater harm than it has done; only, leave alone what happens in our own times. There is nothing in these worth singing or talking about. 'No one is happy until he is laid in his grave,' said a wise man; and it is a true saying. In these unsettled times, my child, one cannot be too cautious: a thoughtless word may do greater mischief than you dream of. Look out once more, and see, by the banner, how the wind lies."

Ingé rose, and looked, from the little round window, into the court-yard of the castle, where, over the arched gateway, waved a lofty banner, adorned with the two royal lions.

"The wind is gone towards the east," said Ingé, carelessly, again sitting down; "you expect some one from Scania, to-night, perhaps?"

"Not exactly so," answered the knight, rising. "An easterly wind--hem!--and it was north-westerly only an hour ago. With this wind no one can cross the Sound to-night. I must go and speak with the ferrymen. I expect some strange gentlemen, child--people of distinction, and my good friends. Should they arrive in my absence, receive them in a friendly manner, and set before them the best there is in the house. Entertain them as I know thou canst; but ask them neither their names, nor whither they journey: that would not beseem thee. Above all things, say not a word on state affairs, or of what thou thinkest or dost not think on such matters. This is something that thou must not have an opinion about. Now, now! redden not thus, my child! Thou canst not surely be angry with thy father? Understand me rightly. Thou mayest, in God's name, think what thou wilt--that nobody can forbid thee: but these are not the times to say aloud what thou dost think; and thou art never cautious, little Ingé: thou often talkest, loudly and boldly, things that I dare scarcely repeat to myself in my closet. Forget not, therefore, what I have been saying. I shall ride, perhaps, to meet the strangers, and be back again in an hour. If they come by another road than I expect, and arrive here before me, see to their wants, like a good housekeeper. The porter and steward know discretion; and, to-night, the castle stands open for every traveller, without any one being required to announce himself. Thou art not afraid to be alone, my child? Thou hast thy waiting-maids at hand, and the castle is full of servants."

"Afraid?" repeated proud Ingé, colouring still more deeply; "nay, father, of what should I be afraid? Thy friends cannot be thy daughter's foes. But thou art so strange, my father--so mysterious--and not glad, and at ease. Art thou unwell?"

"No, my child; but I have some unpleasant matters to think about, which thou canst not understand. But take no heed of this. Do not sit here alone, in the twilight. Get a light, and let thy maidens come in, and sing ballads with thee. Thou mayest sing ballads, my child: it is suiting to thine years. What I said about ballads I did not mean to refer to thee. Only, be cheerful now, and be not uneasy on my account. Nothing shall happen." With these words, he patted her kindly on the cheek, and departed.

It began to grow dark. Her father's mysterious inquietude and ill-disguised anxiety had made a singular impression on the young girl, who otherwise had never known fear; and, as she now sat alone, in the great gloomy hall, various alarming thoughts took possession of her mind. She had heard many, in part unfounded, rumours of pirates and robbers: these she cared little about. But that the land was full of secret traitors, who threatened the destruction of the king, and all his more trusty and attached friends, was a general, and, to the Lady Ingé, a far more distressing rumour. This important fortress had usually been kept strongly barred against every stranger who did not, in the first place, give his name and errand with much preciseness. Why an exception was to be made this evening, she could not comprehend; and why her father had been induced to leave the castle at a time when he expected important and distinguished guests, was equally inconceivable. From his uneasy attention to the direction of the wind, and his disappointment when he found it easterly, as well as from his command not to ask the strangers their names, or whither they were journeying, she supposed that he might be expecting some friends, who were eluding pursuit, and intended passing over to Sweden that night. Notwithstanding her father's reserve and cautiousness, she had observed that he took a zealous part in the quarrel Stig Andersen and his kinsmen were fomenting against the king. She was, however, only imperfectly acquainted with the reasons for this quarrel. That the king had outraged Stig Andersen's wife, and had been denounced by the powerful marsk, she had heard; but of the particular circumstances she knew nothing. According to her notions of a king, and the idea she had formed in her childhood, from her mother's descriptions of the great Waldemars, she entertained such a deep reverence for the name of royalty, that she could not conceive how a subject should be offended with his king, or that he should, in anywise, have a right to oppose himself to his sovereign. That her father should be induced, either from friendship, or on account of family ties, to forget his allegiance to the king, was a thought she dreaded to dwell distinctly upon; but now she secretly began to fear such a disaster, which, of all others, she considered the greatest; and, for the first time in her life, she felt herself in a state of anxiety. She looked round the gloomy apartment, and fancied she beheld a lurking regicide, with a gleaming dagger, in every corner. She hastily arose to call for lights; but scarcely had she risen, before the door was gently opened, and a rough, heavy male figure, closely wrapt in a coarse wadmel cloak, slipped cautiously and stealthily across the threshold. The last faint traces of expiring day revealed to her glance a wild, shaggy, filthy countenance, more like that of a savage animal than of a human being. She stepped back, and was on the point of uttering a cry of alarm; but, blushing at her fears, she controlled herself, and recalled to mind her father's instructions, that she should receive all his guests with a dignity becoming the mistress of the house.

