The surgeon was born in a small town of East Bothnia, the same day as Napoleon I., August 15th, 1769. I well remember the day, as he always used to celebrate it with a little party of relatives and a dozen children; and as he was very fond of the latter, we were allowed to make as much noise as we pleased, and throw everything into absolute confusion on this anniversary.

It was the pride of the surgeon's life that he was born on the same day as the Great Conqueror, and this coincidence was also the cause of several of his important experiences. But his pride and ambition were of a mild and good-tempered kind, and quite different from the powerful desires which can force their way through a thousand obstacles to attain an exalted position. How often does the famous one count all the victims who have bled for his glory on the battlefield, all the tears, all the human misery through which his way leads to an illusionary greatness, perhaps, doomed to last a few centuries at most?

The surgeon used to say that he was a great rogue in his childhood; but exhibiting good intelligence, he was sent by a wealthy uncle to a school in Vasa.

At eighteen, with a firkin of butter in a wagon, and seventeen thalers in his purse, he went to Abo to pass his examination. This well accomplished, he was at liberty to strive for the gown and surplice of an ecclesiastic. But his thoughts wandered far too often from his Hebrew Codex to the square where the troops frequently assembled.

"Oh!" thought he, "if I were only a soldier, standing there in the ranks, and ready to fight like my father, for king and country."

But his mother had placed an emphatic veto on the matter, and exacted a solemn promise from him that he would never become a warrior.

Before, however, he was through Genesis, an incident suddenly occurred which completely altered his good intentions. This was an announcement in the daily paper from the Medical Faculty, which stated that students who wished to take service as surgeons during the war could present themselves for private medical instruction, after which they could reckon upon being ordered out with five or six thalers per month to begin with, as the war was at its height.

Now, young Bäck would no longer be denied; he wrote home that as a surgeon's duty is to take off the limbs of others, without losing his own, he wished to volunteer. After some trouble he received the desired permission. In a moment the Codex was thrown away. He did not learn, he devoured surgery, and in a few months was as capable a chirurgeon as most others; for in those times they were not very particular.

Our youthful surgeon was in the land campaigns of 1788 and 1789; but in 1790 at sea; was in many a hard battle, drank prodigiously (according to his own account), and cut off legs and arms wholesale in a most skilful way. He then knew nothing about the coincidence of his birth with Napoleon's, and therefore did not yet consider himself as under a lucky star. He often told the story of the eventful 3rd of July in Wiborg Bay, when on board the "Styrbjörn" with Stedingk, at the head of the fleet, they passed the enemy's battery at Krosserort's Point, and he was struck by a splinter on the right cheek, and carried the mark to his grave. The same shot which caused this wound wrought great havoc in the ship, and whizzing by the admiral's ear, made him stone-deaf for a time; Bäck with his lancet and palsy drops restored Stedingk's hearing in three minutes. Just then the danger was greatest and the balls flew thick as hail.

The vessel ran aground.

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

"Not so!" answered Henrik Fagel, from Ahlais village, in Ulfsby, "send all the men to the bow; it is the stern that has stuck."

"All men to the prow," shouted the commander. Then the "Styrbjörn" was again afloat, and all the Swedish fleet followed in her wake. Bäck used to say:

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

Everyone understood the old man; he had saved the entire squadron. Then he used to laugh and add,

"Yes, yes! You see, brother, I was born on the 15th of August; that is the whole secret; I am not to be blamed for it."

After the war was over, Bäck went to Stockholm, and became devoted to the king. He was young, and needed no reason for his attachment.

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

One day, in the beginning of March, 1792, the surgeon, a handsome youth—to use his own expression—had through a chamber-maid at Countess Lantingshausen's, who in her turn stood on a confidential footing with Count Horn's favourite lackey, obtained a vague inkling of a conspiracy against the king's life. The surgeon resolved to act Providence in Sweden's destiny, and reveal to the monarch all that he knew, and perhaps a little more. He tried to obtain an audience of the king, but was denied by the chamberlain, De Besche. A second attempt had the same result. The third time, he stood in the road before the royal carriage, waving his written statement in the air.

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

"He is an unemployed surgeon," replied De Besche, "and begs your Majesty to begin another war, that he may go on lopping off legs and arms."

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

A few days afterwards the king was shot.

"I was blameless," the surgeon used to say when speaking of this matter. "Had not that damned De Besche been there—yes, I won't say anything more."

Everyone understood what he meant. The "if" in the way was also due to his birthday on the 15th of August.

Shortly afterwards Bäck represented his profession at a state execution. Here his free tongue got him into trouble, and he fled on board a Pomeranian yacht. Next we find him tramping like a wandering quack to Paris. He arrived at an opportune moment, and received a humble appointment in the army of Italy. One night, under the influence of his birthday, he left his hospital at Nissa, and hurried to Mantua to see Bonaparte; he wished to make of the 15th of August a ladder to eminence. He managed to see the General, and presented a petition for an appointment as army physician.

"But," sighed the surgeon, every time he spoke of this remarkable incident, "the General was very busy, and asked one of his staff what I wanted."

"Citizen General," answered the adjutant, "it is a surgeon, who requests the honour of sawing off your leg at the first opportunity."

"Just then," added the surgeon, "the Austrian cannon began to thunder, and General Bonaparte told me to go to the devil."

Thus the surgeon, who had preserved so many eminent personages, was deprived of the honour of saving Napoleon. He got camp fever instead, and lay sick for some time at Brescia.

When well he travelled to Zurich, and here fell in love with a rosy-cheeked Swiss girl; but before he could marry her, the city was overrun, first by the Russians, then French, and finally by Suvaroff. The surgeon's betrothed ran away, and never returned.

One day he sat sorrowfully at his window, when two Cossacks came up, dismounted, seized him, and hurried him off at full speed. The surgeon thought his last hour had arrived. But the Cossacks brought him safely to a hut. There sat some officers round a punch bowl, and among them a stern man in large boots.

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

Bäck ventured to ask which tooth it was that ached.

"You argue," said the man impatiently.

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

"Good, my boy! March," said the other, and the surgeon was dismissed with ten ducats.

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

The surgeon's next considerable journey was to St. Petersburg, where he obtained an appointment in a hospital, and made a little fortune.

Thus passed four or five years. The surgeon was now thirty-five. He said to himself,

"It is not sufficient to have preserved the Swedish fleet, Gustave III., and Armfelt; to have had an interview with Napoleon, and pulled out a tooth for Suvaroff. One must also have an aim in life." And he began to realise that he had a Fatherland.

When the war of 1808 broke out, the surgeon became an assistant physician in one of the Finnish regiments; he no longer fought for glory and the 15th of August. He took part in the campaigns of 1808 and 1809. Then he fought manfully with misery, disease, and death; cut off arms and legs, dressed wounds, applied plasters, solaced the wounded, with whom he shared his flask, bread, purse, and what was much more, his unalterable good humour, and told a thousand funny stories gathered in his travels. He was called the "tobacco doctor," because he was always ready to share his pipe and quid. One can be a Christian even with tobacco. The surgeon was not so stuck up that he, like Konow's corporal, went about

"With two quids from sheer pride."

On the contrary, he went without himself when the need was great, and a wounded comrade had got the last bit of the roll in the pocket of his yellow nankeen vest. Hence the soldiers loved the tobacco doctor.

When peace was concluded between Russia and Sweden in 1809, the latter having lost Finland through a foreign traitor, who gave up Sveaborg to the enemy, and so many Finns went over to Sweden, the surgeon thought it more honourable to remain and share the fortunes of his native land. He travelled round the country and practised amongst the peasantry. But the Medical Faculty of Abo finally forbade him to continue, and he therefore settled down at Jacobstad, his native place, and took to fishing. In the days of his prosperity the surgeon had been too liberal; he now only owned his old brown cloak, yellow nankeen vest, a hundred fish hooks, and his cheerful disposition. But he now obtained the appointment of public vaccinator, which allowed him to roam about the country twice a year, like old times. No one knew better than he how to lull the little children to rest, whilst he pricked the fine soft flesh of their arms; almost before they knew it the pain was over.

This gained for him the goodwill of all the mothers; they even forgave him the ugly habit of chewing tobacco—it was too late to cure it now.

Then the snow of old age stole gently o'er the surgeon's head. He had gone through the storms of life without losing faith in humanity; never hardening under adversity, nor unduly puffed up when fortune smiled. He was throughout a good soul.

Often in our childhood and first youth we sat up there in the old garret chamber around his leather-covered arm-chair, by the light of the crackling fire, listening to his tales from the world of fiction and from life. His memory was inexhaustible, and as the old runa says, that even the wild stream does not let its waves flow by all at once, so had the surgeon continually new stories of his own time, and still more from periods which had long passed away.

It sometimes happened after we had been listening to the old man, that he took out an electric battery, and drew from it a succession of sparks.

"In that way the world sparkled when I was young," he said smiling; "one had only to apply a finger, and click it flashed in all directions. But then it was our Lord who turned the machine."

But rarely had he a story written like that of the Duchess of Finland. Most of them were given orally. Many years have since passed; part I have forgotten, and some I have compared with traditions and books. If the reader finds a pleasure in them, then the surgeon will not have told his tales in vain during the long winter evenings.

Reader, as you sit in your peaceful home, surrounded by the calm of civilisation, can you recall the grand heroic memories of the past, which after centuries remain illuminated with a bright glow, and are also often darkened with blood and tragedy? Can you transport yourself back to the joys and terrors of the past, and take a vital interest in those struggles and battles long since fought out, and become full of hopes or fears as fortune smiled or betrayed?

Stand with me on the heights of History, and looking far around on the wild arena of human destiny, can you transfer yourself to the vale of the past, the physically dead and buried, but spiritually immortal life, which forms the being and substance of all History?

Reader, have you ever seen History depicted as an aged man with a frozen heart and wise brow, trying all things in the balance of reason? But is not the Genius of History like an ever youthful virgin, full of fire, with a living heart and a flaming soul—human, warm, and beautiful?

If then you have the capacity to suffer or rejoice with the generations that have passed away, to love, and hate with them, to admire, despise, and curse as they have done; in a word, to live amongst them with your whole heart, and not merely with your cold reflecting mentality, then follow me. I will lead down the valley; but your heart will guide you better that I; upon that I rely—and begin.

THE KING'S RING. — CHAPTER I. THE BATTLE OF BREITENFELD. — CHAPTER II. THE NOBLEMAN WITHOUT A NAME. — CHAPTER III. LADY REGINA. — CHAPTER IV. LADY REGINA'S OATH. — CHAPTER V. JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES. — CHAPTER VI. THE FINNS AT LECH. — CHAPTER VII. NEW ADVENTURES. — CHAPTER VIII. NÜRNBERG AND LÜTZEN. — II.—THE SWORD AND THE PLOUGH. — CHAPTER I. A MAN FROM THE PEASANTS' WAR. — CHAPTER II. ASHAMED OF A PEASANT'S NAME. — CHAPTER III. THE SOUTHERN FLOWER COMES TO THE NORTH. — CHAPTER IV. THE PEASANT—THE BURGHERS—AND THE SOLDIER. — CHAPTER V. LADY REGINA ARRIVES AT KORSHOLM. — CHAPTER VI. — THE LOVE OF THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. — CHAPTER VII. THE SIEGE OF KORSHOLM. — III.—FIRE AND WATER. — CHAPTER I. THE TREASURE FROM THE BATTLEFIELD. — CHAPTER II. TWO OLD ACQUAINTANCES. — CHAPTER III. THE TREASURY. — CHAPTER IV. DUKE BERNHARD AND BERTEL. — CHAPTER V. LOVE AND HATE AGREE. — CHAPTER VI. THE BATTLE OF NÖRDLINGEN. — CHAPTER VII. THE LOST SON. — CHAPTER VIII. THE FUGITIVE LADY. — CHAPTER IX. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. — CHAPTER X. KAJANEBORG. — CHAPTER XI. THE PRISONER OF STATE. — CHAPTER XII. THE TEMPTER. — CHAPTER XIII. AVAUNT, EVIL SPIRIT. — CHAPTER XIV. THE JUDGMENT OF THE SAINTS. — CHAPTER XV. BERTEL AND REGINA. — CHAPTER XVI. THE KING'S RING—THE SWORD AND THE PLOUGH—FIRE AND WATER.

Through the histories of Germany and Sweden the fame of mighty names has resounded for centuries; at their mention the Swede raises his head aloft, and the free German uncovers his with admiration. These are Leipzig, Breitenfeld, and the 7th of September, 1631.

King Gustaf Adolf, with his army of Swedes and Finns, stood on German soil to protect the holiest and highest things in life—Liberty and Faith.

Tilly, the terrible old corporal, had invaded Saxony, and the king pursued him. Twice had they met; the tiger had challenged the lion to the combat, but the latter would not move. Now for the third time they faced each other; the crushing blow must fall, and the fate of Germany trembled in the balance.

At dawn the Swedes and Saxons crossed the Loder, and placed themselves in battle array at the village of Breitenfeld.

The king rode along the lines, and inspected everything. His eye beamed with delight on these brave men; the left wing was composed of Gustave Horn's cavalry, Teuffel was in the centre, and Torstensson with his leathern cannon in front. The Livonians and Hepburn's Scots were both in the second line.

The king commanded the right wing, composed of several regiments of cavalry and the Finns.

"Stälhandske," said he, checking his large steed at the last Finnish division, "I suppose you understand why you are here. Pappenheim is opposite, and longs to make your acquaintance," he added smiling, "and I expect a vigorous attack from that quarter. I rely upon you Finns to receive him right royally."

The king then raised his voice and said,

"Boys, do not blunt your swords upon those iron-clad fellows, but first tackle the horses, and then you will have light work with the riders."

The Finns were proud of their danger and the honour of their position. The king inspired all with courage and self-reliance. But these short, sturdy fellows on their small horses seemed unequal to the onset of the big Wallachians upon their strong and heavy chargers. Tilly held the same opinion.

"Ride them down," he said, "and horse and man will fall powerless under the heels of your steeds." But Tilly did not know his foes. The outer bearing of the Finns was deceptive. Their iron muscles and calm courage, with the hardihood of their horses, gave them a decided advantage over their enemies.

"Well, Bertila," said Stälhandske, turning to a young man who in the first rank rode a handsome black horse, and was noticeable from his height and bearing, "do you feel inclined to win the knight's spur to-day?"

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

"I have never dared to aspire so high," he answered. "I—a peasant's son!" he added with hesitation.

"Thunder and lightning, the boy blushes like a bride at the altar! A peasant's son? What the devil, then, have we all come from in the beginning? Did you not provide four fully equipped horsemen? Has not our Lord placed a heart in your breast, and the king a weapon in your hand? That is in itself a coat of arms; you must attend to the rest."

A multitude of thoughts passed quickly through the young man's mind. He thought of the days of his childhood in far-off Finland. He remembered his old father, whose name was also Bertila, and who during the peasant war was one of Duke Carl's best men. When the latter became King Carl the Ninth, he gave his follower four large farms; each of these had to provide a man and horse for military service. Owing to this, old Bertila became one of the richest peasants in the country. He thought of the time when his father first sent him to Stockholm, in the hope that he would some day attain honour and distinction by the king's side; then of his own ambition which had induced him to neglect study and take private lessons in riding and fencing. At last his father gave him permission to join the king's Finnish cavalry. Now he, a peasant's son, was about to strive to raise himself to the level of the haughty nobility. It was this thought that made him blush, and under its influence he felt he could face any danger.

Moreover, he was about to fight under the king's eye, for his faith and the honour of his country. The whole army was animated by the same high principles, which rendered them invincible, and made them realise the victory before the battle had begun.

Before the young horseman had time to reply to his generous leader, the king's high voice was heard in the distance calling to prayer. The hero took off his helmet and lowered the point of his sword, and all the troops did the same. The king prayed:

"Thou all-merciful God, Who bearest victory and defeat in Thy hand, turn Thy beneficent countenance to us, Thy servants. From distant lands and peaceful homes have we come, to fight for freedom, and Thy Gospel. Give us victory for Thy Holy Name's sake. Amen."

A deep trust at these words filled every heart.

At noon the attacking Swedish army came within range of the Imperial cannon. The Swedish artillery answered, and the conflict began. As the sun shone right in the assailants' eyes, the king made his army wheel to the right, so as to get the wind and sun on the side. Pappenheim tried to prevent this. He rushed forward with the speed of lightning, and took the Swedish right in flank. At once the king threw the Rhine Count's regiment and Baner's cavalry upon him. The shock was terrific; horses and riders fell over each other in utter confusion. Pappenheim drew back, but only to throw himself the next instant on the Finns. But the furious charge of the Wallachians was in vain; they met a wall of steel; their front rank was crushed, and the next turned back. The second attack was no better, and Pappenheim raged; for the third time he rushed to the assault; the Livonians and Courlanders now assisted the Finns. The latter received the enemy with calm courage; nothing could break through that living wall.

The heat of the conflict had gradually excited the Finns, and it was now scarcely possible to hold them in. Stälhandske's mighty voice sounded high above the roar and din of the conflict; and once more the foe was thrown back. Now the Finnish lines broke, but only to enclose the enemy. Then it became a hand-to-hand struggle. Twice more the Wallachians charged and were repulsed. The seventh time Pappenheim was followed only by a few of the most determined of his followers, and when this last desperate effort failed all was over. The remaining Wallachians scattered themselves in the wildest flight toward Breitenfeld.

Covered with blood and dust the Finns took breath. But as soon as the smoke cleared off, they saw other foes in front. These were the Holsteiners, who had supported Pappenheim. The Finns could not be checked. With the East Goths they surrounded the Holsteiners and annihilated them; these brave fellows died in their ranks to a man.

Whilst this happened on the right, the left was in great danger. Furstenberg's Croats had made the Saxons give ground, and Tilly then advanced his powerful centre. Torstensson's cannon played havoc in the ranks; Tilly moved aside and charged the Saxons. The ranks of the latter were immediately broken, and they fled in the greatest disorder. Tilly now turned his victorious troops against the Swedish left wing. The latter were slowly pressed back. The king then hastened up and ordered Callenbach's reserve to the rescue. Almost immediately both Callenbach and Teuffel fell. Then Hepburn's Scots and the Smälanders came up; the Croats fell upon them, but the Scots opened their ranks, and several masked batteries played with terrible effect on the former. Under the fire of the Scots whole ranks were shattered, and amidst the dense smoke and dust the combatants were mingled together in utter confusion.

Victory still hung in the balance.

But now a diversion occurred which decided the battle. The king with his cavalry and the Finns had captured the Imperial artillery on the heights, and now turned it against the latter. In vain Pappenheim tried to recapture the guns; he was repulsed in disorder. Then the king, with his invincible right wing, charged the enemy in flank; the Imperialists were lost. Tilly wept with rage: Pappenheim, who had hewed down fourteen men with his own hand, was mad with fury. No one, however, could rally the Imperial troops, and Tilly, whose horse was shot under him, barely escaped being taken prisoner. The king's victory was decisive.

But a terrible sequel remained. Four regiments of Tilly's veteran infantry had reformed, and now sought to check the pursuit. The king charged them with Tott's cavalry, the Smälanders, and Finns. It was a terrific combat; the Wallachians fought with the fury of despair; no quarter was asked or given. At last darkness saved the remnant of these brave men, who retreated on Leipzig.

The battle was over.

Great results followed this victory; and in the evening the king rode from rank to rank, to thank his brave troops.

"Stälhandske," said he, when he came to the Finns, "you and your men have fought like heroes, as I expected. I thank you, my children! I am proud of you."

The troops responded with a joyous cheer.

"But," continued the king, "there was one among you who sprang from his horse, and first of all scaled the heights to seize the Imperial guns. Where is he?"

A young horseman rode from the ranks.

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

The king smiled. "Your name?"

"Bertila."

"From East Bothnia?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

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

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

Night broke over the awful field, covered with 9,000 dead. The Finnish cavalry encamped on the heights, where Tilly's guns were captured. The dead were taken away, and fires of broken gun-carriages and musket-stocks spread their light in the September night; through a clear sky the eternal stars looked down upon the battlefield.

The cavalry gave their horses fodder, and watered them at the muddy Loder. Then they bivouacked, each in his division, around the fires, armed and ready to jump at the first call The ground was damp with dew, and slippery with blood, but many were so fatigued that they fell asleep as they sat around the fires. Others kept themselves in good spirits by passing round cups of ale, of which they had a good stock. They drank in jesting fashion to the health of the Imperialists.

"And that they to-night may die of thirst
Or drink to their own funeral
Eläköön kuningas!"

At this moment a woeful voice was heard quite near, earnestly calling for help. The soldiers, accustomed to such things, knew by the accent that the man was a foreigner, and did not trouble. But the cries continued without ceasing.

"Pekka, go and give the Austrian dog a final thrust," cried some of the men, who were irritated by these wailing sounds.

Pekka, one of Bertila's four dragoons, short, but strong as a lion, went unwillingly to silence the offender's voice. Superstitious, like all these soldiers, he was not at home amidst the dead on a dark night. Bertila, absorbed in thinking of the next morning, did not hear it.

In a few minutes Pekka returned, dragging after him a dark body, which, to everyone's surprise, was found to be a monk, easily recognised by his tonsure. Around his common gown he wore a hempen rope, and to this hung the scabbard of a sword.

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

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

"Kill him! It is one of the devil's allies who prowl around to murder kings and burn faithful Christians at the stake.

"Away with him! When we carried the heights, this same man stood with his crucifix among the Imperialists and fired off a cannon."

"Let's find out if the precious object is of silver," said one of the men, and pulling aside the monk's gown he drew forth, in spite of his struggles, a crucifix of silver, richly gilded.

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

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

As he pressed a little spring in the image's breast, a keen dagger sprang from it. As if bitten by an adder, he threw the crucifix from him. Rage and horror seized the bystanders.

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

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

"Drown him!"

"There is no water."

"Stab him!"

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

"What shall we do with him?"

"Misericordia! Gnade!" said the prisoner, who now began to recover his speech and strength.

"Give him a kick and let him go," said one. "We are Christians, and fear no devilry."

"At least I will mark you first, so that we may know you if we meet again," cried one of the soldiers named Vitikka, renowned for his strength and brutality. He flourished his sword several times round the monk's head, and then with two dexterous strokes cut off both the prisoner's ears, before he could be prevented by his comrades. It was most skilfully accomplished.

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

Those who were standing around turned away. Although they were accustomed to the cruelties of war, this was too savage even for them.

Bleeding, the Jesuit crawled away on his hands and feet. But long afterwards his voice was heard from the darkness:

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

"Our Father, which art in Heaven," a voice exclaimed from the group of soldiers. And all uttered the prayer with devotion.

At dawn on the 8th of September, the Swedish army was exercised. They felt sure of complete victory. From all parts news arrived that the enemy's army was almost destroyed. The king left one division of his troops to follow the Imperialists; whilst the rest received the agreeable order to loot Tilly's camp: the spoil was divided into lots. The treasures were enormous, and many a man was enriched for life. The whole army wore a joyous look; the dead were quickly buried, and the wounded forgot their pains. In the bright September morning, the battlefield was covered with groups of delighted soldiers, and here, if ever, Beskow's words could be used, "The air was cooled with the waving of the flags gained in the victory."

The king had passed the night in a carriage. After he had read the army prayers, and given orders for the first part of the day, he called for those who had most distinguished themselves in the battle. And now many a brave deed was recognised with honours and promotion. But higher than any other reward, was the inner satisfaction, and the praise they received from this hero, whom the whole of Europe had now learnt to admire.

Amongst those who were specially called was a young man, who plays a great part in this history. Gustaf Bertila was only twenty years old, and his heart was beating at this time more rapidly than it had ever done in the most terrible moments of the conflict. He knew well that the noble king would not take any account of his crime, which was that he had disobeyed orders in battle; he blushed and grew pale by turns, as he thought of what the king might mean by this special summons, which was in itself a great honour.

The king had erected his tent under one of the great elms, at Gross Wetteritz, because all the buildings in the neighbourhood were burnt or destroyed by friends or enemies.

After waiting for half an hour, Bertila was introduced into the royal presence. Gustaf Adolf was sitting on a low chair, and his arm was resting on a table, covered with maps and papers. The king was tall and portly, and his tight-fitting buff coat made him look still more corpulent.

When Bertila entered, the king lifted up his mild and beautiful blue eyes; he had just signed an order, and looked sharply at the young man.

Gustaf Adolf was short sighted, and therefore had a difficulty in recognising persons, and when he met individuals only slightly known to him, it gave his look a peculiar sharpness, which, however, disappeared immediately.

"Your name is Bertila," said the king, as if he wished to assure himself that he had heard it correctly the day before.

"Yes, your Majesty."

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

"Yes, your Majesty."

"His son did you say?"

The young man bowed his head and blushed.

"How strange!" the king muttered this to himself, and seemed for a moment to be in deep thought. He then said,

"Why have you not announced yourself to me before? Your father has done my father and the country great service. He is then still alive."

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

"Really so."

The king said this more as if a secret thought had escaped him, than as a remark to the listener. The young man felt the colour mount to his cheeks, and the king noticed it.

"Your father and I once had a quarrel," continued the king, and he smiled, but a cloud was seen on his brow. "But this was all forgotten long ago, and I am glad that such a good man has such a brave son. You were amongst the seventy Finns at Demmin."

"Yes, your Majesty."

"And no one has mentioned you for promotion?"

"My colonel has promised to remember me."

"Your king never forgets a real service. Gustaf Bertila, I have just signed your commission as sub-lieutenant. Take it, and continue to serve with honour."

"Your Majesty," said the young man.

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

"Yes, your Majesty."

"I want my soldiers to obey implicitly. I have been told that you dismounted at the foot of the steepest hill, so that you could get up quicker."

"It is true your Majesty."

"And that you reached the top of the hill first, whilst the others had to ride round; and that you killed two of the enemy, and took the first cannon."

"Yes, your Majesty."

"It is good, sub-lieutenant Bertila; I forgive you, and promote you to the rank of lieutenant in my Finnish cavalry."

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

"Come nearer, young man," said the king. "You ought to know that once, in my youth, I did your father a considerable injury. Heaven knows that I repent, and has at last given me an opportunity to repair to the son the injustice done to the father.

"Lieutenant Bertila, you are brave and noble, and you have received a military education. You have also brought into my service four soldiers. In your position as officer in my army you are already considered a nobleman. That none of my officers shall look down upon you as a peasant's son, I will give you a name, and the knight's spur."

"Go, young man. Go, my son," repeated the king with great emotion, "and show that you are worth the king's favour."

"Until death." And the young man bent his knee to the king. The latter stood up. The emotion which had for a moment passed over his fine face now disappeared, and he was again the royal leader.

The young Bertila understood that the time had come to retire. But he still remained in his kneeling position, and gave the king a letter, which he, until this day, had carried sewed in his coat.

"May I ask your Majesty to read this letter. When I said farewell to my old father he gave me this letter, and said, 'My son, go and try to win your king's favour, through your faithfulness and valour. And if some day you can obtain it for your own sake, and not only for the sake of your father's name, then give him this letter, and tell him that it is my last will. His great heart will understand what I mean.'"

The king opened the letter and read it, and on his face was seen that deep flush, which in his later years was the only sign of the struggles of a soul, able to control itself. It came as a light cloud on the king's forehead, deepened for a moment, and then passed away without leaving any trace. When he had finished reading, his eyes rested for a moment on the handsome youth who was still kneeling at his feet.

"Stand up," said the king at last.

Bertila obeyed.

"Do you know what this letter contains?"

"No, your Majesty."

The king watched him closely, but was satisfied with the honest and truthful expression of his face.

"Your father is a strange man. He hates all noblemen since the days of the Peasants' War. He fought many tough battles as their leader; and Fleming's troops took possession of his farm. He forbids you ever to bear a noble name, if you wish to avoid his curse."

Bertila did not reply. A thunder-bolt from a clear sky had come down upon his happiness, and all his dreams of a noble and knightly name had been destroyed at one blow.

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

"The noble name which I had intended for you, you cannot accept. Do not feel sad, my young friend, you shall keep your sword and your lieutenant's commission; with them, and your brave arm, the path to honour will always be open to you."

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

In the beginning of October, 1631, it was a dull autumn day, about three or four weeks after the battle of Breitenfeld, and in one of the rooms of the tower of the castle of Würzburg the beautiful Regina von Emmeritz was sitting with several of her attendants; they were all working on a banner of white silk with the image of the Holy Virgin on it. It was intended for a standard of victory to stimulate the troops defending the castle. The young maidens indulged in an animated conversation, for the terror of the castle, the old, selfish bishop, had just started off, as he alleged, on a journey through the diocese, but in reality to escape Gustaf Adolf's approaching warriors. Trembling for his treasures, he had previously entrusted the defence of the town and castle to the valiant and trustworthy captain of horse, Keller, with fifteen hundred men; and this commander, relying upon the impregnable position of the fortress on the banks of the Main, had assured his reverence that the heretic king should crush his head against the walls, before any of his godless host obtained an entrance.

The lovely Regina was scarcely sixteen, and her curls were dark as the night, cheeks rosy as the dawn, and black eyes shining like two stars which at midnight mirror themselves in a mountain lake. She was the pet and idol of the aged bishop; he had therefore unwillingly left her with his other treasures in the castle, depending, however, upon Keller's assurance that the thick walls well mounted with heavy guns, were, in such uncertain times, the best harbour for beauty and gold; and Keller was a commander of fidelity and honour; with such a precious trust he would sooner bury himself underneath the ruins of the fortress than surrender.

Lady Regina raised her brilliant eyes from the embroidery and glanced through the little turret window over the river, where at that moment a carriage, escorted by some troopers, was crossing the bridge from the town to the castle.

"Who is this traveller?" she said, with the concentrated gaze which rarely fixed itself upon any object except the large and beautiful marble image of the Madonna in her sanctuary.

"Ah!" exclaimed Ketchen, the youngest and most talkative of the maidens, "ah, Holy Virgin, how charming it is to live in such times as these! Every day, new faces, stately cavaliers, brave young knights, and now and then a little feast in town. It is quite a different thing from sitting shut up in a cloister, and hearing the monks chant De Profundis from morn till eve. Yes," continued she saucily, "may his grace, the bishop, only stay away a good long time!"

"Ketchen," admonished Regina, "take care not to speak ill of the services and masses of the monks! Remember that our confessor, Father Hieronymus, is a member of the Holy Inquisition, and that the castle dungeons are deep and dark."

Ketchen remained silent for a moment. But directly afterwards she boldly said,

"If I were in your place, lady, I would rather think of the handsome Count of Lichtenstein, than of that terrible Father Hieronymus. He is a valiant knight; God grant that he may return victorious from the war against the heretics!"

"May they all be exterminated by fire and sword!" interjected one of the girls in a devout manner.

"Poor heretics!" said Ketchen smiling.

"Beware!" repeated Lady Regina, with naïve earnestness. "A heretic deserves no mercy. Anyone who kills a heretic has pardon for seven sins; Father Hieronymus has often thus instructed me. To hate the heretics is the eighth sacrament, and to love a single one of them is to consign your soul to eternal torment."

Regina's black eyes emitted fire with these words. One could easily see that the worthy father's teachings had taken deep root in her soul.

Still Ketchen did not refrain.

"It is said that their king is good and noble, and that he shelters all the weak, and does not allow his soldiers to plunder and outrage their enemies."

"Satan often assumes the disguise of an angel."

"They also say that his men are brave and humane. I myself heard an old Italian soldier tell the knights in the armoury how seventy men belonging to a heretic people called Finns, defended their king for more than an hour against fifteen hundred Neapolitans. And when most of these Finns had fallen, the rest were succoured and finally triumphed; afterwards they bound up the wounds of their enemies as well as their own."

Lady Regina rose, and was about to return a quick answer to this unpalatable speech, but at that moment a servant appeared at the door, and announced that the Count of Lichtenstein, sick and wounded, had arrived at the castle, and craved shelter. The young lady, who, as the niece of the old bishop, took the part of hostess of the castle in his absence, immediately hastened down to welcome the new arrival, who was a distant relative of the family.

The maidens now exchanged significant glances, as if they considered this event especially opportune. It had long been gossiped amongst them that the old bishop had chosen the count as the future husband of the young lady. But in vain had they endeavoured to discover any signs of emotion on the part of their young mistress at the intelligence of his arrival. If Lady Regina entertained any tender passion, she well knew how to conceal it.

"Is it true," asked one of the girls, "that the king of the heretics has won a great victory over the soldiers of the true faith, and is now approaching this castle with his godless army?"

"So it is said," answered another. "But he is unable to come here. Our people have erected the image of the Swedish saint, Brigitta, in his path, in Thüringer forest, and she will stop his progress."

In the meanwhile, Lady Regina had ordered one of the bishop's own apartments to be put in order for the guest, and provided in every way for his comfort. The young Count of Lichtenstein was a proud and stately youth, dark as a Spaniard, and with eyes almost as bright as Regina's. He approached the beautiful hostess with faltering steps, and with an ardent glance, before which Regina cast down her eyes.

"How grateful I should be to heaven," he said, "for these wounds, which have procured me the happiness of having such a beautiful hostess!"

The count's wounds were numerous, but not dangerous. Taken captive at Breitenfeld, he had shortly afterwards, still weak from his wounds, been exchanged, and immediately hastened here, to regain health and strength in the neighbourhood of his heart's mistress.

"But," he added, "I heard with great alarm that the enemy, seeking whom they may devour, were on their march hither to the rich vales of Franconia. Then I hurried, quickly as I could, to share with you, beautiful Regina, all these dangers and terrors. Be calm! Königshofen will make a stand against them, and Father Hieronymus, who, also wounded, escaped from the disastrous field of Breitenfeld, is busy inciting the country people to resistance all along the enemy's advance.

"And so you think," anxiously asked Regina, "that these terrible heretics will venture as far as this place?"

"The protection of the saints will be with beauty and faith," answered the count evasively. "Besides, we shall soon receive more reliable news."

As he spoke, Regina looked out of the window, and perceived a troop of horsemen, who were hurrying at full speed towards the fortress.

"I cannot be mistaken," she exclaimed; "it is Father Hieronymus himself who returns here."

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

Lady Regina was right; it was Father Hieronymus who at that moment rode over the drawbridge. In appearance, the father was a little insignificant man, thin and pallid, with sharp features, and deeply sunk, hollow eyes, whose quick glance fled inquiringly from one object to another. He still wore the long sword suspended from the rope round his waist. But the bald spot no longer shone on the crown of his head; wounded at that place, he wore over it a sort of skull-cap or calotte of leather, the black colour of which made a ghastly contrast with his cadaverous-looking face. Never had the dreaded Jesuit showed himself in so forbidding a form. The men-at-arms stood at attention, and all the servants in the castle hastened to receive his commands. A secret anxiety took possession of all the bystanders. It looked as if terror and death had ridden in his train through the gates of Würzburg Castle.

The monk hastily surveyed the garrison drawn up in the courtyard, and then greeted Lady Regina with a smile, which was probably intended to make him look more agreeable, but which had exactly the opposite effect.

"St. Petrus and all the saints protect you, gracious lady! The times are very awful, very bad. The Holy Virgin has allowed the vile heretics to penetrate to our very gates—on account of our sins!" he added, crossing himself devoutly.

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

"The treacherous commander has capitulated."

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

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

"And the holy Brigitta's image?"

"The vile heretics have placed it as a scarecrow in a wheat-field. But," continued the Jesuit, his voice acquiring suddenly a commanding tone, "what is this I see, my daughter? Why are you still here, and the castle filled with women and children, while the enemy may arrive at any moment at your gates?"

"Lady Regina shall never need a protector as long as I am alive," exclaimed Count Fritz.

"The castle is provisioned for a whole year," said Regina timidly. "But, worthy father, you are fatigued, you are wounded, and need rest. Allow me to dress your wounds; you are hurt in the head."

"It is nothing, my daughter. Do not think of me. You must fly instantly to the impregnable fortress of Aschaffenburg."

"Ha! I fear it is too late," exclaimed Count Fritz, who was looking out upon the river and town.

"Holy Virgin, are they already here?"

The Jesuit and Lady Regina rushed to the window. The afternoon sun was shedding its rays over Würzburg and the surrounding country. Horsemen could be seen riding at full gallop through the streets, and a whole host of panic-stricken people were rapidly moving towards the castle—monks and nuns, women and children, dragging after them a number of hand-carts containing the best of their household effects. Beyond the town, in the direction of Schweinfurter, on the east bank of the river, appeared a troop of cavalry, from whose threatening but cautious advance one could easily recognise the vanguard of the Swedish army.

"Accursed devils!" burst out the Jesuit, with an indescribable expression of hatred on his pallid face. "These heretics can fly. May the earth open and devour them!" And he ran out with frantic zeal to place himself at the head of the garrison.

The bishop's castle, also called Marienburg, raises its old walls high above the right bank of the Main. On the river side of the town the rock is high and precipitous, but on the other side sloping and easily ascended. A rampart in the shape of a half moon formed a formidable outwork before the gates; and if the enemy surmounted this obstacle, a deep moat, cut in the solid rock, awaited him on the other side; and even if he crossed this successfully, the inner and higher castle wall blocked his way, lined with steel-clad defenders, prepared to receive him with a devastating fire, and crush him with the large stones collected on the walls. The only passage over the river was a narrow bridge, and the forty-eight guns of the fortress commanded and swept the whole town and neighbourhood. From this it will be seen that Keller at the head of 1,500 valiant troops, and well provided with all necessaries, had good reason in bidding the departing bishop to be of good heart.

But Gustaf Adolf had an overwhelming reason for becoming master of this castle, cost what it would. Tilly had now drawn to himself large reinforcements, and stood, a few weeks after the battle of Breitenfeld, fully equipped and eager for revenge, with 30,000 men on the march from Hessen, to assist Würzburg.

The king summoned the town, and forced his way into the suburbs, but it was already late in the day, and the attack had to be postponed. The next morning the town surrendered. But Keller had profited by the darkness of the night to transfer his whole force, a large number of fugitives, and the portable property of the town, to the castle, after which he blew up two arches of the bridge, and thus blockaded the enemy's way.

But to return to the fortress.

That night none but the little children could sleep in the bishop's castle. Crowds of soldiers, monks, and women, were constantly arriving; one baggage-wagon after the other rattled in through the castle gates; the vaults echoed with the cries of the watch, the orders of the officers, and the children's crying, and above all this noise and confusion one could plainly hear the masses of the monks, who were invoking in the chapel the protection of the Holy Virgin and all the saints, on behalf of the threatened fortress, the strongest castle of the Catholics in all Franconia.

In order to provide for this human host, Lady Regina had not only opened the bishop's private rooms, but also the two spacious drawing-rooms set aside for her own use in the interior of the castle, and with her maids moved up to the small chambers in the east turret. In vain it was represented to her that this point was exposed to the fire of the enemy. She here had the best and most extensive prospect in the whole fortress, and was not willing to forego it. "Do not interfere with me," she said to the cautious Jesuit; "I wish to see the heretics mown down by our guns. It will be a fine spectacle."

"Amen," answered Father Hieronymus. "You remember, my daughter, that this castle is protected by two miraculous images of the Virgin, one of pure gold, the other of gilded wood. I will hang up the latter in your apartment; it will avert the enemy's shot like so many puff-balls from your turret."

At daybreak, Lady Regina was on the look-out at her little turret window. It was a glorious sight, when the sun rose over the autumn hills with their still verdant vineyards, through which the River Main wound like a glittering serpent of gold and silver in the morning light. In the town all was activity; four Swedish regiments marched in with flags flying and drums beating, their armour shining in the bright sunlight, and the plumes of their officers waving in the wind. At this sight, fear and curiosity came into conflict in the minds of the maidens.

"Do you see," said Lady Regina to Ketchen, "the two cavaliers in their yellow waistcoats, who ride at the head of the heretics?"

"How handsome they are! Now they turn round the street corner—there they are again. Just see how everyone makes way for them!"

"Send for Count Fritz. He was in the Swedish camp for more than a fortnight, and knows their leaders."

The count, who was prevented by his wounds from taking part in the defence of the castle, immediately obeyed the Lady Regina's summons.

In the meantime the Swedes had taken full possession of the town, and began to show themselves in scattered groups on the river banks. At that moment the castle guns opened fire, and here and there a ball fell among the Swedes, who immediately sought shelter behind the houses by the river.

"Holy Mary, a man was struck over there and does not move again!" cried Ketchen, who could not conceal her sympathy.

"St. Francis be praised, there is one heretic less in the world!" rejoined old Dorthe, Lady Regina's duenna, who had been appointed by Father Hieronymus to guard all her steps.

"But it is terrible to shoot a man."

Count Fritz smiled.

"Fräulein Ketchen, you should have been on the field of Breitenfeld. Nine thousand corpses!"

"It is horrible!"

"Count, can you inform me who those horsemen are, who, in spite of the storm of cannon-shot, keep on the river bank and seem to be closely examining the defences of our castle?"

"Pardon me, charming cousin, the smoke blocks my sight. Those cavaliers—upon my honour, it is the king himself, and Count Pehr Brahe. I would not be in their shoes if Father Hieronymus sees them. He would undoubtedly bring all the guns of the fortress to bear upon them."

At these words old Dorthe crept silently from the room.

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

"Beautiful Regina, why do your eyes flash fire at the thought. You are, yourself, so generous and noble, can you not understand my sympathy for a brave and chivalrous foe? The king of Sweden is a hero, well worthy of our supreme admiration, as well as of our great enmity."

"I fail to comprehend you. A heretic!"

"God preserve you from some day seeing him within these walls; you will then understand me much better. Ha! they are now preparing to assault the bridge; they are throwing planks over the destroyed arches. By Heaven, that is courageous!"

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

"I know them well," said Count Fritz, growing more and more agitated by the sounds of the battle and the loud thunder of the cannonade, which made the fortress walls shake. "They are the Scots. There are no finer soldiers in the whole Swedish army; the Scots and Finns are always in the front of the battle."

"Ah! see there, my cousin, the Scots recoil; they dare not try to leap the abyss. That truly requires superhuman courage. Twenty-four feet underneath the planks rushes the flood."

"Two young officers dash out on the planks."

"They are the youthful brothers Ramsay. I recognise them by their blue scarves. They love the same lady, and both sport her colours, without loving each other any the less."

"Oh God, guard them! Ah, Holy Virgin, this is fearful!" and Ketchen hid her face in her apron.

Before the brave and intrepid Scots could reach the centre of the planks, they lost their balance, reeled, and then fell headlong into the river. For a short time they struggled with the flood, but wounded by bullets from the castle, their strength soon failed them, and their heavy armour made them sink in the waters; another moment, and these gallant youths sank to rise no more.

"You rejoiced at war not long ago," said Lady Regina to Ketchen, assuming a calmness which she did not feel in her agitated heart.

"Oh, yes, at the handsome young knights; the feasts and music, but not at this!" exclaimed the crying Ketchen.

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

"Yes," replied the reflecting count, "but the Swedes have begun to cross the river in boats."

"The Scots are returning to the attack."

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

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

"Lady Regina, do not expose yourself so much at the window. The Swedes may aim their cannon at the turret."

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

Lichtenstein coloured up.

"I have satisfied myself that I have courage enough," he answered. "Hearken, and you will every now and then distinguish a peculiar whizzing, and a rattling like the fall of stones; you do not know what this is. I will tell you. These are cannon-shot, Lady Regina; you would know this better if the noise outside was not so deafening. For some time the balls have been shattering the walls of the turret, and almost always at the same place. Fair cousin, these are no sugar-plums. The Swedes must have been taught to shoot by the Wild Huntsman."

"Do you really think——"

"That the enemy intend to destroy this turret, and will fill the castle moat with the debris? Yes, cousin, and I believe they will do it very soon. You are in danger here, every moment, and must go somewhere else."

"Immediately, good count, at once! Come, lady!" cried Ketchen, trying with friendly violence to take her young mistress away with her. But Regina was in an exalted mood. In the habit of ruling, and perhaps from the defiant nature of her character, full of strange contrasts, joined to the burning fanaticism which the Jesuit had implanted in her mind from childhood ... she stepped backwards, grasped the gilded image of the Virgin, which Father Hieronymus had sent to guard her, and placed it in front of herself on the window-sill.

"Go," she exclaimed; "you are weak in the faith; you doubt the protection of the holy saints. I shall remain, and the efforts of the heretics will avail nothing against——"

Lady Regina's speech was not finished, when a ball struck the turret at an oblique angle, knocking away a piece of the facing. A shower of stone fragments hurtled through the window, demolishing the image of the Holy Virgin, and enveloping Lady Regina in dust and dirt.

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

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

But Regina, nearly overwhelmed for a moment, recovered her self-confidence, and stooped down to pick up the image, saying with faith,

"They cannot triumph over the Holy Mother."

She was deceived. The wooden virgin had broken into several fragments. A sceptical smile played around the count's lips, and he now led without any opposition his terror-stricken relative from the turret.

While this was happening, Keller, with the quickness and perception of a thorough soldier, had made every arrangement for a vigorous defence. He was unable to stop the Swedes from crossing the river, but the nearer they came, the more destructive was the fire of his artillery. The enemy's ranks were decimated by his shot; and the whole day they could do nothing.

Father Hieronymus and his monks ran around the walls, deluging the guns with holy water, and making the sign of the cross over every touch-hole.

Old Dorthe had whispered in his ear, and the Jesuit's gaze was directed towards the place where someone had just seen the Swedish king and his companion. The worthy priest now wished to aim, himself, one of the heavy guns towards the spot; but before firing he fell on his knees and repeated four pater nosters and ave Marias. Then followed the shot; but in vain did the anxious Jesuit look for the effect. Unhurt, as before, the forms of the two horsemen were seen through the vanishing smoke. The monk now thought that four paters and four aves were too little, and accordingly repeated eight of each sort, and then fired again. Disgusting! The balls would not touch the selected objects. Providence had not yet rung the death-knell of Gustaf Adolf, and Pehr Brahe it wished to spare for the sake of Finland. Who can estimate what would have succeeded Sweden's victories, and Finland's learning, if the Jesuit's shots had reached their mark?

Father Hieronymus fumed. Once more he resolved to try with twelve paters and twelve aves, when someone touched him on the back; he turned round and saw an old soldier, who had been exchanged with Count Lichtenstein.

"Cease your efforts," said the veteran in a firm tone, "it is a needless waste of powder; you are trying to kill a man with a charmed life; he is invulnerable."

The superstitious Jesuit muttered something with a low breath.

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

"I was told of it in the Swedish camp. On the forefinger of his right hand the king wears a little copper ring, inscribed all over with magical signs. This was given to him in his youth by a Finnish witch, and as long as he wears this ring, neither fire, water, iron, or lead can injure him."

"Nothing affects him, you believe? Oh, maledicti Fennones, why do you follow me everywhere?"

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

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

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

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

"Gold from a holy image."

"Never, my son, no; we dare not do that. Had it been a dagger of glass, or an occult poison, it would do; but gold from a saint's image, no, my son, let us forget the unholy idea."

Meanwhile the cloak of night had descended, and death's work for the time was finished. The worn-out soldiers refreshed themselves with food and drink, and Keller passed around some fine liquors to sustain their courage.

Lady Regina had moved down to one of the inner apartments; Count Fritz had gone to bed. Soon all was silent, except the call of the sentinels, the songs of drunken soldiers, and the murmur of the feast which Keller gave to his officers in the armoury. But in the fine chapel, where stood the pure golden statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary, the midnight mass was over, and all the monks except one had gone to rest, or—the wine-cup. This lonely figure was still kneeling before the altar, and the perpetually burning lamp shed its dim rays over the praying pallid Jesuit.