"Welcome, stranger," she said, as boldly as she could, though her voice trembled, as she advanced a step or two. "My father will be here immediately," she added; "allow me to procure a light."

"Nay, no light, fair maiden. Are you alone, here, in the castle?"

This question, in a deep, gruff voice, which struck her with its subdued and mysterious tone, increased her alarm; and the tall, clumsy, gigantic form advanced a few steps farther into the hall. She stepped hastily back, and laid her hand on the latch of the kitchen-door, but again took courage, and remained.

"Alone?" she repeated. "Nay: I am, it is true, a knight's daughter, but I do not take upon myself to defend a royal fortress alone. If you wish to see the garrison of the castle, you may do so in one moment."

"Let me not frighten you away, fair madden," said the stranger, stepping back; "I have just come off the sea, and am not in train to appear before fine women-folks. I am only an humble groom, sent hither an my master's errand, to inquire whether Sir Lavé Little can shelter his friends to-night; and whether a couple of royal hounds have not arrived here this evening."

"My father's friends are welcome," replied the knight's daughter: "he has gone out to meet them, and will be here forthwith. Of the hounds I have heard nothing. If you are the strange gentleman's servant, you shall immediately be provided for in the servants' hall."

She was about to lift the latch of the kitchen-door; but the stranger raised his hand, almost menacingly. "Stay! No light. I go immediately," he muttered. "There are no strange guests here, then--no travellers from Nyborg?"

"Not that I am aware of," replied Ingé; "but the castle is large, and, although many royal soldiers be here, there is still room enough for guests who are true to their king and country."

"Good. I shall bear my master this answer; and, if he is satisfied with it, you shall soon see us. Farewell fair maiden. Although you do not seem to wish that I should approach near you, I dare, nevertheless, take my oath that you are as handsome as brave. You need not make an alarm on my account, nor call the garrison together. I come here as a good friend: my master's good friends are also thine." With these words, be hastily departed through the door by which he had entered.

To prevent his re-entrance before there were lights and other persons present, Lady Ingé first proceeded to lock the door after him. Then calling her handmaids, she caused them to light all the wax-lights, which were placed before bright shields, on the whitened walls of the large hall. In the round side apartment, she ordered a table to be spread for the mysterious guests who had been invited; and went, herself, through the kitchen, to the castle-wards, to see that the men-servants were present. She found them all, twelve in number, seated at the supper-table, and returned to the kitchen without betraying her anxiety. As soon as she had given the cooks and pantry-maids the necessary orders, she retraced her steps, with evident composure, to the lighted-up hall, withdrew the bolts from the front door, according to the hospitable usage of the house, and desired two only of her handmaidens to remain with her. They sat down, as usual, to their sewing-table, and drew forth the various articles of feminine handicraft they were busied upon. One of the maidens was a young, lively girl, always full of news, and having much to tell. She looked surprised at the numerous lights, and the sumptuous preparations, and asked, inquisitively, who were the guests expected so late, and with such unusual state.

"I know not," answered Ingé, in an indifferent tone. "But tell us something new, little Elsie," she added, hastily, and seemingly to amuse herself. "Have you heard anything lately concerning your sweetheart? Does he come over to take you away this summer?"

"It will be some time to that yet, lady," replied Elsie, and immediately broke off into her favourite topic. "He cares more about his valiant master, at Möllerup, than about me, or all the girls in the world. Since he has been with the marsk, in the Swedish war, he has become somewhat proud; but I don't blame him for that: he can still say he has helped to pull a king off his throne. You open your eyes, lady; but it is, nevertheless, true and certain. Was not the Swedish king dethroned? and by our valiant Marsk Andersen and his brave people? Mat Jute is the marsk's right hand: he is almost as tall as his master, and a daring fellow, you may trow. Shame fall it! were he not a poor peasant's son, he would one day be a knight. But if he does not soon let me hear from him," she continued, tossing back her head, "I shall be no leaning-stick, indeed. If he no longer cares for little Elsie, I shall bid him good-day, and look out for another. There are as brave and handsome fellows in Zealand, and I am not exactly going to fall sick for a Juttish landsknecht."

"You do not resemble your faithful namesake in the ballad," said Lady Ingé--"she who fretted herself to death for Sir Aagé."

"It must certainly have been a long time since that happened, you well may trow, my high-born lady. At present the world is wiser, and girls are not so simple. Were they to fret themselves to death, now-a-days, on account of young men's inconstancy, there would soon not be a living maiden in the country. Nay, nay," she continued, humming over a song:--

"As, who that trusts the rotten bough,
So, she who trusts a young man's vow.

"As, who would grasp the eel, must fail,
So, she who trusts a young man's tale."

"This song is new," said Lady Ingé; "it is not so said in the old one: there the faithful lovers are borne to the grave together."

"Much good might it do them!" exclaimed the maiden. "I cannot yet say that I should be pleased, if Mat Jute were to die: a dead bridegroom would never become a living one, were one to go ten times to the grave with him."

"There must have been more fidelity in the olden times," said Ingé, seriously. "It was better also for king and country. They must have been happy people who then lived in Denmark."

"What happiness there was in dying of grief, noble lady, I cannot well conceive; and what does it signify to the king and country, that there is no constancy in a love-smit soldier?"

"I can tell you, little Elsie, that when there is no constancy in a soldier in this respect, there is little in any other; and so he cannot be depended upon when he is called on to defend the throne and the realm. He who can forget and forsake his sweetheart, can still more easily forget and forsake his master."

"By my troth, so does not Mat Jute," replied Elsie. "He would rather slay every man alive, than permit any one to say a bad word concerning his master. He once lifted his knife against me, on that very score, though he vowed he loved me as the apple of his eye. He would not be afraid to make a thrust at the king himself, if a regular war should break out between him and the marsk."

"Are you mad, girl?" exclaimed Lady Ingé, in astonishment. "The marsk is the king's subject. If he should wage war against the king, he would be a traitor and shameless rebel."

"I do not understand that," said Elsie; "but this I know well, that if the marsk could not have his wife secure against our king, when he was waging war for him like a brave man, it is not so unreasonable, that, as a brave man, he should feel angry, and do the best he can to right himself."

"This is certainly a false and shameful rumour. A genuine Skiolding[17] can never disgrace his high lineage."

"It is all the same to me," answered the maiden; "but I should be quite as well satisfied if Mat Jute would only keep himself aloof from the great and their quarrels. The small suffer at last, and he may one day meet with some great mishap. I well remember how the ballad goes:--

"The knight, and eke his swain,
They rode from the Ting together:
The knight they let go free--
The swain they hanged in a tether."

"Let us rather sing one of the good old ballads, little Elsie," said Lady Ingé, interrupting the light-minded maiden; "and lay rightly to heart what you are singing, and so perhaps you may one day come to recollect that you are a Danish girl."

"I can well bear that in mind," replied Elsie: "I can never understand a word of German, and have trouble enough with the Jutlandish."

"But a Danish girl is true to her lover, and a Danish man deserts not king or country. Do you remember the ballad of King Didrik? Let us sing that."

Lady Ingé began, and her two handmaidens accompanied her:--

"The king he rules the castle,
And else he rules the land,
And he rules many a warrior bold,
With drawn sword in his hand:
For the king he rules the castle."

While they were singing, the door was opened; but Lady Ingé was thinking only of the old heroic ballad that her mother had sung to her when a child, and which always led her to fancy a king like Waldemar the Great, and a castle like Flynderborg, where she was sitting, the only castle she was acquainted with. The bold notes of the song, and the remembrances of her childhood which it awakened within her, always put her in a gay and happy frame of mind; and she felt herself secure in the castle, which the king ruled with his warriors bold. Upon this occasion, the song had the usual inspiriting effect. She had forgotten all that so recently disturbed her: her eyes sparkled with lively animation; and the maidens could only give ear to her, while she sang alone, in her unusually deep-toned voice, in continuation:--

"Let the peasant rule his house and home,
His steed, the warrior bold--
The king of Denmark ruleth
The castle, keep, and hold.
For the king he rules the castle."