"Holy Virgin," prayed he, "forgive thy humble servant for daring to take from thee a small piece of thy golden robe. Thou knowest, oh sanctissima, that it is for a holy and sacred end, in order to kill the sworn enemy of the holy church, the heretic king, whom the heathen Finns with their devilish arts have rendered invulnerable to the steel and lead of the true believers. Grant that the gold, which I, in thy honour, take from thy glorious mantle, may pierce the wicked heart of the godless king, and I promise thee, holy mother, to replace what thou hast lost by a costly robe of velvet and pearls. Three gilded candles will I cause to burn also, night and day, before thy image. Amen."

When Father Hieronymus had finished his devotions, he looked up, and it appeared to him as if the image in the light of the eternal lamp smiled its approval to the fanatical petition.

The next day was one of hot and furious battle. The Swedes bombarded the castle with a heavy fire, and drew near to the walls under the cover of earthworks. The Imperial troops fought well. Time was precious for both sides; in a few days Tilly would be in the rear of Gustaf Adolf; a possible thunder-bolt to the Swedes; a certain relief for the garrison.

Lady Regina and her attendants were now shut up in the inner rooms, and could no longer view the extraordinary spectacle of the siege. But there was much to do within. Large numbers of wounded had to be nursed; the young lady moved like a spirit of light from couch to couch in the armoury, where the wounded had been placed; her healing hands poured balm on their wounds; her compassionate voice poured consolation into their hearts. She spoke of the Holy Faith for which they suffered; promised honours and rewards to those who recovered, and eternal salvation to the dying.

The heavy artillery thunder made the walls tremble. Lady Regina suddenly remembered that she had left her rosary up in the little turret, and it was now needed for the prayers of the dying. She had already reached the threshold of the armoury, when a terrific crash shook the castle to its very base. Pale with fear, she hesitated, and at the same moment the Count of Lichtenstein rushed in.

"What has happened?" exclaimed the young lady.

"Thank the saints, my fair cousin, that you took my advice yesterday. The turret has fallen."

"Then we are lost."

"Not yet. The Swedes thought it would fall into the moat, but it has fallen inside. The enemy will soon try an assault. Come to this window which overlooks the walls. Can you see? Father Hieronymus is on his knees by the large gun. I will wager that he sees the Swedish king."

The count was right. The Jesuit's keen glance was fixed on one spot, and his lips hastily muttered prayer after prayer. He had discovered Gustaf Adolf on horseback with Pehr Brahe. The two kept near the outworks, sheltered somewhat by a heap of debris. Father Hieronymus relied upon the heavy shot, into which, with prayers and fasting, he had run the gold from the Holy Mother's mantle. He stooped to direct the cannon, and the pupils of his eyes contracted, his nostrils expanded, while Latin prayers continued to flow from his lips. Then he rose quickly, and after swinging the lighted match in the form of a cross, fired.

The gun belched forth flame and smoke. Oh, hate and fury! When the smoke cleared off, the two horsemen still rode unharmed side by side. But this time Gustaf Adolf had a narrow escape, for the ball had struck the debris, and covered both with dust.

Tired, weary, and quite exasperated, the Jesuit left the ramparts.

"Wait, ruler of Belial, until I succeed in taking your ring from you, and then you shalt be destroyed!"

The king now commanded an assault on the outworks. Axel Lilje, Jacob Ramsay, and Hamilton, pressed on with their men. Frightful difficulties were here encountered. They were obliged to climb up the steep rocks under a heavy fire, and then cross the moat and scale the walls. The irresistible Scots and Finns led the way. Those who fell were immediately replaced by others, with their swords between their teeth. The king himself rode as near as possible in order to encourage his troops. A bullet tore away a piece of his glove, without wounding him. It was now a common belief that Gustaf Adolf was invulnerable.

At last, after two hours desperate conflict, the Scots and the Finns triumphed. The outworks were captured, and the defenders driven back into the castle. It was then four in the afternoon.

A few hours rest ensued. At a council of war it was resolved to storm the castle at daybreak, and the Finns were to lead the forlorn hope.

The position of the garrison was far from hopeless. They could still concentrate 1,000 men at any threatened point. But they had lost their moral courage. In vain did Keller try to restore their spirits; in vain did the monks carry the golden image of the Virgin around the ramparts. At nightfall disorder reigned; the troops refused to obey orders, and some wished to escape in the darkness.

At midnight, Lady Regina was praying before the altar in the chapel to the mother of God.

"Holy Mary," she whispered, "guard this castle against the heretics. But if it be thy will that the fortress shall fall, then also bury in its ruins all thy enemies: the godless king, and his heathen Finns who have fought the most to-day against thy Holy Cause."

"Amen!" said the voice of Father Hieronymus behind her. A dark smile played over his pale countenance.

"Do you realise what you are asking for, my daughter?"

"Victory for the Catholic faith. Death to the heretics."

"The youthful mind is subject to change. Have you sufficient devotion to hate the enemies of the faith, even if ever, as a woman, you felt tempted to love one of them?"

"I have, my father; yes, I declare it!"

"You are my penitent, and I would save your soul from eternal damnation. Have you courage to sacrifice yourself for the holy faith, and thereby secure the eternal crown of a martyr?"

"Yes, my father!"

"Very well; then know that the fortress will be taken in a short time. You will be a prisoner; you are young and beautiful, and may easily win the king's favour. When you can approach his person, and the Holy Virgin grants an opportunity, you must——"

The Jesuit now took out a crucifix of silver, and when he pressed a spring in the breast of the image, a keen dagger flew out.

"Grace, my father; this task is terrible.

"No respite. The Holy Church demands a blind obedience. Perinde ac cadaver. As a corpse which has no will of its own. Do you love the Holy Virgin?"

"You know that I do."

"Look at her golden robe. She has lost a part of it during the night. It is a bad omen, and indicates her anger. Do you love me also, my daughter?"

"I revere you more than anyone else, my father."

"Then look at this mutilated head."

The Jesuit removed his black leather cap, and exposed the horrible stumps of two severed ears.

"Thus have the blasphemous king's Finns treated your confessor and friend. Do you still hesitate to avenge the mother of God and myself?"

"What must I do, my father?"

"Listen! The heretic king wears on his right forefinger a ring of copper; this is a talisman against death and injury. You must gain possession of this ring by some artifice, and then if your arm is too weak to deal the blow, call upon me. We will reach his heart, even if it was guarded by a dragon's scales."

"If it is the will of the saints ... so be it."

"Place two fingers on this crucifix, and repeat this oath. I swear by this cross, and by all the saints, to accomplish what I now vow before the image of the Holy Virgin. If I ever break this oath, may a curse rest upon me and my posterity to the seventh generation.

"Thy will be done on earth, as it is done in Heaven. Amen!"

Lady Regina faithfully repeated these words after the monk.

The night's silence sealed this terrible oath, which, with iron fetters, chained the coming generations to the hesitating decision of a girl of sixteen.

While this passed, the troops of stormers assembled in the outworks. A number of volunteers had obtained permission to join them. All relied upon victory.

Among the volunteers appeared Lieutenant Bertel.

"Thunder and lightning! is that you, Bertel?" exclaimed Lieutenant Larsson.

"As you see," said the youth, shaking his hand cordially.

"Well, I declare, the good boy wishes to sport his new commission. There's not a single drop left in my flask. But say, why have you changed your name, Bertel? What sort of a mixture is it? neither Swedish or Finnish."

"It was done at Breitenfeld," said Bertel, slightly blushing. "The comrades have long called me so, and—it is shorter."

"Well, I hope you are not too proud to bear a peasant's name, now you are an officer?"

"Have the lots already been drawn?" said Bertel.

"No. You are just in time to try your luck."

As all the younger officers desired the honour of leading the forlorn hope, the difficulty was settled by drawing lots. After these were shaken up in a helmet, Bertel was the successful competitor.

"Look out for yourself, my boy!" cried little Larsson. "Thunder and lightning, remember that the castle is full of Jesuits. Trap-doors everywhere, a dagger in every crucifix, and at the moment of victory the castle will be blown up."

It was half an hour to the dawn. Bertel with seven men was ordered to closely reconnoitre the fortress. The rest of the troops were held in readiness.

The night was pitch dark. Bertel's men approached the drawbridge without being challenged: To their complete astonishment they found it down.*

* Some authors say that the drawbridge could not be drawn up on account of the weight of the many dead who were left there after the strife.

Bertel stopped for an instant, remembering Larsson's warnings. Was this a trap? All was silent. Then Bertel and his men stepped softly over the bridge.

"Who goes there?" thundered a German sentinel through the darkness.

"Swede!" cried Bertel, cleaving his head. "Comrades, the castle is ours!"

And the seven pushed on resolutely after him.

Inside the drawbridge stood two hundred Imperialists on guard. These became panic-stricken and thought the whole Swedish army was upon them. They tried to regain the sally-port, but the bold lieutenant and his seven men opposed them. The darkness in the arched gateway was impenetrable; friend could not be distinguished from foe. The press soon became so great that no sword could be used, and the rash assailants were in danger of being crushed to death by the rushing host of mailed warriors.

But those in the outworks had heard Bertel's cry, and the whole Swedish force now rushed against the castle; the rest of the garrison seized their weapons and hastened to defend the entrance. But the Finns had obtained a footing, and in a short time stood inside the castle yard. Keller and his men fought desperately, and many Swedes and Finns fell here, at the very moment of victory. Their fall excited their countrymen to revenge. They began to cry, "Magdeburger pardon," and this shout meant death without quarter to all the Imperialists. The carnage became awful. Many monks threw themselves into the mêlée, some with torches, some sword in hand. Most were cut down, others cast themselves on the ground feigning death. Day had broken over the sanguinary scene.

Then Lennart Torstensson started forward, seized the madly struggling Keller round the waist, and took him prisoner. The remainder of the Imperialists laid down their arms, and all was over.

When the first rays of the sun glittered in the waves of the River Main, the castle of Marienburg was in the hands of the Swedes. The king rode up to the courtyard, which was covered with killed and wounded enemies, and amongst these were more than a score of monks. Some of these appeared to the king to be shamming death.

"Stand up," he said to them, "and no evil shall befall you."

Immediately many of those who were pretending to be dead stood on their feet sound and well, and bowed low, full of joy and gratitude to the king.

The castle had been taken by storm, and the soldiers were allowed to plunder. The quantity of silver, and gold, and weapons, and other valuable things was enormous. The king reserved the armoury, with its complete equipments for 7,000 infantry and 4,000 cavalry, 48 guns and 4 mortars, the stables with fine and valuable horses, and the wine cellar filled with the very best wines. The library was sent to Upsala, and donated to the university. The sacred statues of gold and silver found their way to the Treasury. Although many of the inhabitants of the town were allowed to take away their property, the booty was so great that when the soldiers divided it, the money was measured in helmets. At last Keller had to lead the way to the concealed treasure vault. This was deep down in the rock underneath the cellar of the castle; here the bishop kept his treasures. Fryxell relates, that when the soldiers carried up the heavy chests, the bottom fell out of one of them, and the gold rolled over the courtyard. The soldiers hurried to pick it up. Some they gave to the king, but most of it went into their own pockets. Gustaf Adolf saw this, and said, laughing, "Never mind, boys; now that it has once come into your hands, you may as well keep it." The spoil was so great that after that day there was scarcely a soldier in the whole army who did not have a new suit of clothes. In the camp a cow was sold for a riks thaler, a sheep for a few stivers, and the learned Salvius writes, "Our Finnish boys, who are now accustomed to the winelands down here, are not likely to wish to return to Savolax. In the Livonian war they often had to put up with water and mouldy bread, now the Finns can concoct a beverage in their helmets with wine and spices."

Amongst the prisoners was the Count of Lichtenstein and Lady Regina. The king ordered that they should both be treated with the greatest respect. He offered the young lady a safe conduct to go to the bishop, her uncle. Lady Regina rejected this on account of the insecurity of the times, and asked as a favour to be allowed to remain under the king's protection for the present. Gustaf Adolf agreed to this.

"I do this unwillingly," said the king, smiling, to the Margrave of Baden Durlach, who was riding by his side. "Young ladies are a luxury in the camp, and they turn the heads of my attendants; but she may come with me to Frankfurt, as a hostage; it will bind the hands of the bishop."

"Your Majesty knows how to attract everybody through your generosity," replied the Margrave with the politeness of a courtier.

"Lieutenant Bertel," said the king, turning to the officer close to him, who had the command of a troop of Finnish cavalry, "I give Lady Regina von Emmeritz into your charge. She has my permission to bring with her an elderly lady, a young girl, and her father confessor. See to it, that you are not smitten, lieutenant, and above all give close heed to the monk; that set is not to be relied upon."

Bertel saluted with his sword, and remained silent.

"One thing more," continued the king. "I have not forgotten that you were the first one who entered the sally-port. When you have brought the young lady to safety, you must appear on duty in my life-guards. Have you understood me?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Good." And the king then said to the Margrave with a smile, "Believe me, it would have been serious to leave this beautiful dark-eyed girl in the charge of one of my susceptible Swedes. This boy is a Finn; they are the most phlegmatic people I know of. They are poor gallants; they need a year to catch fire. A girl can drive twenty of them out of a ball-room; but if it comes to a battle with Pappenheim, then your grace knows what they can do."

Gustaf Adolf gained victory after victory in the late autumn. Tilly, who had come too late to save Würzburg, did not dare to attack him, and irritated by his bad luck and constant defeats, drew back to the Bavarian frontier. Gustaf Adolf marched down the Main, entered Aschaffenburg, and compelled the cautious Frankfurters to open their gates. On December the 6th the king forced a march over the Rhine near Oppenheim, and entered Mainz on the 9th, which the Spaniard de Sylva had so proudly thought that he could defend against three Swedish kings. The victorious Swedish army was now spread over the north and west part of Germany, and the conqueror had chosen his winter quarters in Frankfurt-on-the-Main. A splendid court here assembled around the hero; it was here that flattery had previously adorned his head with the crown of the German Empire. It was here that Maria Elenora came flying on longing wings to embrace her husband; in Henau, where he had come to meet her, she clasped him in her arms and said,

"At last the great Gustaf Adolf is captured."

One day at the end of December, 1631, the king gave a splendid banquet in Frankfurt on account of the queen's arrival. Great crowds of people filled the place outside the castle, the high Gothic windows at night shone bright as day. Ale and wines flowed constantly from big casks for the people's entertainment; around the tap-holes workmen and soldiers jostled each other, holding out tankards and goblets, which were quickly filled and as suddenly empty again. The good citizens of Frankfurt were beside themselves with admiration for the great king. From man to man, the famous tales of his justice and mildness circulated: now he had ordered a soldier to be hanged because he had taken with force a burgher's hen; now he had stopped in the streets and spoken familiarly with those whom he met. They imagined that they saw his shadow reflected by the small window-panes and wondered whether the German crown would not be placed upon that mighty head that very evening.

In the saloon of the castle a royal magnificence prevailed. Gustaf Adolf knew his consort's weakness for display, and probably wished to produce an effect on the assembled German nobility. The floor was covered with rich Flemish carpets, and over the windows were draperies of crimson velvet with tassels of gold; costly chandeliers, heavy with a thousand wax-lights, hung from the ceiling, which was adorned with arabesques.

They had just finished one of those measured and stately Spanish dances, which were at that time in vogue, and the heavy-footed Northmen had tried in vain to compete with the German and French aristocracy.

The king had offered his arm to the queen, and they made a promenade through the magnificent saloons. His tall and corpulent figure, and simple dignity of manner, which at once inspired reverence and love, seemed still more majestic by the side of the slender and delicate queen, who with sincere devotion leaned on his arm. Maria Elenora was then thirty-two years of age, and had retained a great portion of her beauty, which had gained her so many admirers in her youth. On her black hair, which was arranged in small curls about her snow-white temples, flashed a diadem of fabulous value, which was a recent gift from the king; her expressive blue eyes rested with indescribable affection upon her royal spouse; she seemed to forget herself, absorbed in the admiration which the king excited.

In the wake of the royal couple followed a crowd of all the illustrious personages of whom Protestant Germany could boast at that time.

One saw here the deposed King Frederick of Bohemia, the Duke of Weimar and Würtemberg, the Landgrave of Hesse, the Margrave of Baden Durlach, the Count of Wetterau, as well as other distinguished chevaliers; not less than twelve ambassadors from foreign courts had assembled here round the hero feared by all Europe. Of the king's own, Tott, Baner, and Gustaf Horn were occupied in other directions with affairs of war; but here at Gustaf Adolf's side, great as himself, even in outer form, was the gifted Oxenstjerna, and behind him the man with the pale, unpretending aspect, the calm, penetrating, and commanding look, Lennart Torstensson, as well as the proud Finn, Wittenberg, then colonel. Many of the Swedish generals, and almost all the Finns, Stälhandske, Ruuth, Forbus, and others, did not thrive well amidst the ceremonial of the royal saloon and amongst this haughty nobility whose court etiquette appeared to the stern warriors unbearably tedious, and had therefore withdrawn in good time to one of the smaller saloons, where pages in gold-embroidered velvet suits profusely poured the choicest Rhine wines into silver goblets.

Among this brilliant assemblage ought to be included the members of the common council of the city of Frankfurt, and many of its most prominent citizens, with their wives and daughters, as well as a large number of ladies, from the high-born duchess down to the scarcely less proud councillor's wife. Yes, and one saw here even a small number of Catholic prelates, easily recognisable by their bald heads; for the king wished to proclaim religious freedom by word and deed; the prelates, although in their hearts cursing the paltry rôle they played here, once invited, did not dare to stay away.

This scene was doubly gorgeous from the splendour of the attire. The king, however, wore a tight-fitting suit of black velvet stitched with silver, a Spanish cape of white satin, embroidered by the queen's hands, short yellow leather top-boots, and the broad lace collar which one sees in all his portraits, with the short hair and long goatee. The luxury-loving queen wore a richly jewelled dress of silver brocade with a short waist and half-bare arms; even the little white satin slippers glittered with brilliants.

The ladies of the aristocracy and the rich burghers' wives vied with each other in display; silver and gold fabrics, velvet, satin, and costly Brabant laces; also ribbons of all sorts of colours, buckles, rosettes, and long sashes, which, fluttering in the air, gave a picturesque effect. Princes and knights, some in wide German, others in close-fitting Spanish costumes, with their plumed hats under their arms, and attendant pages in silver and velvet, completed this bright scene in a time when uniforms were unknown. Flattery and admiration followed the king.

"Sire," said the artful king of Bohemia to him, "your Majesty can only be compared to Alexander of Macedon."

"My cousin," answered Gustaf Adolf, smiling, "you do not mean to liken the good city of Frankfurt to Babylon?"

"No, sire," joined in the French ambassador, Breze, who walked by their side; "his Bohemian Majesty only wishes to liken the Rhine to Granicus, and hopes that the new Alexander's Hyphasis may lie beyond the frontiers of Bohemia."

"You must confess, Count Breze," said the king, changing the conversation, "that our Northern beauties and your French beauties have been conquered to-day by a German."

"Sire, I am of your opinion, that her Majesty the Queen does not need the enviable position by your side to be truly victorious," replied the courteous Frenchman.

"My consort will be grateful for your politeness, minister, but she resigns to Lady von Emmentz the preference that belongs to youth."

"Your Majesty flatters to a great extent our national German pride," said the Duke of Würtemberg bowing.

"Beauty is cosmopolitan, your grace. It was truly a great booty my soldiers took at Würzburg."

The king then approached Lady Regina. Her radiant beauty was still more charming through the tight-fitting black velvet dress strewed with silver stars in which she was robed.

"My lady," he said courteously. "I should be happy if the mourning you wear covered a heart that could forget all sad memories and only live in the hope of a brighter future, when war and battles no longer frighten the colour away from your beautiful cheeks. Believe me, lady, the time will come, and I am wishing for it with all my heart as much as you are, and let this hope bring joy to these lips where it always ought to remain."

"By your Majesty's side one forgets everything," replied Lady Regina, and rose respectfully from her high crimson-covered chair. But her cheeks grew still paler while she spoke, which showed that she could not forget the past and her present captivity.

"Are you not well, lady?"

"Very well, your Majesty."

"Perhaps you have something to complain of? Have confidence in me—as a friend!"

"Your Majesty is very kind——"

Regina struggled with herself. At last she said, with her eyes on the floor,

"Your Majesty's goodness leaves nothing to wish for."

"We shall meet again."

The king continued his walk through the saloon.

Lady Regina withdrew to a deep window recess in one of the other rooms and wept.

"Holy Virgin," she prayed, "forgive me, that my heart does not belong to you alone. You who can see into my inmost being, you know that I have not enough strength to hate this heretic king as you demand of me. He is so great, so noble. Woe unto me, I shudder to think of the holy charge you have given me!"

"Courage, my daughter," whispered a voice close by, and Lady Regina's evil spirit, the pale Jesuit, stood behind her.

"The hour is approaching," he said in a low tone. "The godless king has been taken by your beauty; rejoice, my child. The Holy Virgin has decided his destruction. This night he shall die."

"Oh, my father, my father, what do you demand of me?"

"Listen to me, my daughter. When Holofernes, the King of Assyria, besieged Bethulia, there was a widow, Judith, the daughter of Merari, beautiful as you, my child, devoted as you. She fasted three times, and then she walked out and gained the favour of the enemy of her faith and people. The saints gave his life into her hands, she drew his sword and cut off his head, and delivered her people."

"Mercy, my father!"

"It was counted unto her great honour and ever-lasting salvation, and her name was mentioned among the greatest in Israel. You will some day be mentioned like that, my daughter, amongst the saints of the Holy Catholic Church. Last night the Holy Franciscus was visible by my bedside. He said, the time has come, go to Judith, tell her that I will give Holofernes' head into her hands."

"What shall I do, my father?"

"Mark closely how you ought to deport yourself. This very evening you must request a private audience of the king."

"Impossible!"

"You shall reveal to him a fictitious plot against his life. He will listen to you. You shall entice the ring from him. Once in possession of it, I will be ready to assist you. But if he refuses you the ring, then take this paper, it contains a deadly poison; St. Franciscus has given it himself to me. You shall mix it in the beverage which the king drinks at night."

Lady Regina took the paper, and leaned her curly head against the window-frame, and she hardly seemed to have taken any notice of the Jesuits terrible injunction. An entirely new thought had seized this ardent soul, and was working itself to clearness. The Jesuit misunderstood her; he supposed that her silence proceeded from submission to his despotism, from fanatic ecstasy over the martyr-crown he had held up to her.

"Have you understood me, my daughter?" asked he.

"Yes, my father."

"You will, then, this evening, ask the king for a private audience? You will..."

"Yes, my father."

"Benedicta, ten benedicta, thou thrice-blessed instrument, go to thy heavenly glory!" And the Jesuit disappeared in the throng.

The large clock in the coronation chamber pointed to midnight. Through an ingenious mechanism, invented by a Nuremberger, two immense tables, set with elegant silver service, rolled out from an adjoining room at the twelfth stroke, and stood at once, as if risen from the floor, in the centre of the saloon. Upon a given sign from the master of the ceremonies, the king and queen placed themselves before two crimson chairs at the middle of the upper table, and all the guests in rows, according to rank and dignity, around the festive boards. One of the prelates present said grace in a loud voice, after which the king himself recited a short psalm, and the rest with practised voices joined in. They now seated themselves with considerable bustle, and once arrived so far, they did not allow themselves to be too much incommoded by ceremony. The courses were both many and savoury. Richelieu had sent Gustaf Adolf a French cook; but the king, far from spoiled by good living, only employed the fine Frenchman for ornamental dishes on occasions like this; perhaps he did not rely fully upon the cardinal's gift, for it was said that Richelieu's dinners were scarcely less dangerous than those of the former Borgias. And besides, the Netherland and German cooking was at that time more praised than the French. The tables' greatest ornaments at this banquet were a wild boar roasted whole, decorated with flowers and laurel leaves, and a piece of pastry, presented by a baker of Frankfurt, and representing the triumphant march of a Roman Emperor. Everyone believed that they recognised in this small hero, Gustaf Adolf's features, and many jesting words were exchanged, when each found a resemblance between the attending Romans and his neighbour. The queen, whose delicate hand was destined to break this masterpiece of culinary art, with a smile put one of the last slaves in the triumphal march on her silver plate; but Gustaf Adolf, generally endowed with a good appetite, seized the great pastry hero rather ungently with his warrior hand, and placed a considerable portion of his person upon his plate.