Lady Ingé and her maidens now for the first time noticed the tread of spurred heels on the floor. They rose in astonishment, and Lady Ingé with unwonted precipitation. They perceived three strangers in the middle of the hall. One was in the dress of a huntsman, and the two others were clad as citizens on a journey; nevertheless, under their gray cloaks they had long swords, like those worn by knights. It was Sir Rimaardson, with Drost Peter, and Sir Thorstenson. The mien and expression of the fair songstress, on their entrance, astonished them; and they remained standing, unwilling to interrupt her.

They now approached with much politeness, and saluted the knight's fair daughter. Although they were not dressed as knights, their bearing and manners instantly denoted them to be men of high station and dignity; and Lady Ingé supposed them the distinguished guests of whom her father had spoken. The first glance at their interesting and friendly countenances gave her confidence.

"You are welcome, noble sirs," said she, with entire self-possession, and returning their salute. "My father has been expecting you, and has ridden out to meet you. You must have come by another road than he anticipated. Your groom or squire has doubtless told you that there are no strangers here?"

"We have only this instant arrived, noble lady," began Sir Thorstenson; "and our squire could have told us nothing regarding the state of the house, seeing that he has not yet penetrated farther than the stables. That your father has expected us, we cannot at all suppose: indeed, we thought we should have surprised him."

"To our astonishment, the gates were opened to us without any one inquiring our name or business," said Sir Rimaardson. "This confidence is flattering. Your song, fair maiden, we would not dare to disturb: it was an assurance that, even although unknown, we should be welcome to you, as men true to our king and country."

"For none else stands this castle open," replied Ingé. "Your names and errand no one may presume to inquire about, noble sirs. You are specially welcome to my father, I can assure you." So saying, she regarded their manly, honest countenances with satisfaction and confidence.

Drost Peter had not yet said a word, but stood perplexed, and almost bashfully, before her, with a singular expression of surprise and melancholy, and with a kind of dreamy pleasure in his calm, earnest look.

"Step nearer, gentlemen," continued Lady Ingé, with a light heart, and completely relieved from any doubt of disloyalty in her father's connections, and from every uneasiness regarding the mysterious guests expected: "you find here an open lady's room, where, truth to say, I am glad to see the friends of my father, who can occupy his place in his absence. He left me half an hour since, to return in an hour if he did not meet you. A fellow, who represented himself as your groom, almost frightened me in the dusk of the evening. The castle, at other times, is never so accessible. Under these circumstances, you are to me the more welcome. If you would please to take refreshment, gentlemen, it is already prepared."

The knights looked at each other with astonishment.

"Some mistake must have occurred here, noble lady," said Sir Rimaardson; "but, if you will permit us, we shall avail ourselves of it, and defer the explanation until your father arrives."

"Permit me a question, noble lady," said Drost Peter, appearing at length to wake from his sweet dream; his eyes, meanwhile, resting with kindly interest on the maiden's open countenance and noble form; "and pardon me if it is amiss. Is your Christian name Ingé? and are you the daughter of the governor of this castle, Sir Lavé Little, and his noble wife, deceased, the Lady Margarethé, Absalom Andersen's youngest daughter?"

"You knew my mother, noble sir," exclaimed Lady Ingé, joyfully, and, in her joy, forgetting his question and his singular solemnity of manner: "but, nay, you could scarcely have known her, else you would have known me also; for I am said to resemble my blessed mother exceedingly."

"I have seen your mother in my childhood," said the young drost; "but she was then no longer young: she was, however, about your height. You have inherited her eyes, noble lady, and, as I can hear, her deep, sweet voice, and her fondness for our old heroic ballads. The one you have just sung, I seem to have heard in my cradle: it recalls a time when I had happy dreams about the days of our Waldemars, and of him who ruled the castle, and so many warriors bold."

"That was no mere dream, noble knight," replied Ingé, with lively interest. "That you and these good gentlemen are knights, I must permit myself at once to believe, though I am not at liberty to put the question. That the king, God be praised! still rules over every Danish land and castle, and over many bold and doughty heroes, is no dream, I know: this, at least, you and these good gentlemen will admit. If, then, you have heard heroic ballads in your cradle, noble sir," she added, with a look of confidence, "they have certainly not been sung in vain."