In the meantime the goblets were filled with the best Rhenish and Spanish wines, and the king drank the queen's health in a plain simple manner, and all the other guests followed his example. At the top of the table stood the royal pages in glittering uniforms, one behind each chair, and at the lower end one stood behind every other chair. They refilled the goblets, and the king then drank to Frankfurt's welfare; immediately afterwards he rose from the table and left the room with the queen on his arm, and they retired to their own apartments. Gustaf Adolf always lived as a plain soldier ought to do, and was generally quick at his meals, but under favourable circumstances would stay an hour at the table. The king, however, did not ask the others to follow his example, and left in his place as host a high officer of the court.

This time it was the old Scotchman, Patrick Ruthwen, who was a good boon companion, and he filled his post with great credit. Oxenstjerna left the room with the king. The ladies also left the hall, but the gentlemen remained behind enjoying themselves over their wine and the nuts which had been handed round on silver dishes; amongst the latter were artificial ones made of stone, which looked so natural that they were constantly mistaken for real From this joke came the saying, "it is a hard nut to crack." The heroes of the Thirty Years' War were nearly all great topers; to empty at a draught one of the large beakers of Rhenish wine was a small matter to them. But on this occasion they had to restrain themselves, because they all knew the high moral principles of the king, and hence did not dare to turn their goblets upside down too often. They did not break up until a late hour, and some of the commanders treated each other to a rare product just imported from the Low Countries, and it was passed from hand to hand in small boxes; each man bit off a piece, and some with frightful grimaces spat it out again, whilst others kept it in their mouths with evident enjoyment. Doubtless, the reader has already guessed, this was tobacco.

While this feasting was going on in the hall, the queen had gone to rest with her ladies in waiting, but the king was still talking to Axel Oxenstjerna. What these two great men were conversing about is easier to guess than to tell. Perhaps it was about Sweden's poverty, or the Emperor's power, or the power of God, which is still greater, or the victory of the Light, or the crown of the Roman kingdom, or a German Protestant empire in the future. No one knows this for certain; for after the king's death all his secrets followed Oxenstjerna to the grave.

It was very late, and Oxenstjerna was about to leave, when Bertel, the officer on duty, announced that a closely veiled lady requested an audience of the king. It was a strange favour to ask at this time of the night, and both Gustaf Adolf and his minister were greatly surprised; but that there must be an important reason for such a secret visit was obvious to them both, and the king ordered Bertel to bring the lady in, and told Oxenstjerna to remain.

Bertel left the room, and returned in a few moments with a tall lady thickly veiled, and dressed in black. She seemed greatly agitated and surprised not to find the king alone; she was unable to utter a word.

"Madam," said the king in a somewhat irritable tone—he did not like such a visit at this late hour; for if it was known it would tend to excite gossip amongst the courtiers, and perhaps awaken the jealousy of his sensitive wife—"a visit at this hour of the night must have some important object in order to justify it. I should first of all like to know who you are."

The lady was still silent.

The king thought he could guess the cause of her silence, and continued, pointing to his companion:

"This is minister Oxenstjerna, my friend, and I have no secrets from him."

The lady dressed in black then threw herself at the king's feet and drew back her veil. The king retreated several paces when he recognised Lady Regina von Emmeritz; her dark eyes flashed with an enthusiastic fire, but her face was as pale as that of a marble statue.

"Stand up, lady," said Gustaf Adolf in a kind tone, and stretched out his hand to lift her up. "What now leads you to seek an audience with me? Speak, I beg of you; tell me without fear what troubles you have in your heart; will you not comply with my wish?"

Lady Regina sighed deeply, and began to speak in a low voice almost impossible to hear, but she gradually assumed a louder tone, supported by her enthusiasm.

"Your Majesty, I have come to you because you asked me to come. I come to you because I have hated you, sire; for a long time I have prayed daily to the Holy Virgin, that she would destroy you, and your whole army. Your Majesty, I am only a weak girl, but an honest Catholic; you have pursued our Church with war, and plundered our convents; driven away our holy fathers, and melted down our holy golden images; you have slain our soldiers, and dealt our cause deadly blows that can never be repaired. Therefore I have taken a Holy Oath to bring about your destruction, and relying upon the Holy Virgin's help I have followed your steps from Würzburg in order to kill you."

The king and Oxenstjerna looked at each other as if they doubted the young girl's sanity. Lady Regina saw this, and continued to speak with more vehemence than before.

"Sire, you think me mad, because I speak thus to the conqueror of Germany. But listen to me further. When I saw you for the first time in the castle of Würzburg, and how kindly and generously you sheltered the weak, and spared those who had been captured, I then said to myself, 'This conduct seems to be inspired from Heaven, but nevertheless it must come from hell.' But when I followed you here, and saw your greatness as a man combined with your heroic qualities, sire, I hesitated to carry out my vow, and my hatred became a burden to me. I struggled with myself, and your kindness to-night has conquered my resolve. Sire, now I love you as much as I have hated you before. I admire you, and am devoted to you——"

The beautiful girl let her eyes sink to the floor.

"Well," said the king, hesitating with great emotion.

"Your Majesty, I have made this confession because you are great and noble enough not to misunderstand me. But I have not come to you at this late hour only to confess an unhappy girl's feelings. I have come here to save you, sire."

"Explain yourself."

"Hear me, your Majesty. I am disarmed, but others much more dangerous remain. Some of our body, men without mercy, have sworn to kill you. Oh! you do not know what these men are capable of doing. They have drawn lots in order to decide who shall kill you, and the most dangerous of them is near you in disguise daily. Your Majesty cannot escape from them. To-day or to-morrow, perhaps, you may be assassinated or poisoned. Your death is sure."

"My life is in the hand of God, and not at the mercy of a murderous fanatic," said Gustaf Adolf in a very calm voice. "The evil have not as much power as Will. Be assured, Lady von Emmeritz, I do not fear them."

"No, sire, the saints have decided your death. I know that you rely upon this ring"—and Regina grasped the king's hand—"but it will not help you. Sire, I say to you that your death is certain, and I have not come here to save your life and thus betray the cause of our Holy Church."

"Then why, lady, did you come here now?"

Lady Regina again threw herself at the king's feet with almost adoration.

"Sire, I have come to save your soul. I cannot bear to think that a hero like yourself, so noble, so great, should be lost for ever. Hear me, I beg, I implore you by your eternal salvation, with certain death staring you in the face, do not continue in your heretical faith, whose fruit is eternal damnation. I pray you, abjure these evil doctrines while there is still time, and come back to the only way of redemption, the Holy Catholic Church; give up your faith and go to the Holy Father in Rome; confess your sins to him, and use your victorious sword in the service of the true Church, instead of using it for her destruction. She will receive you with open arms, and whether your Majesty lives or dies, your Majesty can always depend upon being placed among the chosen saints in Heaven."

The king for the second time raised the young girl from the ground, and looked straight into her burning eyes, and said in an impressive voice:

"When I was as young as you are, Lady von Emmeritz, my teacher, old Skytte, brought me up with the same enthusiastic devotion to the Protestant faith that you have for the Catholic. At that time I hated the Pope with all my soul, as you now hate Luther, and I prayed to God that the time might come when I could destroy Antichrist and convert all those that believed in him to the true light. Since then I have not altered my principles, but I have learned through experience that the paths are many, although the goal is One. I stand steadily by my faith, and am prepared to die for it, if God so decides. But I respect the faith of a Christian, even if it is quite different from my own, and I know that God's mercy can bring a soul to salvation, even if its way is obscured by dark mists and illusions. Go, Lady von Emmeritz, I forgive you; although deluded by the fanatical teachings of the monks, you have tried to draw me from the battle for the Light. Go, poor child, and let the Word of God, and the lessons of Life, teach you not to rely upon saints, who are no better than we are, or images, or rings, as they cannot alter the highest law. I thank you because your intentions are good, although you are inexperienced. Be without fear for my life, which is in the hand of Him who knows how to use it."

King Gustaf Adolf was truly great when he spoke these words.

Lady Regina stood there, at the same time crushed and uplifted by the king's magnanimous spirit. Perhaps she remembered his answer to the burghers of Frankfurt, when they asked him to be allowed to remain neutral; "neutrality is a word which I cannot bear to hear, least of all amidst the battle between light and darkness, betwixt liberty and slavery." Brought up to hate the Protestant faith, she could not understand how it was possible for the sword which had destroyed the worldly power of the church to be laid aside in the presence of its spiritual power over the hearts and minds of men.

The fanatical young girl raised her tear-stained eyes towards the king. Her cheeks turned pale, on which had before burned the fire of enthusiasm, and her eyes were fixed with terror on the scarlet-coloured hangings which surrounded the king's bed.

Oxenstjerna, who was more suspicious than Gustaf Adolf, had closely watched the young lady the whole time, and at once noticed her agitation.

"Your Majesty," said he in Swedish to the king, "be on your guard, there are owls in the marshes."

Then without waiting for an answer he drew his sword and walked steadily towards the magnificent bed, which was a gift from the burghers of Frankfurt; the royal hero had exchanged the eider-down pillows for a simple mattress, and a coarse blanket of Saxon wool, the same as his soldiers used in their winter camps.

"Stop!" cried Regina with evident reluctance. But it was too late. Oxenstjerna had with a sudden movement pulled back the hangings, and revealed a pale face with dark burning eyes, surmounted by a black leather skull-cap. The hangings were still further drawn back, and the whole features of the monk became visible; his hands were clasped round a crucifix of silver.

"Step forward, devoted father," said Oxenstjerna in a satirical tone. "A man of your merits should not remain in concealment. Your reverence has chosen a peculiar place for your evening devotions. With his Majesty's permission I will furnish you with a larger audience."

At the sound of the bell, Lieutenant Bertel with two men from the life-guards entered, and placed themselves on both sides of the exit with their long halberts.

The king looked at Lady Regina, but more sadness than anger was to be seen in his eyes. It pained him that so young and beautiful a girl could take part in such a detestable plot.

"Mercy, your Majesty! mercy for my father confessor! He is innocent!" cried the unhappy girl.

"Will your Majesty allow me to ask a few questions in your place?" said Oxenstjerna.

"Do as you think best, minister," said the king.

"Very well. What did your reverence come here for?"

"To bring back a great sinner to the true fold," said the monk hypocritically, with his eyes turned upwards.

"Really, one must say that you are very zealous. And for such a holy purpose you carry with you the image of the crucified Saviour?"

The monk bowed whilst devoutly making the sign of the cross.

"Your reverence is very humble. Give me the crucifix, that I may admire this work of art."

The monk unwillingly handed it to him.

"A beautiful object. It required a clever artist to design this holy image."

The minister passed his hands over all parts of the crucifix. At last, when he touched the breast of the image, a sharp dagger sprang forth.

"See, your reverence carries a very innocent-looking toy. A keen dagger, just suitable to thrust through a noble king's heart! Miserable monk," said Oxenstjerna in a terrible voice, "do you know that your horrible crime becomes a hundred times more detestable through the blasphemous method you wish to employ?"

Like all the kings of the Vasa line, Gustaf Adolf had a hasty temper in his youth, which more than once brought him into trouble. But the experience of manhood had cooled his blood; still one could sometimes see the quick Vasa disposition get beyond control. This now happened. He was quite great enough, however, to look calmly upon this treacherous attempt against his life, although the preservation of Germany depended upon it, and he looked down with great disgust upon the discovered traitor, who now stood trembling before his indignant judge. But the horrible misuse of the Saviour's holy image as a weapon against his life—he who was prepared to sacrifice himself for the pure teachings of Jesus Christ—appeared to him to be such a terrible blasphemy against all in life that he considered holy and right, that his calmness was instantly changed to the most terrible anger.

Noble and great as a lion in his wrath, he stood in front of the cringing Jesuit, who was unable to bear the glance of his eyes.

"On your knees," said the king in a thunderous voice, stamping violently with his foot on the floor.

The Jesuit fell down as if struck by lightning, and crawled in mortal terror to the king's feet, like a poisonous reptile, spell-bound by the king's look: powerless at the conqueror's feet.

"Ye serpent's brood," continued the king beside himself with anger, "how long do ye think that the Almighty will endure your iniquities? By God! I have seen much; I have seen your Antichrist and Romish rule cover the world with all the deeds of darkness; I have seen ye, monks and Jesuits, poison frightened consciences with your devil's teachings about murder and crimes committed for the glory of Heaven; but a deed so black as this, a blasphemy against everything that is holy in Heaven and upon earth, I have never before dreamed of. I have forgiven ye all; ye have plotted against my life at Demmin and other places; I have not taken revenge; ye have acted worse than Turks and barbarians towards the innocent Lutherans; wherever ye have had the power ye have destroyed their churches, and burned them at the stake, driven them away from house and home; and what is worse, ye have tried to draw them from their faith with arguments and force to your idolatrous religion, which worships deeds and miserable images instead of the living God and His only Son. For all this, I have not retaliated upon your cloisters and churches and consciences; ye have gone free in your faith, and no one has touched a hair of your heads. But now I know you, servants of the devil; the Almighty God has delivered ye into my hand; I shall scatter ye like chaff; I shall punish you, ye desecrators of the temple; I shall follow you to the end of the world, as long as this arm is able to wield the Lord's sword. Ye have hitherto seen me mild and merciful, ye will now see me hard and terrible; I will destroy you and your accursed faith on earth; it will be such a judgment as the world has not seen since the destruction of Rome."

The king walked up and down the room with hasty steps, without deigning to bestow a glance on the prostrate Jesuit or the trembling Regina, who was standing by the window covering her face with her hands. Oxenstjerna, always calm and collected, was alarmed at the king's anger, and feared that he would go too far, and now tried to modify it.

"Will your Majesty deign to order Lieutenant Bertel to take the monk into safe custody, and let a court-martial make a terrible example of him?"

"Mercy, your Majesty!" cried Regina, who was blindly devoted to her father confessor. "Mercy! I am the guilty one. I have advised him to take this terrible step. I alone deserve to be punished for it."

At this noble self-sacrifice a faint ray of hope illumined the Jesuit's pale features, but he did not dare to rise up. The king took no notice of this appeal. Instead, he turned all his wrath upon the guard.

"Lieutenant Bertel," he said sharply, "you have commanded my life-guard to-night; through your neglect this wretch has slipped into the room. Take him at once to prison, and you shall answer for his safety with your head. Then you can go and take your place in the ranks. From this moment you are degraded to the position of a private soldier."

Bertel saluted, but did not speak. What pained him more than the loss of his commission was the sacrifice of the king's favour, especially as he knew that he had kept a ceaseless watch. It was a complete mystery to him how the Jesuit had got in. The latter had now grasped the king's knees and prayed for mercy. But in vain. The king pushed him backwards, and he was taken away gnashing his teeth and his heart full of revenge.

Gustaf Adolf then turned to the trembling girl at the window, took her hand and looked straight into her eyes.

"Lady," he said with asperity, "it is said that when the king of the darkness wishes to do a terrible evil deed on earth, he sends his instruments dressed as angels of light. What do you wish me to think of you?"

Lady Regina had courage enough to lift up her eyes once more to the great king.

"I have nothing more to say. Kill me, sire, but save my father confessor!" she said with fanatical resolution.

The king, still looking angrily into her eyes, could not yet control himself.

"If your father, lady, had been an honest man, he would have taught his daughter to fear God, honour the king, and speak the truth to every man. You wished to convert me; I will instead educate you, you seem to be in great want of it. Go, you remain my prisoner until you have learned to speak the truth. Oxenstjerna, is the severe old Lady Marta at Korsholm still alive?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"She will have a pupil to educate. At the first opportunity this girl is to be sent to Finland."

Lady Regina, proud and silent, left the room.

"Your Majesty!" said Oxenstjerna reproachfully.

Before our story proceeds further, it is necessary to bestow one more look on Frankfurt.

Lady Regina was closely guarded after her midnight visit to the king; and later in the spring, when the waters were released from their icy fetters, she was sent to Finland, where we may find her again. No religious hatred, still less revenge, prompted the anger of the usually generous Gustaf Adolf towards the young girl; abused confidence deeply stabs a noble heart, and Regina said nothing to remove the idea of her guilt from the king's mind; in fact, she strengthened it more and more by her fanaticism, and hatred still possessed her young heart, which ought to have been given to love alone.

An extraordinary incident increased the king's resentment. On the night that the Jesuit was taken to prison, to be executed next day, the terrible monk escaped; no one knew how. These fearful men had allies and secret emissaries and passages everywhere; that very night a hitherto concealed door was discovered in the king's bed-chamber. Bertel's innocence came to light through this, but the mysterious escape of the monk again excited the king's wrath, and the late lieutenant had still to remain a private soldier.

By the middle of February, 1632, the king was ready for departure; he then took the stronghold at Kreutznach in March, after a short siege, and left the queen, as well as Axel Oxenstjerna, in Mayence. But Tilly had in the meantime surprised Gustaf Horn at Bamberg, and done great mischief. The king pursued him down the Danube, and wished to invade Bavaria by crossing the Lech. In vain did his generals object that the river was too deep and rapid, and that the Elector, with Tilly, Altringer, and 22,000 men, stood on the opposite side. The king spoke like Alexander at the passage of the Granicus.

"Shall we, who have crossed the Elbe, Oder, and Rhine, nay, even the Baltic, stop alarmed at the River Lech?"

The passage was decided upon.

The king tried for some time to find a suitable crossing. At last he discovered it near a bend in the stream; a dragoon disguised as a peasant heard that the Lech was twenty-two feet deep. Trestles were made of timber torn from cabins; four batteries of seventy cannon in all, were erected on the bank, and breastworks thrown up for the skirmishers, while fires of damp straw and green wood enveloped the neighbourhood in thick smoke. Still, Tilly was old and experienced; he soon occupied the wood on the other side with his force; dug trenches and made fortifications, from which he directed a heavy fire. On the 3rd of April the Swedish cannon replied with terrific effect. On April 5th the trestles for a bridge were laid in spite of the fire of the enemy; planks were then thrown across, and, as usual, the Finns led the attack. Three hundred infantry, headed by little Larsson, and the brave Savolaxen Paavo Lyydikain, were ordered to cross the planks, and defend the bridge on the opposite shore; each was promised a reward of ten riks thalers. In a few moments the fate of Bavaria would be decided.

The Finns carried spades and trenching tools, and cheering as they advanced, rushed at the double over the bridge. Immediately a tremendous cross-fire from all Tilly's batteries was directed upon them; every moment balls dropped splashing into the foaming waters, or flew over the charging Finns, and now and then fell amongst them, scattering death on every side. Those who got over worked vigorously at throwing up earthworks, which soon protected their front, although their flanks were still exposed to the enemy's fire.

Tilly realised the importance of this position, and his fire redoubled. The Swedes riddled the opposite wood with a storm of shot, which struck the stones and tree-tops, scattering fragments and branches far and wide upon the Bavarians, who stood underneath awaiting the order to charge. The king, in order to encourage his men, hastened to the front, and himself fired sixty shots. The cannon thunder was heard for miles.

More than half of the Finns had now been killed, wounded, or drowned, but the entrenchments were completed. And at that instant the king ordered the afterwards celebrated Count Carl Gustaf Wrangel to go to their assistance. The Finns, exalted with pride by their countrymen's success, and also anxious for the safety of their comrades, begged eagerly to be led into the midst of the fight, and in a moment Wrangel was surrounded by 300 Finnish volunteers, with whom he heroically charged across the shaking planks. The gallant Duke Bernhard, who, like the king, had a certain partiality for the Finns, received permission to make a diversion in their favour. Followed by a troop of Finnish cavalry, he found and passed over a ford, and fell upon the enemy's right flank. The surprised Bavarians fell into disorder, and in spite of their numerical superiority, gave ground before the attack. Duke Bernhard's troop played havoc with the enemy, and soon cut their way through to their comrades at the end of the bridge. Through this daring exploit the Finns obtained the dreaded name, "Hackapeliter," from the words "hakkaa päälle!" Go Ahead! which they shouted as they charged.

Stimulated by the Finns' success, the Swedish and German infantry now began to cross the bridge. Tilly, avoiding exposing his troops to the murderous Swedish fire till the last moment, now sent Altringer's infantry to take the fortifications, and drive the enemy into the river. The Bavarians advanced at the double, and although decimated by the hail of bullets, threw themselves furiously on the earthworks.

Wrangel's men stood firm. Almost enveloped by the enemy's massive column, the Finns gave them a hot reception. Pouring in a deadly volley at fifty yards, every bullet told. The Bavarians wavered for a moment; most of them were new recruits; they faltered. The Finns got time to reload; another volley; and the assailants fled in disorder along the bank. Altringer rallied them with great difficulty, and again led them to the onset; at that moment a cannon-shot whizzed so close to his head that he fell senseless to the ground. Again the Bavarians gave way. Tilly saw this, and sent his favourite Wallachians to their assistance. But even these veterans had to retreat, so terrific was the fire. Then Tilly seized a banner, and led the attack in person. Before, however, he had taken many steps, he fell, struck down by a falconet ball, which had smashed one leg. The old general was carried from the field, and died a fortnight afterwards at Ingolstadt.

The Bavarian army now became utterly demoralised. The Elector retreated under cover of the darkness, leaving 2,000 dead on the field, and the way open to the heart of Bavaria.

Next day the entire Swedish army crossed the Lech. The king with a liberal hand distributed rewards to his brave troops. Amongst these was a horseman who had accompanied Duke Bernhard, who praised him in the highest terms. This was Bertel; three slight wounds attested the duke's account. Bertel regained his rank, but not the king's confidence, which he valued above everything. But he resolved to win this back at all costs.

Gustaf Adolf then marched to Augsburg, which took the oath of allegiance, and gave brilliant festivals in his honour. Here report, which joined the names Gustafva Augusta, whispered that the king had abandoned himself, like another Hannibal in Capua, to effeminacy and pleasure. Rumour was wrong. Gustaf Adolf was merely resting, and revolving still more daring enterprises in his mind. But from this time the king's pathway began to darken. The death angel went before him with drawn sword, and aimed now here, now there, a blow at his life, as if to cry constantly in his ear, "Mortal, thou art not a god."

One could almost think that the powers of darkness had obtained more power over him; now ambition began to gain ground in his mind, and he was no longer solely animated by the sacred cause of Liberty and Faith. A secret and terrible enemy seemed everywhere in his path, dealing deadly blows which could not as yet reach their mark. At the bold but unsuccessful attack on Ingolstadt there was, relates Fryxell, a cannon on the ramparts called a "Fikonet," and celebrated for shooting both far and true. The gunner on the ramparts saw out on the field a man with a waving plume riding a fine charger, and surrounded by attentive followers. "There," he said, "rides a great lord, but this will stop his career;" then he aimed and fired the "Fikonet." The ball brought down horse and rider, and the others hastened to the place in great dread; but the king, for it was he, raised himself up, covered with blood and dust, but unharmed, from underneath the dead horse, exclaiming,

"The apple is not yet ripe."

The citizens of Ingolstadt buried the horse, and stuffed his skin as a remembrance. Shortly afterwards the king was riding at the side of the young Margrave of Baden Durlach, who had just before been one of the most brilliant figures at the Augsburg balls. A cannon-shot passed very near the king, and as he looked round, a headless horseman rode by his side and then sank to the ground.

From Ingolstadt the king turned to Landshut, in the centre of Bavaria. The farther he advanced into this country, where they had never seen an army of heretics before, the people became more fanatical, wild, and bloodthirsty. Large bands of peasants assembled, commanded by the monks, lying in ambush everywhere for the Swedes, and cutting off every straggler; they also tortured their prisoners in the most horrible manner. The king's army on their side, inebriated by their successes, were infuriated by this cruel guerilla warfare, and began to burn and destroy all the places they passed through. Hitherto the Swedish army had been remarkable for its good conduct in the field, but now they left in their rear a broad track of murder and crime; and woe to those troops who in insufficient numbers wandered far from the main body.

The king had now marched far into the country, and wished to send some new important orders to Baner, who followed slowly in his steps from Ingolstadt. On account of the lawless state of the country this was attended with great risk, and the king would not order a large body to go. A young officer, a Finn, volunteered to try, accompanied by two horsemen. The king agreed to this, and the three horsemen set out one evening in May on this dangerous journey.

The young officer was no other than our friend Bertel, and his companions were Pekka from East Bothnia, and Vitikka from Tavastland. The night was dark and gloomy, and the three horsemen rode carefully in the middle of the road, much afraid of missing their way in this strange country, and dreading an ambush from their enemies. It began to rain, which made the roads still worse; these had already been much damaged by the passage of the heavy baggage-wagons, and at every step they risked an accident.

"Here," said Vitikka ironically to his companion, "you are a northern Finn, and ought to be able to practise witchcraft."

"I should not be worth much if I could not do it," responded Pekka in the same bantering tone.

"Try, then, and take us in a minute to Hattelmala mountain and let us see the light shining from Hämeenlinna's castle. There is a little gipsy girl whom I once loved, and I would rather be by her side to-night, than here in the ruts of this damned forest."

"That will be easy for me to do," said Pekka; "see, you can already see the lights shining from Hämeenlinna."

His comrade looked sharply around, uncertain if Pekka was joking or in earnest; he thought the latter quite as likely as the former. And truly, in the brushwood underneath, a light appeared, but he soon understood that he was still hundreds of miles away from his home. Suddenly their horses stopped, and would not move. A barrier of tree trunks was stretched across the road.

"Hush!" whispered Bertel, "I hear a noise in the wood."

The horsemen leaned forward and listened attentively. On the opposite side of the wood they heard footsteps and the breaking of branches.

"They must be here in a quarter of an hour," said a voice in the well-known Bavarian dialect.

"How many of them are there?"

"Thirty horsemen, and ten or twelve baggage animals. They left Geisenfeld at dusk, and they have a young girl with them as a prisoner."

"How many are we?"

"About fifty musketeers, and seventy or eighty armed with pitchforks and axes."

"Good. No firing is allowed until they are within three paces."

At this moment Bertel's horse neighed, whose name was Lapp; he was small but strong and active.

"Who is there?" sounded from the road.

"Swedes!" cried Bertel boldly, just as he did at the Würzburg sally-port, and fired off a pistol in the direction of the voice, and saw by the flash a large band of peasants, who had encamped by the barricade. He then turned his horse, and, calling upon his companions to follow him, rode at full gallop on the road back to Landshut.

But the peasants had by the flash also seen the three horsemen, and now hurried to cut off their retreat. Bertel's horse easily distanced the pursuers, but Vitikka's fell over the stump of a tree, and Pekka's clumsy animal was hurt by the thrust of a pitchfork in his neck as he tried to get out of the marsh. Bertel saw his followers' danger, and would not leave them; he turned back and killed the nearest peasants, and caught Pekka's horse by the bridle and tried to pull him up, calling also to Vitikka to leave his horse and jump on the back of Lapp. This brave effort was successful, and the three were on their way to safety, when suddenly a whizzing noise was heard, and a lasso settled upon Bertel's shoulders, tightened, and jerked him from his saddle. Vitikka fell at the same moment, and Lapp, thus delivered from his heavy burden, galloped off, and Pekka followed with or without his will. Bertel and Vitikka were taken prisoners and bound with their hands behind their backs.

"Hang the dogs before the others arrive!" cried one.

"Hang them by the heels!" suggested another.

"With a little fire underneath!" said a third.

"No fire! no noise!" ordered a fourth, who appeared to be in command. "Listen, comrades," whispered he Ito the prisoners lying on the ground, "was it Finnish you spoke?"

"Go to the devil!" said Vitikka in a rage.

"Maledicti, maledicti Fennones!" said the former speaker in the darkness. "You are mine!"

"Now they are coming!" cried one of the band, and the trampling of horses was heard on the road to Ingolstadt. The peasants remained still, and for greater safety gagged the prisoners. The approaching troop were provided with torches, and seemed to be Germans, who were returning from a marauding expedition. They were riding so quickly that they did not notice the barricade until they were close upon it; at the same moment a murderous fire opened upon them from behind this obstruction. Ten or twelve of the foremost fell to the ground, and their riderless horses reared and dragged them along by the stirrups; the greatest confusion prevailed amongst them, some turned back, riding over their comrades and the pack-horses; others fired off their pistols towards the enemy behind the barricade. The peasants rushed from their ambush and furiously attacked those that remained, and pulled them off their horses with lassos. In vain the horsemen endeavoured to defend themselves; in less than ten minutes the whole troop was scattered; eight or ten had escaped, fifteen were lying wounded on the road, and six or seven were made prisoners. Only four of the peasants had fallen. The revenge of the Bavarians was inhuman. They fired blank charges in the prisoners' faces, which burnt them black, and partially buried some of them in the ground and stoned them slowly to death.

When this terrible work was finished, they carried away the booty to a place of safety. Bertel and his companion were thrown across one of the horses, and they marched deep into the forest. After some time they stopped at a lonely farm, and the prisoners were dragged in and thrown on the floor in a separate room, while the peasants in the next room rejoiced over their victory, and drank captured wine. A deathly pale monk now entered the room, carrying a sword by his side with a rope. He held up a torch to the prisoners' faces, took away their gags, and looked at them in silence.

"Am I right," said he at last, sarcastically; "this is Lieutenant Bertel, of the king's life-guards."

Bertel looked up and recognised the Jesuit Hieronymus.

"You are welcome to me, lieutenant, and thank you for our last meeting. Such an important guest must be well entertained. I fancy I have seen this comrade before, also," he said, pointing to Vitikka.

The wild Finn looked him straight in the eyes and opened his mouth with an obstinate grin.

"What have you done with your ears, monk?" he said tauntingly. "Take away your skull-cap, foul thief, and let us see if you have grown any ass's ears in their place."

At this daring remark about the incident at Breitenfeld a dark frown contracted the Jesuit's eyebrows, and a blush arose on his pale features; he bit his lips with rage.

"Think of your own ears, comrade," said he. "Anathema maranatha! They will soon have heard enough in this world."

With these words the Jesuit clapped his hands twice, and a blacksmith with his leather apron entered, carrying a pair of red-hot pincers.

"Well, comrade, do your ears begin to burn?" said the monk cruelly.

Vitikka replied stubbornly, "Now you think you are clever, but you are only a fumbler in comparison with the devil. Your lord and master does not need any pincers, he uses his claws."

"The right ear," said the Jesuit. The smith approached the Finn and put the pincers to his head. Vitikka smiled disdainfully. A sudden blush coloured his brown cheeks, but only for a moment. He had now only one ear.

"Will you now abjure your faith, and believe in the Holy Father and damn Luther, and you shall keep your other ear?"

"Niggard!" cried the Finn. "Your lord and master generally offers countries and kingdoms, and you only offer me a wretched ear!"

"The left ear," continued the Jesuit coldly. The smith carried out the order. The mutilated soldier smiled.

"Monk, it is shameful!" said Bertel, who was lying close by. "Kill us, if you like, but do it quickly!"

"Who has said that I intend to kill you?" replied the Jesuit, smirking. "Never; it entirely depends upon yourself whether you regain your freedom this very night."

"What do you ask of me?"

"You are a brave young man, Lieutenant Bertel! I am sorry that the king so shamefully and unjustly deprived you of your rank, which you had gained with your blood."

"Are you really sorry? And what then?"

"If I was in your place I should take revenge."

"Take revenge? Oh yes, I have thought of it."

"You belong to Gustaf Adolf's life-guards. Do you know, young friend, what the Catholic princes would give to anyone who brought the king, dead or alive, into their power?"

"How could I know that, holy father?"

"A kingdom if he was a nobleman; 50,000 ducats if he was a man of the people."

"Holy father, it is a small reward for such a great service."

"You have your choice between death and a royal reward!"

"This is the point you were trying to reach, holy father?"

"Do as you please; think it over, and we will talk about it again. This time you can buy your life and freedom for a less price; yes, a very small service."

"What would that be, holy father?"

"Listen to me. I wish you to swear that you will do me a very small favour. King Gustaf Adolf wears on the forefinger of his right hand a small copper ring. It is of no value to him, but it is of great importance to me, young friend; as I am an antiquary, I should like to have a remembrance of a king, whom I must hate as an enemy, but admire as a man."

"And the ring?"

"The ring; you must swear to deliver it into my hands before the next new moon. Do this, and you are free!"

"Oh, only a small sin against the seventh commandment? And you have the absolution ready before-hand; is it not so? Go, miserable thief, and thank your stars that my arm is bound; or by Heaven, it would teach you to have respect for a Christian's honour!"

"Be still, young man, remember that your life is in my hands. When I have finished with your comrade I shall begin with you."

Bertel looked at him with contempt.

"Smith, go on with your work!" said the Jesuit.

And the smith again took the pincers from the fire.

At the same instant a great confusion and noise arose in the next room. They shouted:

"To arms! The Swedes are upon us!"

The door flew open. Some of the peasants seized their guns, others were lying in a drunken sleep on the floor. Outside one could plainly hear the Swedish officer's commands.

"Set the house on fire, boys, we have them all in a trap!"

At these words the Jesuit jumped out of the window.

A hot but short skirmish began by the door. The peasants were overpowered in a few moments and begged for mercy. In reply to this appeal, the foremost were killed, and the rest taken prisoners and bound; the house and booty were taken, and Bertel and his mutilated comrade were released.

"Is it you, Larsson?" cried Bertel.

"Thunder and lightning, is it you, Bertel? Is it here you intend to leave the king's orders?"

"And yourself?"

"Yes, damn it, you know that I am always a lucky child! I was sent to guard a convoy, and met on the road some rascally marauders, who told me that there was an ambush in the forest. I hurried after them, and delivered a brave boy and a beautiful girl. Look at her: cheeks like a poppy, and eyes to buy fish with!"

Bertel turned round, and by his side stood a trembling girl, paralyzed with fear.

"This is Ketchen, Lady Regina's maid!" cried Bertel, who had often seen the bright girl in the company of her dull mistress.

"Save me, lieutenant, save me!" cried the girl, and caught hold of his arm. "They have taken me by force from my aunt's house."

"Larsson, I beg you to give me the girl!"

"What the devil are you thinking of? Do you want to take the girl from me?"

"Let her go free, I beg of you!"

"Later on, perhaps, yes. Let her go, I say, or..."

The hot-tempered Finn drew his sword again, with which he had just before killed a peasant.

"The cottage is on fire!" was heard from all directions, and a thick smoke proved that it was true. Bertel rushed out with the girl, and Larsson followed, and the heat of his temper gave way before the heat of the fire. When Bertel got outside and saw the flames, he remembered that the cottage was filled with people; about thirty peasants were bound inside.

"Come, hurry, let us save the unfortunate prisoners!" he cried.

"Are you mad?" said Larsson, laughing; "it is only a few of the rascals who have killed so many of our brave comrades. Let it burn, boys!"

It was now too late to help. The unfortunate Bavarians were sacrificed to the barbarities with which wars were then carried on; too often one terrible deed was followed by another.

We turn with disgust from these wild scenes, which essentially belong to the times in which they occurred, and hasten to the grand picture of the Swedish lion's last struggle.

The incidents of the campaign followed each other quickly, like wave after wave on a stormy sea, and history compressed into a narrow frame is obliged to pursue the same course. Hence we must hurry over these marvellous occurrences and into a still more extraordinary period, to find the thread of our story, "The King's Ring," which passes through ages and the destinies of great characters.

The terrible Wallenstein had become reconciled to the emperor, and gathering a formidable army, turned like a dark cloud upon the rich city of Nürnberg. Gustaf Adolf cut short his victorious career in Bavaria, and hurried to meet him; and here the two armies remained in entrenched camps facing each other for eleven weeks—the panther and the lion, ready to spring, sharply watched each other's movements. The surrounding country was stripped bare to provide for the wants of the two hosts, and foraging parties were constantly dispatched to more remote places to get supplies. Among the Imperialists those mostly employed in this task were Isolani's Croats; the Swedes generally sent Taupadel's dragoons and Stälhandske's Finnish cavalry.

Famine, heat, and plague, and the plundering German soldiers, spread want and misery everywhere. Gustaf Adolf, having united himself with Oxenstjerna's and Baner's forces, could now muster 50,000 men. On the 24th of August, 1632, he marched against Wallenstein, who stood behind impregnable entrenchments. Long before daylight the thunder of Torstensson's guns was heard against Alte Veste. In the darkness of the night 500 musketeers of the white brigade were climbing up the steep redoubts, and reached the tops under a terrible fire. For a moment victory seemed to reward their strenuous efforts; confusion reigned amongst the half-awakened enemy; the cries of the women, and the fire from the Swedes, added to the disorder, and made the attack easy. But Wallenstein, calm and unmoved, sent away the women, and directed a murderous fire on the assailants. The brave brigade was driven back with heavy losses. The king, however, would not give way; once more the white brigade renewed the attack; but in vain. Gustaf Adolf then called his Finns, for, as Schiller relates, "the courage of the Northmen puts the Germans to shame." It was the East Bothnians in the ranks of the Swedish brigade. Death stared them in the face in the form of hundreds of guns; with unsurpassed courage and determination they climbed up the entrenchments, slippery with rain and blood. But against these strong works and the deadly fire, nothing could prevail; in the midst of death and destruction they tried again to reach the top of the redoubts, but in vain; those who escaped the shot and pikes were hurled back; for the first time one saw Gustaf Adolf's Finns retreat; and the attempts made by the other troops were also in vain. The Imperialists hastened out in pursuit, but were driven back; again they sallied forth with the same result. With heavy losses on both sides the battle continued all day, and many of the bravest commanders were killed. The angel of death again sent a bullet towards the king, but it only touched the sole of his boot.

The Imperial cavalry fought with the Swedish on the left flank. Cronenberg, with his cuirassiers, clad in iron mail from head to feet, who were called "the invincibles," overthrew the Hessians. The Landgrave of Hessen remarked with anger that the king by the sacrifice of the German troops tried to save his own.

"Very well," said Gustaf Adolf, "I will send my Finns, and hope that the change of troops will bring a change of fortune."

Stälhandske, with the Finns, was now sent against Cronenberg and his invincibles. A grand contest, which will never be forgotten, then started between these two powerful forces; on the shore of the River Regnitz, which was covered with bushes, these troops met in conflict, man to man, horse to horse; swords were blunted on helmets, long pistols flashed, and many a brave horseman was driven into the river. The Finns' horses were hardier than the beautiful Hungarian chargers, and thus they shared in the victory. The brave Cronenberg fell, and his invincibles then fled from the Finns. In his place, Fugger appeared with a great force, and drew the Finns in continuous battle slowly towards the enemy in the forest. But here the Imperialists were met with the fire from the Swedish infantry. Fugger fell, and his horsemen were again routed by the exhausted Finns.

At the close of the day more than three thousand killed covered the hills and the fields. "In the battle at Alte Veste, Gustaf Adolf was considered worsted, because the attack failed," says Schiller. The following day he altered his position, and on the 8th of September he marched away to Bavaria. Forty-four thousand men, both friends and foes, had been destroyed by plague and war during these terrible weeks in and around Nürnberg.

* * * * *

The darkness of the autumn increased, and its fogs covered the blood-stained fields of Germany, and still the battles did not cease. Here it was ordained that only one great spirit should find everlasting rest, after many storms, and pass from life's dark night to eternal light. The angel of death came closer over Gustaf Adolf's noble head, and threw over him a gleam of light from a higher world, which is sometimes seen shining around the great souls of the earth in their last moments. The bystanders do not understand it, but the departing ones know what it means. Two days before his death, Gustaf Adolf received the homage of a god from the people of Naumburg, but through his soul fled the shadow of the coming change, and he said to the royal chaplain, Fabricius:

"Perhaps God will soon punish them for their foolishness, and myself also, the object of it; and show that I am only a weak mortal."

The king had marched into Saxony to follow the traces of the destructive Wallenstein. At Arnstadt he bade farewell to Axel Oxenstjerna; in Erfurt he said good-bye to the queen. There, and in Naumburg, one could see by his arrangements that he was prepared for what would come. Wallenstein, who thought he had gone into winter quarters, sent Pappenheim away to Halle with 12,000 men; he himself stood at Lützen with 28,000, and the king was in Naumburg with 20,000 men.

But on the 4th of November, when Gustaf Adolf heard of Pappenheim's departure, he broke up his camp and hurried to surprise his weakened enemy, in which he would have succeeded if he had made his attack on the 5th. But Providence had thrown in the way of his victorious career a small obstacle, the brook Rippach, which with many newly ploughed fields delayed his march. It was late in the evening on the 5th of November when the king approached Lützen; thus Wallenstein had time, and he knew how to make use of it. Along the broad road to Leipzig he deepened the ditches, and made redoubts on both sides, which he filled with his best sharpshooters, and it was decided that with their cross-fire they could destroy the attacking Swedes.

The king's war council advised him not to make the attack; Duke Bernhard was the only one who advised him to the contrary, and the king shared his opinion, "because," he said, "it is necessary to wash one's self perfectly clean once you are in the bath."

The night was dull and dark. The king spent it in an old carriage with Kniephausen and Duke Bernhard. His restless soul had time to think of everything, and then history says, he drew from the forefinger of his right hand a small copper ring, and gave it to Duke Bernhard, and asked him to give it to a young officer in his Finnish cavalry, in case anything should happen to himself.

Early in the morning Gustaf Adolf rode out to inspect the positions of his troops. He was dressed in a buff waistcoat made of elk's skin, and wore a grey great coat over it; when he was told to wear harness on a day like this, he replied:

"God is my armour."

A heavy mist delayed the attack. At dawn the whole army sang a hymn. The fog continued, and the king began another hymn, which he had written himself just before. He then rode along the lines, calling out:

"To-day, boys, we shall put an end to all our trouble;" and his horse stumbled twice as he said this.

The fog did not clear off till eleven o'clock through a strong breeze. The Swedish army at once advanced to the attack; under the king in the right wing was Stälhandske and the Finns, next came the Swedish troops; in the centre were the Swedish yellow and green brigades, commanded by Nils Brahe; on the left wing the German cavalry, under Duke Bernhard. Against the duke was Colloredo, with his strong cavalry, while in the centre was Wallenstein, with four heavy columns of infantry and seven cannon in front; against Stälhandske stood Isolani, with his wild but brave Croats. The war-cries on both sides were the same as at Breitenfeld. When the king ordered the attack he clasped his hands, and cried out:

"Jesus, help me to-day to fight for the glory of Thy Holy Name!"

The Imperialists started firing, and the Swedish army advanced and suffered heavy losses from the beginning. At last the Swedish centre passed the redoubts, took the seven guns, and routed the two first brigades of the enemy. The third was preparing for flight when Wallenstein rallied them. The Swedish left wing was attacked by the cavalry, and the Finns, who had sent the Croats and the Polacks flying, had not yet reached the redoubts. The king then rushed to the front with the troops from Smaländ; but only a few were well-mounted enough to follow him. It is said that an Imperial musketeer fired at him with a silver bullet; it is true that the king's left arm was smashed, and that he tried to conceal his wound; but soon he became so weak from loss of blood, that he asked the Duke of Lauenburg, who was riding by his side, to bring him unseen out of the battle.

In the midst of the conflict Gotz's cuirassiers rushed forward, and at the head of them was Moritz von Falkenberg, who recognised the king and fired point-blank at him, crying out:

"I have long sought for you!"

Soon afterwards Falkenberg himself fell from a bullet. The king was shot underneath the heart, and reeled in his saddle; he told the duke to save his own life; the latter had placed his arm around the king's waist to support him, but the next moment the rush of the enemy had separated them. The duke's hair was singed by the close discharge of a pistol, and the king's horse was wounded in the throat and staggered. The king sunk from the saddle, and was dragged a short distance along the ground; his foot caught in the stirrup. The young page, Leubelfingen, from Nürnberg, offered him his horse, but could not raise him up. Some of the Imperialists now came to the spot, and inquired who the wounded man was, and when Leubelfingen would not reply, one of them ran him through with a sword-thrust, while another shot the king through the head; others then shot at them, and both remained on the field. But Leubelfingen lived for a few days afterwards, to relate for the benefit of future generations the never-to-be-forgotten sad death of the great hero, Gustaf Adolf.

In the meantime the Swedish centre was driven back, the battlefield was covered with thousands of mutilated corpses, and they had not yet gained a foot of ground. Both the armies occupied nearly the same positions as before the battle. The king's wounded horse was then seen galloping between the lines, with an empty saddle, covered with blood.

"The king has fallen!"

As Schiller has so beautifully put it, "Life was not worth anything, when the most holy of all lives had ceased to exist; death no longer had any terror for the lowliest, since it had not spared this royal head."

Duke Bernhard flew from line to line, saying, "Swedes, Finns, and Germans, yours, ours, and Freedom's protector has fallen. Well then, those who love the king will rush forward to avenge his death."

The first to obey this order was Stälhandske, with the Finns; with great difficulty they crossed the ditches and drove the enemy in front of them; before their terrific onslaught all fell or fled. Isolani turned back and attacked the baggage train, but was again routed. The centre of the Swedish army advanced under Brahe, and Duke Bernhard, disregarding his wounded arm, took one of the enemy's batteries. The whole of the Imperial army was broken by this terrible attack; its ammunition wagons exploded; Wallenstein's orders, and brave Piccolomini's efforts, could not stay the rout. Just then a joyful cry arose from the battlefield: "Pappenheim is here!" and this leader, the bravest of the brave, appeared with his horsemen; his first question was, "Where is the King of Sweden?" Someone pointed to the Finns, and Pappenheim rushed to the spot. Here began a terrible battle. The Imperialists, filled with new courage, turned back and attacked on three sides at once. Not a man of the Swedes gave ground. Brahe died with the yellow brigade, who fell nearly to the last man; Winckel with the blue, died in the same order, man for man, as they stood in the ranks. The rest of the Swedish infantry slowly retreated, and victory seemed to smile on the destructive Pappenheim.

But he, the Ajax of his time, the man of a hundred scars, did not live to see success. In the first attack on the Finns, a falconet bullet smashed his hip; and two musket balls pierced his chest; it was also said that Stälhandske wounded him with his own hand. He fell, but still in death rejoiced over Gustaf Adolf's fall, and the news of his loss spread consternation amongst the Imperialists.

"Pappenheim is dead; everything is lost!"

Once more the Swedes advanced; Duke Bernhard, Kniephausen, and Stälhandske, performed prodigies of valour. But Piccolomini, with six wounds, mounted his seventh horse, and fought with more than mortal valour; the Imperialist centre held its ground, and only the darkness stopped the battle. Wallenstein retired, and the exhausted Swedish army encamped on the battlefield. Nine thousand slain covered the field of Lützen.

The result of this battle was disastrous to the Imperialists. They had lost all their artillery; Pappenheim and Wallenstein had lost their invincible names. The latter raged with anger; he executed the cowards with the same facility as he bestowed gold on the brave. Ill and disheartened he retired with the rest of his army to Bohemia, where the stars were his nightly companions, and treacherous plans his only solace; and his death from Buttler's hand was the end of his glorious life.

A thrill of joy passed over the whole Catholic world, because the faith of Luther and the Swedes had lost a great deal more than their enemies.

The arm was paralyzed which had so powerfully wielded the victorious sword of light and freedom; the grief of the Protestants was deep and universal, mixed with fear for the future. It was not for nothing that the Te Deum was sung in the churches of Vienna, Brussels, and Madrid; twelve days' bull-fighting gratified Madrid on account of the dreaded hero's fall. But it is said that the Emperor Ferdinand, who was greater than the men of his time, shed bitter tears at the sight of his slain enemy's bloody buff waistcoat.