Drost Peter blushed, but raised his eyes boldly, and with a look of frankness. "If it please God and Our Lady," he said, "there is no dream so marvellous that it cannot be fulfilled, and the good old times may yet return."

A page now opened the door of the dining-hall.

"You have probably travelled far, and need refreshment," said Lady Ingé, remembering her duty as housekeeper, and pointing to the opened door.

Drost Peter, who was accustomed to courtly manners, involuntarily offered his arm to the knight's daughter. She led him to the end of the table, in the round turret apartment, and gave the maidens a signal for their attendance. Sir Thorstenson and Sir Rimaardson followed the young hostess, and Thorstenson took his place on her right hand. Two stately pages set forth, on the fringed table-cloth, roast game and baked barley-bread, while an active cupbearer took care to fill the wine-cups from a large silver flagon. The two handmaidens stood respectfully behind Lady Ingé's chair, with modest, downcast eyes, but ever and anon contrived to cast a look of curiosity towards the strangers; the handsome young drost, in particular, appearing much to attract them.

The conversation soon became general. Lady Ingé carefully guarded herself against any expression that would appear to betray curiosity; but still she would not have been displeased if her guests had chosen voluntarily to discover who they were.

"The Dane-court is over, it is said," she remarked, when a fitting pause ensued. "I regret that I have never been present at a Dane-court, for one does not hear or see much in this lonely fortress. You must have seen the king, noble sirs: I should like to know if he looks as I picture him to myself."

"What kind of person do you fancy him, then, noble lady?" inquired Sir Thorstenson. "I'll be bound you think him, at least, a head taller than I am, and like King Didrik of Bern, or some other of those valiant kings you sing about."

Lady Ingé looked at the tall knight with the long plaited beard. "More valiant than you appear, he needs scarcely be," she answered; "but such like I do not imagine him. At the head of a band of bold troopers, I should think you were in your place; but--excuse me, sir knight--you seem too hasty in your conduct to govern a kingdom."

Thorstenson stroked his beard. "In that you may be right, fair lady," he muttered; confirming, by his air of chagrin, the young lady's frank expression.

"Were I to compare any of you with my idea of the king," continued Lady Ingé "it would be this gentleman;" and her calm blue eyes rested searchingly on Drost Peter. He started at the compliment, which a playful smile seemed instantly to contradict. "But such a comparison might not astonish you, noble sir," she continued, "if, instead of deploring the departure of the days of the great Waldemars, you had power to bring them back again."

The guests regarded with surprise the knight's young daughter, who jested so good-humouredly; and, at the same time, with the dignity of a princess, exercised over them a secret mastery, of which she did not appear to be aware. Drost Peter's cheeks reddened; and he felt himself both attracted and repelled, in a singular manner, by the bold, composed girl. But, at her latter words, he seemed almost to forget himself and his position, in a higher and more important thought.

"The power you speak of, noble lady," he commenced, with calmness and earnestness, his large eyes sparkling with fire and energy--"that power which shall recall to a people days of departed glory, you may well miss, where it cannot be found save by a miracle. That power has no knight or hero in Denmark--that power has no monarch in this world: it must come from above, and it is not the lot of any single man to possess and exercise it. If it flashes not from many thousand eyes united, and pours not forth from every heart in Denmark, the greatest king in the universe cannot raise the fallen, nor restore to the people the lofty spirit of our ancestors."

"You may be right, noble sir," replied Lady Ingé, with an interest that gave her cheeks a deeper tinge, and her eyes an almost dazzling radiance; "but who has told you that this spirit is fled? Our king himself I know not, and he is arrogantly blamed by many; but still I know he has men by his side who boldly and bravely watch over the security of the crown and the honour of the people. Among these, I may venture to mention my own kinsman, the old Sir John: every Danish man, I know, must respect him. Were the proud marsk, at Möllerup, as loyal as he is brave, Denmark had yet perhaps an Axel Hvide, or a Count Albert. David Thorstenson, too, I have heard named among the heroes of our time; and you must certainly know, yourselves, many other names which do honour to our age."

Sir Thorstenson nodded, and felt himself highly flattered to hear his name among those of the young damsel's heroes. The adventure in which he and his friends found themselves amused him greatly, and he took a fancy to know the patriotic young lady's opinion of his comrades. "But the best you forget, fair maiden," said he, merrily. "What say you of Sir Bent Rimaardson, of Tornborg?"