Many stories circulated about the great Gustaf Adolf's death. Duke Franz Albert of Lauenburg, Richelieu, and Duke Bernhard, were all said to have had a share in his fall; but none of these surmises have been verified by history. A later German author tells the following popular story:

"Gustaf Adolf, King of Sweden, received in his youth, from a young woman whom he loved, a ring of iron, which he ever afterwards wore. The ring was composed of seven circles, which formed the letters Gustaf Adolf. Seven days before his death he missed the ring."

The reader knows that the threads of this story are tied to the same ring, but we have several reasons for saying that this ring was made of copper.

On the evening after the battle, Duke Bernhard sent his soldiers with torches to find the king's body; and they found it plundered and hardly recognisable under heaps of slain. It was taken to the village of Meuchen, and there embalmed. The soldiers were all allowed to see the dead body of their king and leader. Bitter tears were here shed, but tears full of pride, for even the lowest considered it an honour to have fought by the side of such a hero.

"See," said one of Stälhandske's old Finns, loudly sniffing, "they have stolen his golden chain and his copper ring; I still see the white mark on his forefinger."

"Why should they care about a copper ring?" asked a Scotchman, who had lately joined the army, and had not heard the stories which passed from man to man.

"His ring!" said a Pomeranian. "Be sure that the Jesuits knew what is was good for. The ring was charmed by a Finnish witch, and as long as the king wore it, he could not be hurt by steel or lead."

"But see to-day he has lost it, and therefore—you understand."

"What is that fruit-eating Pomeranian saying?" said the Finn angrily. "The power of the Almighty, and nothing else, has protected our great king, but the ring was given to him long ago by a young Finnish girl, whom he loved in his youth; I know more about this than you do."

Duke Bernhard, who, sad and sorrowful, was watching the king's pale features, turned round at these words; he put his sound hand underneath his open buff waistcoat, and said to the Finn:

"Comrade, do you know one of Stälhandske's officers named Bertel?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Is he alive?"

"No, your grace."

The duke turned to another and gave several orders abstractedly. A few moments later, when he again looked at the king, he seemed to remember something.

"Was he a brave man?" he asked.

"He was one of Stälhandske's horsemen!" said the Finn with great pride.

"When did he fall, and where?"

"In the last struggle with the Pappenheimers."

"Go and search for him."

The duke's order was promptly obeyed by these exhausted soldiers, who had reason to wonder why one of the youngest officers should be searched for this night, when Nils Brahe, Winckel, and many other old leaders were lying uncared for in their blood on the battlefield. It was nearly morning when the searchers returned and reported that Bertel's dead body could not be found anywhere.

"Hum!" said the duke discontentedly; "great men have sometimes funny ideas. What shall I now do with the king's ring?"

The November sun rose blood-red over the field of Lützen. A new time had come; the Master had left, and the disciples had now to carry out his work alone.

Silence reigned after the conclusion of the narrative; everyone was thinking of the great hero's fall, and not realising that the tale was ended. The old grandmother sat on the stuffed sofa in her brown woollen shawl, and near her the schoolmaster, Svenonius, with his blue handkerchief and brass spectacles. Captain Svanholm, the postmaster, who had lost a finger in the last war, was on the right; on the left pretty Anne Sophie, eighteen years old, with a high tortoise-shell comb in her long brown hair; and around them, on the floor or on stools, sat six or seven playful children, with mouths now wide open, as if they had heard a ghost story.

The first to disturb the silence was Anne Sophie, who sprang with a cry from her chair, stumbled, and fell into the schoolmaster's arms.

The entranced company, who were still at Lützen, were as much disturbed by this interruption as if Isolani's Croats had suddenly broken into the room. The postmaster, still in the midst of the battle, sprang up and trod heavily upon old grandma's sore foot with his iron heel. The schoolmaster was quite upset, not at all realising the value of the burden in his arms—perhaps the first and also the prettiest in his whole life; the children fled in all directions, and some crept behind the surgeon's high chair. But Andreas, who had just followed the Finnish cavalry in their charge over the trenches, seized the surgeon's silver-headed Spanish cane, and prepared to receive the Croats at the point of the bayonet. Old Bäck was undisturbed; he produced his tobacco box, bit off a piece, and mildly said, "What is the matter with you, Anne Sophie?" The latter freed herself, blushing and embarrassed, from the schoolmaster's arms, and declaring that someone had pricked her with a pin, looked around for the culprit.

Old grandma, always quick to scent out mischief, immediately practised a method, and discovered that Jonathan had inserted a pin at the top of his rattan, and therewith upset his eldest sister, with the results just indicated. The punishment, like that under martial law, was quick and short, and Jonathan had then to retire to the nursery, and learn an extra lesson for the next day.

When the principal power had thus restored order without bloodshed, the company began to talk of the surgeon's story.

"It is too violent a tale, my dear cousin," said the old grandmother, whilst looking at the teller with one of those mild and speaking glances, which captured all hearts with their expression of intelligence and sympathy; "altogether too turbulent. It seems to me that I still hear the noise of the cannon. War is frightful and detestable, when we consider all the blood shed on the battlefield, and all the tears at home. When will the day arrive when men, instead of destroying each other, will share the earth and our Lord's good gifts together in Harmony and Universal Brotherhood?"

Now the postmaster's martial spirit rose in arms.

"Peace? Share? No war? Pshaw! cousin, pshaw! would you make an ant's nest of the world? What a state of things! Scribblers would smother everything with ink; cowards and petty tyrants would sit on honest men; and when one nation domineered over another, people would lowly bow, thank them, and act like sheep. No; the devil take me! men like Gustaf Adolf and Napoleon move nations and things; they tap a little blood which has been spoilt by gross living, and then the world improves. I still remember the 21st of August, at Karstula; Fieandt stood on the left, and I at the right——"

"If I may interrupt the speech of my honoured brother," said the schoolmaster, who had heard this story one hundred and seventy times before, "I would prove that the world would progress much better through spilling ink than blood. Inter arma silent leges. In war times we could not sit here by the fire, and drink our toddy in Bäck's room; we should be serving a cannon on the ramparts; linstock in hand, instead of a glass; powder in our pouches, and not even a pinch of snuff. Ink has made you, brother, a postmaster; in ink you live and have your being; ink brings your daily bread, and what would you be with blood alone, and no ink, may I ask?

"What should I be? Devils and heretics ... I?"

"Cousin Svanholm!" said the old grandmother, with a warning glance at the children.

The postmaster stopped at once. The surgeon saw the necessity of re-establishing peace and concord.

"I think," he said, "that nations go through the world like the individuals of which they are composed. In youth they are wild and passionate, fight, rage, and tear each other to pieces. When older and wiser, they invent gunpowder, place host against host, and let them destroy each other in cold blood at long distances. Finally the world comes to reason, and seizes the pen which is very sharp when necessary. And then begins the reign of universal knowledge, which is certainly the best, according to my mind."

"It would be ... seven devils ... all right, cousin, I will be as quiet as a wall," said the postmaster. "I only ask what kind of a man was Gustaf Adolf? What kind of a man was Napoleon? Were they only birthday eaters of sweetmeats? What do you think? Were they fools or savages? I pray you. Do you hear, cousin? I do not swear, cousin; you should have heard Fieandt, how devilishly he swore at Karstula."

The surgeon continued, without paying any attention to the postmaster.

"Therefore, the youthful history of all nations begins with war, and the first soldier in the world's company was called Cain. But as war is as old as the world, it is likely to exist as long as it lasts. I do not believe in the new ideas about a perpetual peace. I believe that as long as human hearts retain selfish desires, the curse of war will prevail. Eternal peace consists in no longer fighting blindly, slavishly, as before, but with glad courage comprehending the reason why, and for a righteous cause; then one can hack away with right goodwill."

"Then we should always fight for an idea," said the schoolmaster thoughtfully.

"That's it, for an idea. It is to the honour of the Finnish soldier that with one exception he has always fought for the defence of his fatherland. Then he has gone out to fight on foreign soil; and our Lord has mercifully chosen that this should be for the greatest and most righteous cause of all, namely, to defend the pure Protestant faith and freedom of conscience for the whole world. The Finn was proud to know this in the Thirty Years' War. He felt within himself that his heart was the same as Gustaf Adolf's, who, I think, was the greatest general who ever lived, whilst he fought and won victories for one of the few causes that are worth bleeding for."

"Tell us more about Gustaf Adolf!" exclaimed Andreas, who could think only of that one name.

"Dear uncle, a little more about Gustaf Adolf," chimed in the rest of the children, who, with the greatest trouble, had been held in check by grandma's admonitions and sister Anne Sophie.

"Thank you. No. The great king is dead, and we will allow him to peacefully slumber in the royal vault of the church at Riddarholm, Stockholm. And if the story in future loses something from this, it will also gain something, namely, that the other characters will become more prominent. Hitherto, we have been compelled to almost exclusively fix our eyes on the heroic king, and grandmother was right in saying that we have been deafened by the thunder of the cannon. Thus, Lady Regina, and the Jesuit, and especially Bertel, who is the real hero, have all been kept in the background."

"And Ketchen," said the grandmother; "for my part, I would like much to know more of the good, charming child. I will leave Regina alone, but this I will maintain that such a black-eyed wild cat, who would tear one's eyes out at any moment, cannot come to any good."

"And the lordly Count of Lichtenstein, whom we have not heard of lately," added Sophie. "I am certain he will become Regina's betrothed."

"Aha! little cousin listens with delight to that part of it," said the postmaster with a sly smile. "But say, brother Bäck, do not busy yourself with sentimentalities; let us hear more about Stälhandske, the stout little Larsson, and the Tavastlander Vitikka. How the d——l did the man get along without ears? I remember to this day, that on the 21st of August, there was a corporal at Karstula——"

"Brother Bäck," interrupted the schoolmaster, "who has justitia mundi, the sword of justice in his hand, will not fail to hoist the Jesuit Hieronymus up to the top of the highest pine on the Hartz mountains."

"Take care, brother Svenonius," retorted the post-master maliciously, "the Jesuit was very learned, and knew a heap of Latin."

"I will tell you what I know about the Finns," said the surgeon; "but I assure you beforehand that it is altogether too little. Wait ten or twenty years longer, when some industrious man will take the trouble to glean from the old chronicles our brave countrymen's exploits."

"And what became of the king's ring?"

"Why, that we shall hear to-morrow evening."

Beyond the fertile plains of Germany a wild sea extends itself towards the north, whose shores are annually covered with the ice of winter, and whose straits have sometimes borne entire armies on their ice-bridges. For ages the surrounding nations have fought for the possession of this sea; but at the time of our story the greatest power in the north triumphed over nine-tenths of its wide shores, the Baltic had almost become a Swedish lake; stretching its mighty blue arms north and east, it folded in its embrace a daughter of the sea, a land which had arisen from its bosom, and elevated its granite rocks high above its mother's heart. Finland is the most favoured child of the Baltic; she empties her treasures into the lap of her mother, and the great sea does not disdain the offering, but withdraws lovingly and tenderly like an indulgent mother, that her daughter may develop, and every season clothes the shores with grass and flowers. Fortunate the land which lulls to sleep in its bosom the waters of a thousand lakes, and stretches one hundred and forty Swedish miles along the shore. The sea bears power, freedom, and enlightenment; the ocean is an active civilising element in the world; and a sea communicating nation can never stagnate in need and under oppression except by its own fault.

Far away in the north of Finland a region exists which more than any other is the fostered child of the sea, for from time unknown it has risen with a gentle slope from the waters. Numerous green isles rise along this coast. "In my youth," says the grey-haired old salt, "fine ships floated where now the water is quite shallow, and in a few years the cattle will graze on the former sea-bottom. The playing child launches its little boat from the beach; look around you, little one, and see well the point where the waters trace their edges; when you become a man, you will look in vain for your present strand—beyond the green fields you will hear their distant murmur; and when you are an old man, a village may appear on the spot once occupied by the waves." A strange region, where the towns built hard by deep sounds and tributaries, are twelve miles from the waters in two hundred years, while the keels and anchors of vessels are drawn up from the bogs fifty miles inland.

This region is East Bothnia; greater than many kingdoms, and extending to the verge of Lapland in the north, where the sun never sets at midsummer, and never rises during the Christmas darkness.

Nature is awake for three months of the year in an unbroken day, and then at midnight you can read the finest print; three months of night, but a night of moonlight and glittering snow—clear, cold, and solemn. The flower's beauty perishes sooner there than human joy; for seven months the plains are covered with snow and the lakes with solid ice; but never is spring more delightful than such a winter; still a melancholy mingles with this joy, which the heart well understands.

Two races live on the coasts of this land, unmixed and unlike; a variegated picture of national and local peculiarities of language and habits; one parish sharply contrasting with another. Certain common traits exist, however, which all present. It is not a historical accident that the greatest and bloodiest battles of Finland have been fought on the soil of East Bothnia.

Twenty-five miles east of Vasa, on the banks of Kyro River, is the rich Storkyro parish—the granary of East Bothnia. Here grows the well-known rye-seed, which is exported in large quantities to Sweden. The parish presents a plain of waving grain-fields, from which arose the saying, "that Storkyro fields and Limingo meadows have no equals in length and breadth." The people are Finns, of Tavastlandish origin in remote times. Their old church, built in 1304, is one of the oldest in the country.

We now ask our reader to follow us there. At the time of our story this region was badly cultivated, compared with later times. The ravages of the Peasants' War had retarded its growth, so that for a generation traces of this disastrous struggle were visible, whilst other wars, with heavy conscriptions, prevented time from healing these wounds. Hence, in the summer of 1632, many farmhouses still stood empty; the grain-fields did not spread far from the river banks, and unhealthy fogs covered the country when the nights were cool. The forests, then already thinned, still yielded fuel for the tar pits; part of the peasantry fished among the Michel Islands, and the worthy pastor, Herr Georgius Thomoe Patur, had not then, like his present successor, a yearly income of 4,000 silver roubles. Therefore the eye lingered with delight on Bertila's farmhouse close to the church, finer and better built than any of the others, and surrounded by the most fertile fields.

The summer had advanced to the middle of August, and the harvesting had just begun. More than sixty persons, men, women, and children—for the East Bothnian peasant women work the whole summer out of doors—were busily cutting the golden rye, which they gathered into sheaves and placed with skilful hands in high, handsome ricks. The day was hot, and the stooping posture of the work wearisome; so it often happened that the petted boys amongst the reapers threw longing glances at the soft grass round the edge of the field, which evidently seemed intended for a resting-place. At the same time they did not forget to look for the overseer, an old man in a loose, grey homespun jacket. Whenever anyone stopped, he heard his neighbour whisper, "Larsson is coming!" which had an instantaneous effect, like the stroke of a whip.

But Larsson, a small man, between whose bushy head and eyebrows a good-hearted look glanced forth, was now concerned with one of the women, who, on account of the heat and work, had sunk to the ground.

Judging from her features this woman was no longer young; perhaps about thirty-six; but to look at her slender figure, and the mild sympathetic expression of her blue eyes, she seemed no more than twenty. She exhibited a rare but prematurely faded beauty, with much suffering and resignation. She wore a fine white flannel jacket, which being thrown aside on account of the sun, showed sleeves of the finest linen, a red bodice, like the peasantry wore, with a short striped woollen skirt, and a little plaid handkerchief tied around her head, to support her long flaxen hair. She had worked hard, but her strength was insufficient; she had fallen with her scythe in her hand, and those nearest to her, with respect and love, had carried her to the soft turf, and tried with fresh water from the spring to bring her back to life.

"There now, Meri!" said old Larsson with fatherly sympathy, as he held the fainting woman's head on his knees and bathed her forehead with cold water; "there, my child, don't be foolish enough to die and leave your old friend; what joy would he then have on earth? ... She cannot hear me, poor child! Who ever had such a father as hers? To compel this delicate thing to work in such heat! ... Drink a little—that's right ... it is very good of you; now open your lovely eyes once more. Do not trouble, Meri; we will go to the house, and you shall not work any more to-day."

The pale and delicate creature endeavoured to rise and seize her sickle.

"Thank you, Larsson," she said in a low but melodious voice, "I am better now. I will work; father washes it."

"Father wishes it!" exclaimed the old man testily. "You see, I do not; I forbid you to work. Even if your father turned me out of doors, and I had to beg my bread, you should not work any more to-day. Well, well, my child, don't take it so hard; your father is not so foolish. He knows that you are not strong; you are like your dead mother, who was a lady by birth, and from your education in Stockholm ... There, there; let us go home; don't be obstinate now, Meri!"

"Let me go, Larsson; see, he comes himself!" cried Meri, tearing herself free and grasping the scythe, with which she again tried to mow the golden rye. But as she stooped down, it grew dark before her eyes, and for the second time she sank fainting between the waving stalks.

At that instant the efforts of all the workers redoubled; he approached in person, the severe and dreaded owner of Bertila farm. Like a gloomy shadow he came slowly along the path—a tall old man of seventy, but little bent by age. His costume was the same as that of the peasants in summer: wide shirt-sleeves, a long red-striped vest, short linen pantaloons, blue stockings, and bark-shoes. He wore a high pointed cap of red yarn on his white head, which made his tall figure still more imposing. In spite of his simple costume, his whole bearing was commanding. The decided carriage, sharp penetrating look, resolute expression, love of authority around the tightly drawn upper lip, indicated the former political leader and the rich and powerful land-owner, accustomed to rule over many hundreds of subordinates. Seeing this old man, one understood why he was known in many neighbouring parishes as the Peasant King.

Cold and calm, old Aron Bertila approached the spot where his only daughter lay in a dead faint.

"Put her in the hay-wagon and take her up to the house," he said. "In two hours she will be back to her work."

"But, Bertila!" exclaimed Larsson excitedly.

Bertila looked round with a glance before which the other quailed; then he stalked on through the field as if nothing had occurred, observing with a keen eye the labours of the reapers; here and there breaking off an ear and closely examining the number and weight of the seeds. From the barn the whole harvest-field was visible; it was new, and more than a hundred acres in extent. The old man looked with great pride on the waving sea of golden ears; his carriage became more erect, his breast expanded, as he beckoned Larsson to him.

"Do you remember this tract thirty-four years ago, when Fleming's cavalry scoured the country like savages, the village lay in ruins, and the fields were trampled down by the horses' hoofs. Here, close to the village, was the desert; naked, charred stumps stood between mud puddles and quagmires; no road or path led here, and even the forest wolves avoided the desolate spot."

"I remember it well," said Larsson in a monotonous tone.

"Look now around, old friend, and say. Who rebuilt this village, more lovely than ever before? Who tilled this wilderness, made roads and paths, measured the land, drained the morass, ploughed this fertile soil, and sowed this great field which now waves in the breeze, and will soon supply hundreds of human beings with its harvest? Say, Larsson, who is the man who did this mighty work?" and the old man's eyes flamed with enthusiasm.

But the little, plump person at his side seemed to be possessed with quite another feeling. He humbly took off his old hat, clasped his hands, and earnestly said,

"Nothing is he who sows; nothing is he who waters; God alone gives the growth!"

Bertila, absorbed in thought, heeded him not, and continued,

"Yes, by God! I have seen evil times, days of want, misery, and despair, which the sword brought upon earth, and I have myself drawn the weapon to destroy my enemies. I have had victory and defeat, both to my injury. Hence I can rejoice in the work of peace. I know the fruit of the sword, and what the plough produces. In the sword lurks a spirit of evil, which revels in blood and tears; the sword kills and destroys, but the plough gives life and happiness. You see, Larsson, the plough has made this field. Over at Korsholm is the Finnish coat of arms, a lion with a naked sword. Were I king, I would say, Away with the sword and take the plough. The latter is the true weapon of Finland; if we possess bread we have plenty of arms; with arms we can drive our enemies from our homes. But without bread, Larsson, what use is steel and powder to us?"

"Bertila," said Larsson, "you are a singular man. You hate war, but that I understand; in war they burnt your farm, and drove your first wife and her little children into the woods to perish. You yourself have fought at the head of the peasantry, and barely escaped the blood bath on Ilmola's ice. Such things are not easily forgotten; but what I cannot comprehend is, that you, a friend of the peasants, a soldier hater, first took me, an old starving soldier, as overseer on your farm, then equipped my Lasse—God bless the boy—for the war, and finally sent your own grandson, Meri's child, little Gösta,* yet beardless, to the field among the king's cavalry."

* From Gustaf.

Old Bertila's look darkened. Some sensitive chord had been touched, and he glanced around as if he feared a listener behind the barn walls.

"Who dares to speak to me of Meri's child?" he said in a low tone. "I know none other than my son Gösta, born of my second wife during the journey to Stockholm; and God be merciful unto you if ever ... Let us forget that matter. Why I took you? Why I sent your boy into the field? H'm! it does not concern anyone."

"Well, keep it to yourself; I know too much already."

"Tell me, if you can, Larsson, what constituents are required for an honest Christian Government?"

Larsson looked at him with surprise.

"I will tell you. The sword has two parts, the blade and the handle. Two forces are likewise necessary for the plough: one that draws and one that drives. And two forces united form a Christian Government, namely, the people and the king. But that which comes between brings discord and ruin; it arrogates to itself the king's power and the people's property. It is a monster."

"I know you hate the nobles."

"And therefore," Bertila laid an emphasis on his words, and uttered them with an almost ironical smile, which seemed to turn his meaning into a jest, "you see, my son must either be peasant or king; nothing more or less!"

Larsson looked at him with dismay. He had not imagined the depth of ambition which had hitherto glowed concealed in the old peasant's heart. He thought it the extreme of crazy presumption.

"You can certainly never hope," he timidly said, "that Meri's son, with his birth——"

The old man's eyes flashed, but the words were inaudible that came from his lips, as if he tried to struggle against an inner impulse, to express for the first and perhaps for the last time, the bold idea which had already for many years grown in his tempestuous soul.

"King Gustaf Adolf has only a daughter," he said finally, with a peculiar look.

"Princess Christina ... Yes."

"But the kingdom at war with half the world, after his death, needs a man upon the throne."

"Bertila, what do you mean?"

"I mean that in my childhood I heard King Erik's son, in spite of his peasant wife, Karin, declared the successor to the crown."

"Are you in your senses?"

Again an ironical smile played around the old man's lips.

"Do you not understand," he coldly said, "how it is possible to hate soldiers and aristocrats, and yet send one's son to war as the nearest road to distinction, under a king's eyes?"

"I beg of you, Bertila, put aside such wild fancies; you are a reasonable man when the demon of pride does not get possession of your restless mind. Your plan will fail; it must fail."

"It cannot fail."

"What! Not fail!"

"No! Have I not told you that Gösta must be either king or peasant? Either. I do not care. If he wishes to remain a peasant, so be it."

"But if he will not remain a peasant? Supposing he wishes to fight for a coat of arms, and becomes a nobleman? Remember, you have started him on the right road for that end; as an officer he is already an equal of the nobility."

Bertila seemed to be cogitating.

"No!" he cried, "it is impossible. His blood ... his education ... my will."

"His blood! Then you no longer remember that nobility is in it from both sides? His education! and you sent him to Stockholm at twelve, and allowed him to grow up amongst young aristocrats, whom he has constantly heard express themselves with contempt about the peasantry. Your will! foolish father to think that you can bend a youth's desires from the direction given to them by such powerful influences."

The old man remained silent for a time, then he said, coldly,

"Larsson, you are a credulous fool; I joke, and you take it seriously. I will answer for the youth. Let us say no more about it; but take care, not a word of what has passed! Do you understand?"

"I am your old friend, Bertila. Since the time when I, a horseman with Svidje Klas, helped you to escape from Ilmola, you have repaid me the service many times over; I shall never betray you. But, you see, I love your children as my own, and cannot bear to see you make the boy unhappy; and Meri ... are you a father, Bertila? How do you treat your child, your only daughter, who attends to your lightest wish, and does everything to atone for the fault of her youth? You treat her worse than any of your servants; you allow her frail and weak body to perform the hardest work; she sinks to the ground, and you do not raise her. You are cruel, Bertila; you are an inhuman father."

"You do not understand the matter," answered the morose old man. "You are too tender-hearted to comprehend what it means to go straight ahead without compunction. Meri, like her mother, has the fine lady in her, and that must be uprooted. She cannot become a queen; well, then, she shall be a thorough peasant. I have said what I think about the intermediate class, and now you know the reason for my actions. Come, let us return to the labourers."

"And Meri ... spare her to-day, at least."

"She shall work with the rest this afternoon."

The log-house of the East Bothnian peasant is now always more roomy, lighter, and more pretentious in its whole appearance than in any other part of Finland. It sometimes consists of two storeys, or has at least a garret; the windows are of good size; it it almost always painted red or yellow, with white corners, and occasionally possesses window shutters. The whole bears evidence of mechanical skill and comfort. The East Bothnian never builds such large and fine villages as the Tavastlander and the Abo peasants do, but in cases of necessity constructs good solitary farmhouses. At the time of our story the smoke-huts were in use by nearly the whole Finnish population; only peasants of Swedish origin used fire-places and regular chimneys. But even then one could see in East Bothnia, close to the coast, some buildings constructed in a more modern style, copied from their Swedish neighbours.

The newly settled towns had attracted the country people to the coast, and they had already begun to be accustomed to greater comfort; and the wealthier the peasant, the quicker his house and person assumed a more civilised aspect. It is true that the luxury, against which the laws of the sixteenth century so severely protested, was found only on the estates of the nobility and among the wealthy Abo burghers—but the home-brewed ale foamed over in the tankards of the peasants, and the Holland spices were produced from his cupboards for festive occasions.

Since the fires of the Peasants' War had destroyed the huts of Storkyro village, one could often see the Swedish and Finnish styles of building side by side. Bertila's farm was the largest and the richest in the village, and was built in the new style, with steps and a small verandah, and two small chambers beside the large room; one for the master of the family and one for his daughter. The rest of the people on the farm lived together in the large room, but in summertime the younger ones slept out of doors in the sheds and some in the lofts.

At this time one would not see the large clock, with its red and blue painted cover, which to-day is the chief ornament in every peasant's cottage. The long plain table with its high seat for the master, stood surrounded by benches on the sides towards the door. It was close to dinner-time, and in the big fire-place the porridge-kettle was boiling. The room was nearly empty, only a large cat purred on a bench, and a girl of fourteen stirred the porridge; and Meri was sitting by the fire with her work. Poor Meri had just recovered from her fainting attack, but she was still very pale. Her long golden hair fell down over her almost bare shoulders; her eyes were often shyly turned towards the door, as if she feared the sudden entrance of her father. She was knitting a girdle of the most beautiful colours, and sang at the same time an old Swedish song.

"This girdle with roses fair
Shall only my loved one wear,
When he from the perils of war
Returns to us from afar."

It has been said that Meri was no longer young. The traces which suffering had left on her finely formed features told of many a year of sorrow and pain; but at this moment as she watched the girdle, her face assumed an almost childish expression of delight. One could see that her work was a joy to her, and that she sang of someone much beloved and far away.

Her life with her severe father was full of hardship, and when she looked at the girdle she semed to read in its bright-coloured loops of a future full of joy and peace. In this girdle she lived, it was the same to her as the thought of her only joy—her idolized son.

Again she sang:

"I weave in beads so fine
For this dear beloved of mine,
And no king upon his throne
Shall the like of this girdle own."

Just then Bertila, her father, entered, followed by Larsson and all the rest of the working people. Old Bertila's looks were dark; he could not deny to himself that Larsson's predictions were only too likely to be true. His son a nobleman. This possibility was in his eyes a disgrace, and up to this time had not troubled his mind.

The last words of Meri's song had just died away. At her father's entrance she quickly concealed the girdle under her apron; but the suspicious eyes of the old man fathomed her secret.

"You are again sitting with your dreams, lazy thing, instead of serving out the porridge," he said in a sharp tone. "What have you underneath your apron? Out with it."

And Meri was obliged in the presence of them all to reveal the unfinished girdle—her dearest secret. Her father snatched it from her, looked at it for a moment with contempt, then tore it in two, and threw the pieces behind the oven.

"I have told you many a time," he said severely, "that an honest peasant woman has nothing to do with fancy work. Let us say grace."

The old man then clasped his hands in the usual way, and the rest followed suit. But before the prayer could be uttered, Larsson stepped to the middle of the floor, his naturally good-humoured face purple with rage.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bertila," he said, "to insult your own daughter in front of all the people! She works like a slave night and day, more than anyone of us, yet you call her a lazy thing! I tell you this straight in the face, that although you are my master, and I eat your bread, and without you I have nothing but the beggar's staff, that such an unrighteous father does not deserve to have such a good daughter; and rather than see this misery day after day, I will beg my bread. But you will have to answer before the Almighty for your children. And may you now say your grace, and let the food taste well to you if you can. Farewell, Bertila, I cannot stand this life any longer."

"Cast out the rascal who dares to speak against the master of the house," said Bertila with more than usual violence. No one moved. For the first time the peasant king saw his orders disobeyed.

"Dear master," began the oldest of the labourers, "we all think the same——"

A terrible blow from the master struck the speaker to the ground before he finished his remarks. In vain Larsson offered to go of his own accord; in vain Meri tried to mediate between the disputants. So strong were the principles of right in these people, that without consulting anything but their own convictions, they arrayed themselves as one man against the master's tyranny. Fourteen muscular men stood erect and resolute before the enraged Bertila, whose tall figure stood threateningly in the midst of the throng. One more blow, and they would all have left his service, and perhaps shut him up in his own little chamber until his anger had subsided; for the farther towards the north one goes, the more sensitive is the Finnish peasant to blows. Bertila, however, knew his people, and saw as a wise man that his anger had led him too far. He sought a means of getting out of the dilemma without too great a humiliation.

"What is it you want?" he asked with regained self-possession.

The workers looked at each other in silence for a moment.

"You are wrong, master," said one of the boldest at last. "You have insulted Meri for nothing. You wished to turn Larsson out of the house, and struck Simeon; you have done wrong."

"Meri, come here."

She did so.

"You are no longer a child, Meri. If you cannot endure to live with your aged father, then you are at liberty to stay on my farm at Ilmola. You are free—go, my child."

Bertila knew his daughter. These few words, "go, my child," pronounced in a milder tone than she was accustomed to hear, were sufficient to melt his daughter's heart.

"Do not reject me, father," she said, "I will never desert you."

These words made her defenders waver, and the old man saw his opportunity.

"Bring hither the catechism," he said in a commanding voice.

The fourteen-year-old Greta stepped forward as was the custom on sacred days, and read aloud:

"Ye servants obey your temporal masters with fear and trembling, in the simplicity of your hearts! Ye servants be submissive to your masters in all fear, not only the mild and good, but also the unworthy!"

These words, thus uttered at the right time, did not fail in their effect.

In these times the power and authority of father and master were at their zenith, and were not only by word, but in deed, a power by "God's mercy." The words of obedience heard from childhood, the old man's commanding tone, and Meri's example of ready submission to her father's authority, all combined to tone down the hot tempers of the rebels. They took their places at the table without another word. Only old Larsson stood sad and hesitating with his hand on the door-latch.

Suddenly the door was opened, and a stranger entered.

The new-comer was a soldier, in a broad-brimmed hat, decorated with a gracefully fastened eagle's plume. He wore a waistcoat of yellow wool, short top-boots, bore a cudgel in his hand, and a long sword hung at his side.

"By St. Lucifer," he said joyfully, "I have come at the right time. God's peace, peasants, make room at the table; I am as hungry as a monk during mass, and I am not able to go to the vicarage on this damned heath. Have you any ale?"

The old man in the high seat, who had not yet quite overcome his temper, although he appeared to be calm, rose from his chair, but at once sat down again.

"Sit down, countryman," said the old man softly; "Aron Bertila has room at his table for self-invited guests also."

"Very well," continued the new-comer, helping himself freely to the food, which seemed to be a familiar habit with him. "You are Bertila, then. I am glad to hear it, comrade. Confidence for confidence, I will now tell you that I am Bengt Kristerson, from Limingo, sergeant in his Majesty's brave East Bothnians. I am sent here to look after the conscripts. Some more ale in the tankard, peasants ... well, do not be afraid, girls, I will not bite you. Bertila," added the soldier with his mouth full, "what the deuce is this? Are you Lieutenant Bertel's father, peasant?"

"I do not know that name," replied the old man, who was nettled by the soldier's impudent remarks.

"Are you mad, old man? You do not know Gustaf Bertel, who six months ago called himself Bertila?"

"My son! my son!" cried the old man in a voice of anguish. "I am an unfortunate father! He is ashamed of a peasant's name!"

"Peasant's name," said the soldier laughing, and striking the table violently, so that the tankards and dishes jumped. "Do ye peasants also have names? I think I will go without mine. You are a fine fellow, old man; tell me what the d——l you want with a name?"

He then looked at his host with such an air of naïve impudence, that the insulting words were somewhat modified in effect.

Old Bertila, however, scarcely honoured him with a glance.

"Fool that I was! I sent out a beardless boy and thought that I sent a man," he gloomily said to himself.

But the sergeant, who had indulged in many drinks before, and had now seen the bottom of the jug, did not seem inclined to drop the subject.

"Do not look so fierce, old boy," he said in the same aggravating tone. "You peasants associate so much with oxen and sheep, that you become just like them yourselves. If you were a bit civil you would send a pretty girl to fill my jug. It is now empty, you see; as empty as your cranium. But you turnip-peelers do not appreciate the honour which is conferred upon you, of having a royal sergeant for guest. You see, old fellow, a soldier in these times is everything; he has a name that rings because he has a sword that rings. But you, old ploughshare, have nothing but porridge in your head and a turnip in your breast; fill your mug, old fellow; here's to Lieutenant Bertel's success! So you refuse to drink the health of an honest cavalier? Out upon you, peasant."

And the sergeant, in the consciousness of his dignity, struck the table with his fist, so that the wooden bowls jumped and seemed disposed to make for the floor with all their contents.

The first effect of this martial joke was to induce six or seven of the men to rise from their benches, with the object of giving the uninvited guest a salutary lesson in politeness. But old Bertila stopped them. He rose composedly from his seat, approached the rowdy sergeant with a firm step, and without saying a word, grasped him by the neck with his left hand, and with his right on his back, he lifted the soldier from the bench, carried him to the door and threw him out on a heap of chips outside the steps. The funny sergeant was so surprised at this unexpected attack, that he did not move a muscle to defend himself. If he had, it was not likely that the seventy-year-old man would have gained the victory in the struggle.

"Go," cried Bertila after him, "and keep your treatment as a remembrance of the peasants in Storkyro."

Nothing impresses the multitude so much as resolute courage combined with a strong arm. When the old man entered the room again he was surrounded by his people, who now greatly admired him; and this feat destroyed the difference which had existed a few moments before between them.

The conflict between the sword and the plough is as old as the world. The Peasants' War was based on this rivalry, and served to keep it fresh and alive in the minds of all. These independent peasants had not been subjected to the tyranny of the landed proprietors. They witnessed with delight their honour defended against the soldier's outrageous insults; they forgot at the moment that they might shortly be compelled themselves to don the soldier's jacket, and fight for their country. Even the old peasant chief, elated at his exploit, had surmounted his bad temper.

For the first time in a long while they saw a smile on his lips; and when the meal was over, he began to relate to them some of his former adventures.

"Never shall I forget how we cudgelled the rascal Abraham Melchiorson, the man who, here in Kyro, seized our best peasants, and had them broken on the wheel like malefactors. With fifty men he had gone up north. It was winter time. He was a fine gentleman, muffled up from the cold, and rode so grandly in a splendid wolf-skin cloak. But when he approached Karleby church we placed ourselves in ambush, and rushing upon him like Jehu, beat twenty-two of his men to death, and pommelled him black and blue; but every time he expected a rap he drew the wolf-skin cloak over his ears, so that no club could disable the traitor. 'Wait,' said Hans Krank, from Limingo, who led us on that wolf hunt, 'we will whip him out of his skin yet'; with this he drubbed Abraham so soundly that he was obliged to let go of his fine fur. Krank had nothing on but a jacket, and it was cold enough, God knows; he thought the fur cloak a good thing, and drew it unobserved over his own shoulders. But, as all this occurred in the twilight, we others did not notice who was now in the wolf-skin, and we kept on belabouring the cloak; it is very certain that Krank had a very warm time of it that evening. But Abraham Melchiorson became so light and nimble after getting rid of his cloak, that he ran off to Huso farm; but there he was taken by Saka Jacob from Karleby, and the rascal was taken to Stockholm; but he did not get much time to mourn over the loss of his cloak, for the duke soon made him a head shorter."

"Yes," said Larsson, who always tried to defend Fleming and his people, "that time you had the best of it. Eleven soldiers remained alive, but seeming to be dead, you took all their clothes. And at midnight they crept half dead with cold to the vicarage, and were there taken in; but in the morning you wanted to put them in the water underneath the ice, alive, as you had done in Lappfjard's River. You were wolves and not human beings. The water was so low in the river that you had to push the men down with poles to keep them there; and when they tried to get up, the women knocked them on their heads with buckets."

"Keep quiet, Larsson, you do not know all that Svidje Klas did," said Bertila angrily; "I say nothing about all the men that he and his people have killed and broken on the wheel. Do you remember Severin Sigfridson at Sorsankoski? He surrounded the peasants, and ordered his subaltern to behead them one by one; but he was not able to kill more than twenty-four, and asked the nobleman to finish the rest himself. The gentleman got angry, and ordered the peasants to cut the subaltern into five parts, and then do the same to each other as long as one remained alive."

"But what did you do, you mad brutes, on Peter Gumse's farm? Your men destroyed the place, broke the windows, slaughtered all the cattle, and set their severed heads with wide open mouths in the windows as a scare. Then the beams of the house were cut three parts through, so that when the folk came home it would fall upon their heads; and when you caught a horseman you used him as a target for your arrows."

"It is not worth while, Larsson, to try to take Svidje Klas' part. Do you remember when Axel Kurk's men came and killed a woman's children before her eyes? The poor mother could not stand this, she and her half-grown daughter seized the brute by the waist, hit him on the head with a pole, and pushed him fainting in the water. Svidje Klas then came and had that same woman cut in two."

"Loose talk, which has never been proven," replied Larsson gruffly.

"The dead keep silent like good children. The 5,000 killed at Ilmola do not speak."

"Instead of molesting the sergeant, you should have asked him for news about your son and mine," said Larsson, to get away from their usual contentious subject—the fatal Peasant War.

"Yes, you are right. I must hear more about the boys and the war. I am going to Vasa to-morrow."

"Will he soon return?" asked Meri in a shy voice.

"Gösta. He will take his own time," said the father angrily. "He has now became a nobleman; he is ashamed of his old father .... he blushes for a peasant's name."

Some miles south of Vasa, on the sixty-third degree of latitude, the Bay of Finland, which has hitherto gone straight north and south, makes a perceptible bend towards the north-east. The great blue Baltic following the same direction, narrows for a moment in the "Qvark," widens again, and leans its bright brow against Finland's breast. Freer there than anywhere else, the winds from the Arctic Ocean sweep over these coasts and drive the waves with terrible violence against the rocks. In the midst of this stormy sea, lie Gadden's bare flat ledges, with their warning lighthouse and far projecting reefs. When the mountain winds shake their wings over these breakers, then woe unto the vessel which, without a sure rudder and lightly furled sails, ventures through the narrow passage at "Understen"—its destruction is certain. But in the middle of summer it often happens that a slightly northern wind is the most welcome, and promises clear skies and fine weather. Then fly many hundreds of sails from the coast out towards "Qvark's" islands and reefs, to cast their nets for shoals of herrings; and the restless, murmuring sea dances like a loving mother, with her daughters, the green islands, resting upon her bosom.

With the exception of Aland and Ekenäs there is no part of Finland's coast so rich with luxuriant vegetation as "Qvark" and its neighbouring east shore. These innumerable islets, of which the largest are Wallgrund and Björkö, are here sprinkled about like drops of green in the blue expanse, and formed a parish by themselves called "Replotchapel," inhabited only by fishermen. So numerous are these groups, so infinitely varied the sounds, so intricate the channels, that a strange vessel could not find its way out without a native pilot at the helm. Thirty cruisers here would be insufficient to prevent smuggling; there is only one means of putting a stop to this inherited sin of the coast, and this method is a light tariff with but few prohibitions; Finland during later years has tried it with success and to her own advantage.

At the same period as described in the preceding chapter, therefore in the middle of August, 1632, the waters of the Baltic were divided by the royal man-of-war "Maria Eleonora," bound from Stockholm to Vasa to transport the recruits for the German War. It was a bright fine summer morning. Over the wide sea played an indescribable glitter, which was at the same time grand and enchantingry beautiful. A boundless field of snow, illumined by the spring sun, can rival it in splendour, but the snow is stillness and death, the shimmering waves are motion and life.

A slumbering sea in its resplendency, is grandeur clothed in the smile of delight; he is a sleeping giant, who dreams of sunbeams and flowers. Gently heaves his breast; then the plank rocks underneath thy feet, and thou tremblest not; he could swallow thee up in his abyss, but he mildly spreads his golden carpet under the keel, and he, the strong, bears the frail bark like a child in his arms.

It was immediately after sunrise. The monotonous silence of sea-life prevailed on board the vessel during the morning watch, as when no danger is feared. Part of the crew were still asleep below the deck, only the mate, wrapped in a jacket of frieze, walked to and fro on the aft deck. The helmsman stood motionless at the rudder, the man in the round top peered ahead, and here and there on the fore deck stood a sailor, fastening a loose rope end, carrying wood to the caboose, or polishing the guns which were to salute Korsholm when they entered that port.

The stern discipline of a modern man-of-war was at that time almost unknown. There were no uniforms or steam whistles, nor any of the complex signals and commands which are now carried to such perfection. Then a man-of-war scarcely differed from a merchant vessel, excepting in size, armament, and the number of officers and men she carried. When one remembers that at that time there was neither whisky or coffee on board to protect against the chill morning air—they had, however, already learned from the Dutch to use an occasional quid of tobacco for this purpose—then it is readily perceived that life on the "Maria Eleonora" bore very little resemblance to that on board one of our modern men-of-war.

By the green gunwale of the deck stood two female figures, with wide travelling hoods of black wool on their heads. One of these passengers was small in atature, and showed under her hood an old wrinkled face, with a pair of peering grey eyes; she had wrapped herself up in a thick wadded cloak of Nurberg cloth. The other figure was tall and slender, and wore a tight-fitting capote of black velvet lined with ermine. Leaning against the gunwale, she regarded with a gloomy air the fast receding waves left in the vessel's wake. Her features could not be seen from the deck; but if one could have caught her countenance from the mirroring waves, it would have exhibited a classically beautiful pale face, illuminated by two black eyes, which surpassed in lustre the shining wave-mirrors themselves.

"Holy Mary!" cried the old woman in strongly pronounced Low German, "when will this misery come to an end, that the saints have imposed upon us on account of our sins? Tell me, my little lady, in what part of the world we are now? It appears to me as if a whole year had passed since we sailed from Stralsund; for since we left the heretic's Stockholm I have not kept account of the days. Every morning when I rise, I say seven aves and seven pater nosters, as the revered Father Hieronymus taught us, as a protection against witchcraft and evil. One can never know; the world might end here, and we have now come far away from the rule of the true believing Church and Christian people. This sea has no end. Oh, this horrible sea! I now praise the River Main, which flows so peacefully underneath our turret windows in Würzburg. Say, lady, what if over there, on the horizon, the earth ends, and that we are sailing straight into purgatory?"

The tall slender girl did not seem to listen to her loquacious duenna. Her dark brilliant eyes under the black eyelashes were resting pensively on the water, as if in the waves she could read an interpretation of the dream of her heart. And when at times a long swell from former storms rolled forth under the smaller waves, and the ship gently careened, so that the gunwale dipped close to the water, and the image in the sea approached the girl on board, then a smile could be seen on her beautiful features, at once proud and melancholy, and her lips moved inaudibly, as if to confide her inmost thoughts to the waves.

"It is only the great and majestic in life that deserve to be loved."

Then she added, transported by this thought:

"Why should I not love a great man?"

And she whispered these words with unbounded enthusiasm. But instantly a shiver ran through her delicate frame, a bright flash shot from her dark eyes, and she said, almost trembling at the thought:

"It is only the great and majestic in life that deserve to be hated! Why should I not hate——?"

She did not finish the sentence. She bent her head towards the ground, the fire in her eyes disappeared, and in its place a tear was seen. Two mighty opposing spirits fought with each other in this passionate soul. One said to her "Love!" the other said to her "Hate!" And her heart bled under this terrible struggle between the angel and the demon.

It is unnecessary to mention what the reader has already divined, that the slender girl on board the "Maria Eleonora" was no other than Lady Regina von Emmeritz, the beautiful fanatical girl who tried to convert King Gustaf Adolf to the Catholic faith at Frankfurt-on-the-Main. The king who knew the human heart, considered with reason, that this religious enthusiast was capable of anything if left a prey to the Jesuit's influence. It was, therefore, not from revenge, which was unknown to this great heart, but, on the contrary, from noble compassion for a young and richly endowed nature, that he had sent her away for a time to a far-off country, where the black monk's influence could not reach her. The reader will remember that the king, on the night of the feast at Frankfurt, ordered the Lady Regina to be sent by Stralsund and Stockholm to the strict old lady Marta at Korsholm. The noble king did not know that the dark power, from whom he was trying to save his beautiful prisoner, followed her even to the far-off coast of Finland. Lady Regina had permission to choose one of her maids to accompany her; accordingly she selected the one in whom she had the greatest confidence; unfortunately this was not the bright and fair Ketchen—she had been sent back to her relations in Bavaria—but old Dorthe, who had been her nurse, and who was controlled by the Jesuit; for a long time this old woman had nourished the fanatical fire in the young girl's soul. So the poor unprotected maiden was still given up to the dark powers that had warped her mind since childhood, and perverted her rich, sensitive heart with their terrible teachings. And against this influence she could only place a single but mighty feeling: her admiration, her enthusiastic attachment to Gustaf Adolf, whom she loved and hated at the same time—whom she would have been able to kill, yet for whom she would herself have suffered death.

The shrewd Dorthe seemed to guess her mistress' thoughts; she leaned forward, and peering with her small eyes, said in the familiar tone which a subordinate in her position so easily assumes:

"Aye, aye.... Is that the way it stands; do they come up again, the sinful thoughts about the heretic king and all his followers? Yes, yes, the devil is cunning; he knows what he is about. When he wishes to catch a little frivolous girl of the usual kind, he puts before her eyes a young handsome cavalier, with long silken curls. But when he wishes to entangle a poor forsaken girl, with great proud thoughts and noble aspirations, he brings forward a great king, who gains castles and battles; and little does the poor child care that the stately conqueror is a sworn enemy to her Church and faith, and is working for the ruin of both."

Regina turned her tearful and glistening eyes away from the sea, and looked for a moment with indescribable doubt at her old counsellor.

"Say," said she, almost vehemently, "is it possible to be at once the greatest and the most hateful of human beings?"

Regina looked again towards the sea. The peaceful tranquility of the mornine lay over the glittering waters, and stilled the tempest within. The young girl remained silent. Dorthe continued:

"By their fruits ye shall know them. Just think, what evil has not the godless king done to our Church and us? He has slain many thousands of our warriors; he has plundered our cloisters and castles; he has driven out our nuns and holy fathers from their godly habitations, and the devout pater, Hieronymus, has been frightfully abused by his people, the heretic Finns; ourselves he has sent away to the ends of the earth..."

Again Regina looked over at the islands and the inlets bathed in the mild morning effulgence. While the dark demon whispered hatred in her ears, beaming nature seemed to preach only love. On her lips hovered already the ravishing thought:

"What matters it if he has slain thousands; if he has driven away monks and nuns; if he has forced us into exile! What matters all this, if he is great as an individual, and acts according to the dictates of his faith!"

But she kept silent from fear; she dared not break from all her preceding life. She caught up, instead, one of Dorthe's words, as if to dispel the thunder-cloud of hatred and malice, which enveloped her heart in its dark mist, in the midst of this calm and lovely scene.