"He guards our coasts like another Vetheman, they say: I and every woman in Zealand have to thank him that we need not fear the wild Norwegian algrev and the ruthless Niels Breakpeace."

Rimaardson bit his lips, and was silent in the presence of a renown that his own eyes had so recently shown him to be unmerited.

Thorstenson wished to compensate for the failure of his joke, and thought to give his other companion better cause to thank him for his sally.

"But if you would name the eminent men of the king and country," said he, hastily, "you ought, first and foremost, to have mentioned the young Drost Peter Hessel, who so soon has had the good fortune to stand so near the throne, and so deservedly."

Lady Ingé was silent for an instant, and her animation appeared suddenly to be converted into coldness. A short and general silence ensued; but to the young drost it was an eternity of torment. If he did not expect to be extolled and admired by his childhood's bride, neither did he expect to be, the object of her dislike and contempt.

"My father tarries long," said the knight's daughter, breaking the irksome silence. "I am conversing with you, noble sirs, on matters which probably are not befitting among strangers," she added. "But you must excuse me, gentlemen. On certain subjects I forget, at times, that my sex is seldom allowed the pleasure even of talking about the happy, busy life in which we are not permitted to take an active part. Respecting the person you last mentioned, you must allow me to be silent. It matters little to him what a Danish maiden thinks of him, if she cannot, like the queen, advance his power and fortune."

Drost Peter paled. He felt himself so deeply wounded with these words, that he was on the point of making himself known, or, at least, of defending himself against the last severe accusation; but, at that moment, the door of the outer hall was opened, and well-known voices were heard near at hand.

"The duke!" whispered Sir Rimaardson; and, to their surprise, they perceived the duke with his drost, together with the algrev and Sir Lavé, approaching the door of the dining-room.

Lady Ingé rose to receive her father and the new comers. The knights also arose, and Thorstenson and Rimaardson looked doubtingly at each other; but Drost Peter now felt himself entirely at his ease. The injurious mistake had awakened all his pride; and the consciousness that his own energy and merits had raised him to the honours he held, gave him a boldness that bordered almost on insolence. He felt here all the importance of his position, where, travelling on the king's errand, he had right and power, if required, to act with royal authority. He advanced towards the duke and his followers with politeness and dignity, but without letting it appear that he knew them in the plain gray cloaks in which they had wrapped themselves, as if they did not wish to be recognised. He directed his salutation principally to Sir Lavé, as governor and chief of the castle. The astonished Sir Lavé instantly recognised the drost, and changed colour, but hastily took occasion, from the drost's plain outer garment, to greet him as a stranger of humble rank, that he had never before seen.

"I and these gentlemen are not unwelcome to you, then?" said Drost Peter, while, without the least embarrassment, he presented to him his travelling companions, without naming them. "We have, as you perceive, sir knight, partaken of your hospitality without hesitation. We have, besides, an errand to you, as royal governor here, which we shall impart to you at your convenience."

Sir Lavé bowed, silently and distantly, with an anxious side look to the duke and his followers, who did not appear the least surprised at this meeting, and had hastily turned their backs towards Drost Peter and his friends.

"We flatter ourselves that we are known to you," continued Drost Peter, "notwithstanding the strange dress we prefer travelling in. The rumours respecting the insecurity of the roads are not unfounded: we have had serious proofs of that. You perceive that those good gentlemen there have used the same precaution," he added, as he pointed to the duke and Count Mindre-Alf, who, along with Sir Abildgaard, were engaged in private conversation, in the dimmest part of the outer hall, and closely wrapped in their large cloaks, with their backs towards the dining-room.

Sir Lavé, in the meanwhile, had recovered himself. "Be pleased to follow me to my private apartment, gentlemen," he said, with apparent calmness. "I see my daughter has already cared for your entertainment; I am, therefore, now at your service, and can hear your business without interruption. Take care of my new guests, in the meantime, my daughter."

He gave the servants a signal, on which they hastily took a wax-light in each hand, and opened a little concealed door in the wall of the circular dining-room. One of the servants led the way into a long dark passage, whilst the other remained standing by the door.

"Let me show you the way," said Sir Lavé, going before them.

As soon as Drost Peter and his two companions had entered the dark passage, the servant who had held the door open disappeared. It was suddenly dark behind them, and the door closed with a hollow clang, which made the knights start.

"This is a convenient arrangement," said Sir Lavé, in an indifferent tone. "I must be prepared for all kinds of guests, you know. Gentlemen like you, who come on important state affairs, I invariably converse with as privately as possible, to avoid interruption."

The long passage led to the eastern wing of the castle, which projected into the Sound. It was terminated by a narrow, vaulted, spiral staircase.

"I must beg you to go one at a time here," said Sir Lavé: "the stair is somewhat small, and you may be incommoded in getting a few steps upwards. I often find this way troublesome; but one cannot be cautious enough in these times, and a private message from the king must be heard in private." As he spoke, he ascended hastily, without looking behind him.

Drost Peter, who followed him closely, paused once or twice, and put a few indifferent questions to him on the construction of the castle, at the same time pointing behind him; but Sir Lavé continued to ascend, and answered his inquiries without stopping or turning.

"Singular!" whispered Sir Rimaardson to Thorstenson. "Were he not the brave John Little's kinsman, we should barely trust him. Saw you his perplexity, and his look towards the duke?"

"If he betray us, it shall cost him his life," whispered Thorstenson, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword: "he shall not go three strides from us."

Drost Peter, observing that his companions whispered suspiciously behind him, turned round, and laid his finger on his lips. "The wind is still easterly," he remarked, in a careless tone: "nobody can well think of crossing the Sound to-night."

"It is scarcely possible," replied Sir Lavé: "you must determine on taking your abode with me to-night, gentlemen."

"That is not our intention," said Drost Peter: "beside, you have guests, who probably have greater claims upon your hospitality, and from whose society we necessarily detain you too long. Shall we soon reach your private apartment, sir knight?"

"In a moment," he replied, as he redoubled his pace.

Drost Peter had mentally counted the number of steps, and had reckoned the sixtieth, when they halted on a landing. An iron-studded door was opened, and they entered a narrow turret-chamber, where there was only a single window, which stood open, but was provided with strong iron bars. The wax-lights flickered in the current of air, and the servant lighted a large lantern suspended from the roof.

"Your closet almost resembles a prison," observed Drost Peter.

"It is sometimes used for that purpose," replied Sir Lavé: "it is the most secure part of the castle. This tower, as you may perceive, stands half in the water, but it commands an excellent view over the Sound.----Now you may go," he said, turning to the servant: "nobody must disturb us here. Desire my daughter and the strangers not to wait for us."

The servant went out, and the knight locked the heavy door himself, and put the key in his pocket.

"Now, I am quite at your service, gentlemen. What weighty message does the king send me by three such important persons? Prudence forbade me to recognise you sooner."

"We are sent by the king on a business of much consequence," said Drost Peter, calmly and self-possessed; "and I, Drost Peter Hessel, am authorised to demand active assistance from every royal governor in the country. The object of our journey is a secret that no one is at liberty to inquire into. But that you, Sir Lavé Little, as the king's servant, and commandant of this castle, are bound, without objection, to provide us with thirty armed men and a vessel, this letter patent, to every royal governor in the country, will show you." So saying, he handed the astonished knight an open letter to this effect, with which, in addition to the royal warrants, he had taken care to provide himself.

The knight perused the missive with evident uneasiness; taking a considerable time to get through it, as if he found some difficulty in deciphering the writing.

"I have nothing to object to this, sir drost," he said, at length. "A ship and crew are at your service, whenever you choose to give the order. But, as you have just remarked, in the present state of the wind nobody can think of crossing the Sound."

"You perceive by the same letter royal," continued Drost Peter, "that I am empowered, on my own authority, to demand aid from every royal governor, to seize and conduct to Sjöberg whatever Danish knight or vassal I may find on any suspicious business."

"I see so, with surprise," replied Sir Lavé. "But I still hope, sir drost, that you do not mean to avail yourself of an authority so extensive and arbitrary. Such a step, as you well know, is at variance with the king's obligations to the laws and charters of the kingdom. He cannot issue a letter to imprison any man, until he has been legally accused before a provincial or state court of justice, and has had the advantage of a legal trial."

"You forget the exceptions, Sir Lavé'," replied Drost Peter. "This privilege extends not to rovers and criminals, and, of course, to traitors least of all. Therefore, in virtue of this royal warrant, I must demand of you, in the king's name, that you cause the castle to be locked up, and deliver over to me, under safe escort, every stranger at present within these walls."

Sir Lavé grew pale. "You are somewhat too harsh, sir drost," he said, looking anxiously towards the window: "you would not compel me to betray my guests? They are not accused of any crime; and, without apprehending such treatment, they have confidingly entered beneath my roof."

"This castle is not your's, but the king's," replied Drost Peter, apparently striving to subdue a feeling of pity, as he regarded the anxious castellan. "I fulfil a disagreeable duty," he continued; "but where I meet the enemies of the king and country, I must insist on their detention, without reference to personal feelings. One of these gentlemen, moreover, to whom you have opened this royal castle, is an open enemy of his country--that most notorious freebooter and incendiary, the Count of Tönsberg."

"What say you? the algrev!" stammered the castellan, terrified, and apparently highly astonished. "If that be true, then I am certainly to blame. But I assure you that one of these gentlemen was quite unknown to me: he came in the duke's train, and it is impossible I should know--"

"I am willing to believe you, Sir Lavé, though appearances are against you. You are not aware, then, that your illustrious friend and guest has the famous pirate, Niels Breakpeace, with him, as his squire?"

"You alarm me, noble sir!" again stammered the castellan, in the greatest embarrassment. "If I had suspected this, they had never set foot within these walls. What is now to be done? If the castle is full of traitors and pirates, our whole garrison is scarcely strong enough to oppose them."

"By Satan! let _us_ take care of that," observed Thorstenson, impatiently. "Lock up the doors straightway, now that you know our errand."

"Courtesy I must beg of you for the present, and the matter must be well considered," replied Sir Lavé, delaying. "With such powerful criminals, it is a difficult business. I shall immediately give the castle-warden a private signal to bar the gates, and prevent all egress." He ran anxiously to the open grated window, and called out, in a subdued voice, "Lock the gate, fellow! not a living soul must be allowed to slip out!" He then took the key from his pocket, and struck upon the gratings with it.

"Lock it yourself, rather," said Drost Peter, making a hasty movement to take the key from his hand; but, at the same instant, they heard a clank on the stones in the water beneath the tower.

"What have you done, sir drost!" exclaimed Sir Lavé, as if in the highest degree terrified: "you have knocked the key out of my hand, and now we are all prisoners here. The Sound roars loud, and not a soul can hear us, as no one ventures near enough to this turret to liberate us. And my daughter--my poor child--is now alone, amidst these traitors and rievers." All started.

"Your daughter!" exclaimed Drost Peter, with great uneasiness. "Nay, nay," he added, with more composure, "the traitors and rievers will respect her. The duke and his drost are not rude and shameless criminals, although they have niddings in their train. If you had feared for your daughter, Sir Lavé, you would scarcely have brought home such dangerous guests, and perhaps would not so readily have lost the key of our prison here."

Sir Lavé was silent, and walked uneasily backwards and forwards.

Drost Peter and Sir Rimaardson observed the anxious castellan with scrutinising looks, betraying, at the same time, their indignation at this singular imprisonment at a moment of such great importance. None of them any longer doubted that the duke had recognised them, and suspected the object of their journey. It was, therefore, probable that he would now seize on every means of escape, to carry out his daring plans.

A suspicion of this had first crossed Drost Peter and his friends on their way to the tower; and Thorstenson and Rimaardson had, therefore, nodded to each other approvingly, when they heard the drost's bold determination, on his own responsibility, to seize the duke on the spot, notwithstanding that the royal warrant, strictly speaking, required them to defer this step until they encountered the duke on Swedish ground. This new and daring plan was now rendered impossible; and, while the castellan shared the imprisonment of his unwelcome guests, the duke and his dangerous train would, in all likelihood, place themselves in complete security.

While such thoughts as these flashed rapidly athwart the minds of Drost Peter and the cool Sir Rimaardson, Thorstenson gave vent to his indignation, and broke out into the most violent invectives against the troubled castellan, whom he did not hesitate to designate as a crafty traitor, and an abettor of rebels and foreign pirates. He immediately endeavoured to break open the door, and beat against it, like a madman, with his iron-heeled boots, but in vain.

"Open the door on the instant!" he roared, at the same time drawing his long sword; "or, by St. Canute, it shall cost your life, you cowardly, crafty cheat!"

At his terrible threat, Sir Lavé sprang towards Drost Peter.