"Do you know, Dorthe," she said, "that the Finns whom you hate live on the coast of this sea? Do you see that strip of land over there in the east? It is Finland. I have not yet seen its shores, and yet I cannot detest a country which is bathed by so glorious a sea. I cannot think that evil people can grow up in the heart of such a land."

"All saints protect us!" exclaimed the old woman, and her lenn hand hastily made the sign of the cross. "Is that Finland? St. Patrick preserve us from ever setting foot upon its cursed soil; my dear lady, you have then never heard what is said of this land and its heathen people? There prevails an eternal night; there the snow never melts; there the wild beasts and the still wilder men lie together in dens and caves. The woods are so thick with hobgoblins and imps, that when one of them is called by name, a hundred monsters immediately come forth from the leaves and branches. And among themselves, these people bewitch each other with all kinds of evils, so that when anyone carries food to another person, he changes his enemy into a wolf; and every word they speak takes life, so that when they wish to make a boat or an axe, they say it, and directly they have what they wish."

"You are drawing a fine picture," said Regina, smiling for the first time in a long period, for the freshness of the sea had a good influence on her dreamy soul. "Happy is the land where the people can create all they wish for with a word. If I am hungry, and desire a beautiful fruit, I have but to say, peach, and right away I have it. If I feel thirsty, I say, spring, and instantly a spring gurgles at my feet. If I have sorrow in my heart, I say, hope, and hope returns. And if I long for a beloved friend, I mention his name, and he stands by my side. A glorious land is Finland, were it such as you represent it to me. Even if we lived with wild beasts in a cave under the eternal snows, we would look at each other and say, Fatherland, and at the same moment we would sit hand in hand on the banks of the Main, beneath the shadows of the lindens, where we often sat when I was a child, and the nightingales of our native land would sing to us as before."

Dorthe turned angrily away. The vessel steered between the rocks and islands, and moved with gentle speed past the outermost cliffs, many of which now stand high above the surface of the water, but at that time these were washed by the briny waves.

"What is the name of the long, richly wooded stretch of land to the left?" asked Regina of the helmsman standing near.

"Wolf's Island," answered the man.

"There you have it yourself, dear lady ... Wolf's Island! That is the first name we hear on Finland's coast, and shows us what we have to expect."

The vessel now turned to the north, and sailed between Langskär and Sundomland, again veered towards the east, passed Brändö, went safely over the shoals, which now exclude large vessels from its waters, into Vasa's at that time superb harbour, and then saluted with sixteen cannon the castle of Korsholm.

When the rich Aron Bertila seated himself in his nice chaise to take a short journey to Vasa, it was decided, as a pledge of the restored good feeling between father and daughter, that Meri should take the seat by his side, and purchase in town some salt fish, hops, and certain spices, ginger and cinnamon, which already began to be seen in the houses of the wealthiest peasants. Both father and daughter had their private interests in the journey; but neither would confess that it was news from Germany which each sought. Larsson had charge in the meantime of the home work.

It was just when Gustaf Adolf and Wallenstein stood opposed at Nürnberg. Soldiers were badly wanted, and Oxenstjerna wrote constantly from Saxony to hasten the arrival of additional reinforcements. The harvesting at its height, clashed with the harvesting of war, also at its greatest altitude. A large number of conscripts were compelled to go down to Vasa from the neighbouring villages, then they were taken to Stockholm, and thence to the scene of war in Germany.

At that epoch military drill was not nearly so complicated as it is now; to stand fairly in the ranks, rush straight at the enemy on command, to aim well—as the East Bothnians had learned beforehand in the seal-hunts—and to hew away manfully, these were the chief things. Thus one can understand why many of these peasant boys, just taken from the plough, were able to fall with honour by the side of their king at Lützen.

The town of Vasa was then only twenty years old, and much smaller than now, not merely on account of its youth, but because all expansion was stopped on the south side by the crown fields of Korsholm. Around the old Mustasaari church, on the northern side of "Kopmans" and "Stora" streets, were a few rows of newly built one-storey houses, with six or eight small shops. Near the harbour stood storehouses, and that neighbourhood was also filled with fishermen's and sailors' huts in groups, for regular streets were considered superfluous by the architects of that time, and the closer the houses stood together, the greater the mutual protection in stormy periods.

A borough, like Vasa, held one common family, and the inhabitants looked with pride on the high green battlements of Korsholm.

The long-credited story, confirmed by Messenius, that Korsholm was built by Birger Jarl, and received its name from a large wooden cross raised as a symbol, refuge, and sign of victory, was founded on the old tradition that the great "Jarl," on his expedition to Finland, landed on this very coast. Later researches have thrown some doubt on this story of Korsholm's origin; but it is certain that the fortress is very old, so old that it is beyond calculation. It has never been besieged; its situation renders it of no importance to Finland; and after Uleä and Kajana castles were built, shortly before the time of our story, it had ceased to be considered a military position. It now served as the residence of the Governor of the Northern districts, to lodge other crown officials, and serve as a prison; and its so-called "dairy" yielded a nice income to the Governor. The Stadtholder of Northern Finland, Johan Mansson Ulfsparre of Tusenhult, lived only at intervals at Korsholm, and it is said that his seventy-year-old mother, Mistress Marta, ruled with a stern hand over both castle and dairy in his absence. Between the peasants and burghers an unnatural and injurious rivalry prevailed at that time, owing to the efforts of the Government to suppress the country trade for the benefit of the towns, and in a very ignorant way to regulate the exchange of commodities. Therefore, when the rich old peasant with his daughter drove in through the country toll-gate on the Lillkyro side, a few of the citizens, it is true, nodded a greeting to the well-known old man for the sake of his wealth; but the proudest amongst the merchants, who feared his influence with the king, gazed on him with hostile eyes, and gave vent to their ill-feelings in sarcastic words, uttered loud enough to reach the old man's ears.

"Here comes the peasant king of Storkyro!" they said, "and Vasa has no triumphal arch! He considers himself too good to thrash in the barn; he means to enter the army and become commander at once. Take care! Do you not see how angry he looks, the log-house king? If he had his way, he would plough up the whole town and make it into a rye-field!"

The hot-tempered Bertila concealed his resentment, and hurried up the horse, so as to arrive quickly at the widow's house, where he generally resided when in town. He had not gone far, however, up Kopman Street, which was not one of the widest, before it was blocked by a crowd of drunken recruits, who, in an ale-house near by, had inaugurated their new comradeship and strengthened themselves for the long journey ahead. Two sub-officers had joined the crowd as its self-appointed leaders, and rushed with a bold "out of the way, peasant!" towards the new-comer.

Bertila, already irritated and unable to control himself, answered the summons with a cut of the whip, which knocked off the foremost sub-officer's broad-brimmed hat with an eagle's feather. At once the affray began. The man struck rushed upon the chaise, and the whole crowd followed him.

"Aha, old fellow!" exclaimed the jovial serjeant, Bengt Kristerson, whom Bertila had so ignominiously expelled from his house, "now we have got you, and I will recompense you for your gracious treatment yesterday. Make way, boys; the old fellow is mine; this fish I will scale myself."

Bertila was too old to rely upon the power of his fists, and he looked around for a place of refuge. Whip in hand, he leaped from the chaise, which had stopped close to the entrance of a shop, and gave the horse a lash, so that the latter, chaise and daughter, rushed through the yielding crowd and galloped up the street. But before Bertila could find a refuge in the shop, the door was slammed in his face by the timorous owner. The old champion, seeing escape cut off, placed his back to the door, and menaced the assailants with his long whip.

"Let us thrash the proud Storkyro peasant," cried a young Laihela boy, who, by carrying a musket for a week, had forgotten his peasant origin, but not his rustic language.

"Your father was a better man, Matts Hindrickson," said Bertila contemptuously, "instead of assailing his own people, he helped us, like an honest peasant, to pommel Peder Gumse's cavalry in former days."

"Do you hear that, boys?" cried one of the subalterns; "the dog boasts of thrashing brave soldiers."

"We will not allow anyone to lord it over us!"

"The peasant shall dance to our tune!"

"And not we to his."

And five or six of the most excited, who had lately worn the jacket of the peasants themselves, rushed to drag Bertila down the steps. The old man would have got the worst of it, had not the aforesaid jolly sergeant thrown himself between him and the assailants.

"Hold on, boys!" cried Bengt Kristerson in a stentorian voice. "What the devil are you about? Are you honest soldiers? Do you not see that the old man is seventy years old, and yet you go six to one at him! Blitz-donner-kreutz-Pappenheim (the sergeant had learned this potent oath in the proper school, and it never failed in its effect), is that warlike? What would the king say about it? Out of the way, boys; the old man is mine; I alone have the right to wash him clean. You should have seen how he threw me down the steps yesterday like an old glove. It was a fine stroke, and now it has to be repaid."

Courage and magnanimity seldom fail. The nearest willingly gave way. The sergeant advanced to the steps. Bertila could reach him with his whip, but he did not strike. He knew his people.

"Do you know what it means, peasant," cried the sergeant with an authoritative air, which would have become General Stälhandske himself, "to throw a soldier of the great king down the steps? Do you know what it means to knock off the hat of a defender of the evangelical faith, and a conqueror who has gained fourteen battles and run his sword through sixteen or seventeen living generals? Do you know, peasant, if I were in your place——?"

"If I stood in the place of a soldier of his Majesty," coolly answered Bertila, "I would respect an honest man in his own house, and a grandsire's old age. And if I stood in the shoes of Bengt Kristerson, and had conquered the Roman Emperor, and run my sword through seventeen living commanders, still I would not forget that Bengt Kristerson's father, Krister Nilsson, was a Limingo peasant, and fell on Ilmola's ice like an honest fighter against Fleming's tyranny."

The sergeant was abashed for a moment. Then he stepped close up to his opponent, and said in a bragging manner:

"Do you know, peasant, that I could impale you on this?" and so saying, he drew his long sword half-way from its sheath.

Bertila looked calmly at him with folded arms.

"Are you not afraid, old man?" resumed the hero of fourteen battles, evidently taken aback by the peasant's firm attitude.

"Did you ever see an honest Finn afraid?" said the old man, almost smiling.

The sergeant was not malicious. He suddenly felt much inclined to be generous; his fierce mien changed into the blustering, jovial air which became him so well.

"Do you know, boys," he said, with a look at his companions, "that the old ox has got both horns and hoofs? He might have become something in the world if he had been in good society. Yesterday, when they were fourteen to one—for you should know, boys, that all fourteen of the hands helped to lift me on the clodhopper's back, and then I gave everyone of them a remembrance of it—yes, as I say, yesterday I would have beaten the old fellow black and blue, had it not been for the presence of ladies at the table. But to-day we are fifteen against one, and so I propose that we let the old fellow go."

"He is as rich as Beelzebub," shouted some of the conscripts; "he shall treat us to a cask of ale."

Bertila produced a little purse, and threw some Carl IX. silver coins contemptuously among the crowd. This irritated the soldiers afresh; and again the storm threatened to burst forth, when suddenly cannon-shots were heard, and the whole crowd rushed down to the harbour. It was the Swedish man-of-war, "Maria Eleonora," saluting Korsholm.

All who had life and sound limbs in Vasa had gone down to the shore, to see the uncommon sight of a man-of-war. Five or six hundred people lined the shore—rowed out in boats, climbed the masts of the vessels, or got on the roofs of the warehouses to get a better view.

Two hundred recruits regarded with mixed feelings the vessel which was perhaps destined to take them from their Fatherland for ever. Behind them stood a large crowd of mothers, sisters, and sweethearts, crying bitterly at the thought of the approaching separation.

The Commissary-General, Ulfsparre, was away in Sweden. The next authority, Steward Peder Thun, as well as the military commander, received the new-comers; the recruits formed in ranks, and the captain of the "Maria Eleonora" offered his arm courteously to Lady Regina, to escort her to Korsholm. But at this moment the proud young girl felt that she was a prisoner; she declined the officer's arm, and walked alone with a royal bearing between the ranks of the recruits and the gaping crowd.

Such a strange sight put the whole town in a great commotion. In a moment the strangest rumours about her arose and spread.

"She is an Austrian princess," said some; "the Emperor's daughter, taken prisoner during the war, and sent here for safety."

Others pretended she was the Queen Maria Eleonora; but why did she come to Korsholm?

"I will tell you," said one, whispering with an important air to another. "She is in league with her German countrymen against the king, and therefore she is to be confined in remote Korsholm."

"That is not true," rejoined another, who had heard some vague stories of the conspiracies against the king's life. "It is," added he in a low voice, as if fearing to be heard by the object of his remarks, "a nun from Walskland, hired by the Jesuits to make away with the king. Six times she has given him deadly poison, and six times he has been warned in dreams not to drink. When she offered him the draught for the seventh time, the king drew his sword and forced her to swallow her own poison."

"Then how can she be here alive?" said an old lady very innocently.

"Alive!" repeated the story-teller, without being put out in any degree; "oh, that is another matter. These creatures can dissemble to such an extent... Yes, indeed; do you remember the Hollanders last year, how they bolted molten lead? I do not wish to say anything, but just look—the black-haired nun is as pale as death!"

"Has she given the king poison?" cried a trembling female voice close behind.

It was Meri, who with bated breath had listened to every word.

"What rubbish!" said a sea-captain with a mysterious knowing air. "When I was at Stralsund, last spring, I saw those eyes, which one cannot easily forget. The girl was then taken to Stockholm, and one of the guards told me the entire story. She is a Spanish witch, who has sold herself to the evil one, in order to be the most beautiful woman on earth for seven years. Look at her: do you not see that the devil has kept his word? Take care; in those eyes there is something that charms and bewitches. When she became as beautiful as she is now, she entered the Swedish camp, and gave the king a love-potion, so that he could neither see or hear anyone else but herself for seven whole weeks. His generals thought this a sin and shame, and the enemy pressed them sorely; so one night they took her secretly and sent her to spend the seven enchanted years at Korsholm."

"Did the king love her?" asked Meri with emotion.

"Of course he did," answered the blunt sea-captain.

"Did she also love the king?"

"What is there more curious than a woman? How the deuce do you expect me to know all about it? The foul-fiend is wiser than other folks, that is certain. She gave the king a copper ring..."

"With seven circles inside each other, and three letters engraved on the plate..."

"What the devil do you know about that? I have heard of the seven circles, but not of the plate."

Meri took a deep breath. "He wears it still!" she said to herself with a great joy.

Meri was superstitious, like all the people of that period. She never doubted the existence of witches, enchantments, and love potions; but this strange dark girl, who loved the king and was beloved by him in return ... was she really guilty of the horrible things they said about her? The poor forgotten one was seized with the most violent wish to approach this extraordinary being, who had been so near the great monarch. Each moment was precious. In a few hours she must return to Storkyro. She took heart and followed the stranger to Korsholm.

The old residence inside the ramparts, in spite of its fine outlook, was more sombre than magnificent. Frequent changes of Stadtholders, who only lived there a little while at a time, had given to the double-storied granite building, with its side wings for prisoners, a terribly deserted appearance. It certainly more resembled a jail than a great governor's residence. The dreariness was increased by its present inhabitants, stern Fru Marta, with her aged maid-servants, some invalid soldiers, and gruff jailors. Had Gustaf Adolf recollected the condition of the place, he would probably not have sent his young prisoner to such a depressing abode.

Fru Marta expected her guest, who had been described to her as a dangerous and depraved young person, of superhuman cunning. She had, therefore, prepared a little dark chamber within her own for Lady Regina and her attendant, and made up her mind to keep the closest watch on the wild young lady. Fru Marta was a good, honest soul, but sharp and severe like a lady of the old school, who had brought up all her children with the rod. It never entered her mind that a lonely, defenceless, and forsaken young girl, isolated in a strange land, needed a comforting, sympathetic hand and motherly kindness; Fru Marta felt that discipline ought to tame a spoilt child, and then milder treatment could be introduced.

When Lady Regina, accustomed to the freedom of the sea, entered this gloomy dwelling, an involuntary shudder passed through her slight frame. This feeling remained when she was received on the threshold by the old lady, in a close linen cap and a long dark woollen cloak.

No doubt Lady Regina's inclination of the head was somewhat stiff, and her whole bearing somewhat reserved, when she greeted Fru Marta on the castle steps. But Fru Marta was not intimidated by it. She took the young girl by both hands, shook them vigorously, and nodded a greeting, about half-way between a welcome and a menace. Then she surveyed her guest from head to foot, and the result of the examination was muttered aloud:

"Figure like a princess ... no harm; eyes black as a gipsy's ... no evil; skin as white as milk ... no mischief; proud ... ah, ah, that is bad; we shall be two about that, my young friend."

Regina impatiently made a motion to proceed, but Fru Marta did not let go her hold.

"Wait a bit, my dear," said the stern dame, as she endeavoured to recollect her ancient stock of German words; "it takes time to go a long way. One who crosses my threshold must not be taller than the door-post. Better to bend in youth than creep in old age. There ... that's the way for a young girl to greet one who is older and wiser..."

And before Lady Regina knew it, the strong old lady had put her right hand on her neck, her left against her waist, and with a sudden pressure, forced her proud guest to bow as deeply as one could desire.

Lady Regina's pale cheeks were covered with a flush as red as the sunset sky before a storm. More erect and prouder than before rose the girl's slender figure, and her dark eyes flashed fire. She said nothing, but old Dorthe was determined to give Fru Marta a lesson in politeness on her mistress' behalf. She advanced with lively southern gesticulations, and screamed, beside herself with anger:

"Miserable Finnish witch, how dare you treat a high-born lady in such a manner? Do you know, vile jailor, whom you have the honour of receiving in your house? You do not! Then I will tell you. This is the exalted Lady Regina von Emmeritz, née Princess of Emmeritz, Hohenloe, and Saalfield, Countess of Wertheim and Bischoffshöhe, heiress of Dettelsbach and Kissingen, &c. Her father was the Prince of Emmeritz, who owned more castles than you, miserable wretch, have huts in your town. Her mother was Princess Würtemberg, related to the Electoral House of Bavaria, and her still living uncle, the Right Reverend Bishop of Würzburg, is lord of Marienburg, and the town of Würzburg, with all the lands belonging to it. You take advantage of us because your heretic king has taken our land and town, and made us prisoners; but the day will come when St. George and the Holy Virgin will descend and destroy you, you heathen; and if you harm a hair of our heads, this castle shall be levelled to the ground, and you, miserable witch, and your whole town, annihilated ..."

It is probable that old Dorthe's outpourings would not have come to an end for some time, had not Fru Marta made a sign to her servants, at which they carried off the old woman without any ceremony, and in spite of her strenuous resistance, to one of the small rooms on the lower floor, where she was left to herself to further reflect upon the high lineage of her young lady.

But Fru Marta took the astonished Regina, half by force, half voluntarily, by the arm, and led her to the allotted room near her own, with a view over the town. Here the stern old lady left her for the present, yet not without adding the following admonitions at the door:

"I can tell you, my young friend, to obey is better than to weep; the bird that sings too early in the morning is in the claws of the hawk before evening. Follow the laws of the country you are in. It is now seven o'clock. At eight supper is served, at nine you go to bed, and at four in the morning you get up, and if you don't know how to card and spin, I will give you some sewing, so that time shall not hang heavy on your hands. Then we will talk together, and when your waiting woman learns to hold her tongue you may have her back again. Good night; don't forget to say your prayers; a psalm Prayer Book lies on the dressing-table."

With these words Fru Marta shut the door, and Lady Regina was alone. Solitary, imprisoned, in a foreign land, left to the mercy of a hard keeper ... her thoughts were of the most depressing kind. Lady Regina fell on her knees, and prayed to the saints, not from the heretic Prayer Book, but with the rosary of rubies which her uncle, the bishop, had formerly given her as sponsor. What did she pray for? Only Heaven and the black walls of Korsholm know that; but a sympathetic heart can imagine her petitions. She prayed for the saints' assistance; for the victory of her faith and the downfall of the heretics; she prayed also that the saints might convert King Gustaf Adolf to the only saving Church; that he, another Saul, might become another Paul. Finally she prayed for freedom and protection ... the hours fled; her supper was brought in, and still she continued her supplications.

At last Lady Regina arose and looked out of the little window. There lay a landscape in the sunset glow; it was not Franconia, with its luxuriant vineyards; it was not the rushing Main; the town yonder was not rich Würzburg, with its rows of cloisters and high turret spires. It was poor, pale Finland, with an arm of its sea; it was young little Vasa, with its church, Mustasaari, the oldest in East Bothnia; one could plainly see the reflection of the sun on the small Gothic windows, of stained glass belonging to Catholic times, and it seemed to Regina as if she saw the transfigured saints looking out from their former temple. And at this moment, had not the eye of the setting sun itself such a beatific look, as it serenely gazed down upon the world's strife! All was silent and still—the evening glow, the landscape's pretty verdure, the newly mown fields with their rows of sheaves, the small red houses with their shining windows—all conduced to devotion and peace.

Suddenly, Lady Regina heard in the distance a mild, plaintive song, simple and unaffected, as if proceeding from nature's own heart, on a lonely evening, with a setting sun on the shore of a silent sea, when all sweet memories awaken in a longing breast. At first she did not listen, but it came nearer ... now it was obstructed by a cottage wall, now by a group of hanging birches; now it was heard again, high, clear, and free; and finally one could distinguish the words.

When the lonely singer approached one could gradually understand the import of the song. It was a gentle heart, which sang in uneven but impressive numbers, its longings and its sorrows on the shore in the glow of a beautiful August evening far off in the north country.

"The sun shines bright and clear
    O'er the waters far and near,
And the moon wanders in the night
    Above in the heavenly sphere.
But never again will the sun supreme
    Shine down on the forgotten troth,
And never again shall the gentle moon's beam
    Illumine the brave knight's holy oath.

"The only one I loved so dear
    Lives far away in a palace fine,
Surrounded by splendour he leaves me here
    Alone with grief and sorrow mine.
He is served by many, I have but one knight,
    He has castles, towns, and land.
I spread my pearls in the evening light
    And sing to the waves on the strand.

"The bird flies to the south so fair,
    Far away to the castle grand,
And sings on the tree a sorrowful air,
    As I in my lonely land.
The brave knight listens to the song,
    How strangely his heart doth beat,
And before one knows the evening long
    Hath gone like the joys that never repeat."

The more Lady Regina listened to the simple strains, which to her were foreign and strange, and yet appealing through their deep melancholy, the more she was affected by this sorrow so like her own. She wished to breathe the fresh evening air; the little window, however, long resisted her attempts to open it, but all Lady Marta's prudence could not prevent the hinges from being old and rusty, and at last they yielded to the young girl's persistent efforts. She had only been a guest in this castle for a few hours, and yet she inhaled the evening fragrance as a prisoner for long years finally breathes the air of his freedom. Her heart expanded and her eyes regained their fire; her mind became filled with a dreamy ecstasy, and she sang softly, so as not to be heard by her custodian, but clearly and melodiously.

REGINA'S SONG.

"Great as my sufferings are
Still to thee I will repair.
Holy Virgin, wilt thou bless
What to thee I now confess,
My soul's desire sincere
To die without fear.

"Amongst the kings of the earth
My loved one hath his birth,
Far flash his dread strokes
As the Almighty's lightnings rend the oaks.
But victor and conqueror tho' he be
Yet mild and merciful is he.

"I'll all forget, and firmly stand,
If you give me the dread command
To stop the hero's great career.
O holy Virgin, bright and dear,
God's mother, thou me hear,
Spare the noble heart that knows no fear.

"Make the heretic king his faults forswear,
And that he will our glorious faith declare.
Then my weary heart will gain its rest.
O Mary, grant me this request,
Spare his life, his throne,
Let me with my death for his crime atone."

The solitary figure which had sung the first song now slowly approached the castle walls; it was a woman of the people, with once beautiful features, now pale and expressing a winning and sympathetic heart. She tried to listen to the strange girl's song, but could not succeed on account of the foreign language and suppressed tones. She then seated herself on a stone a short distance from the castle, and fixed her mild gaze on the prisoner at the window. In her turn, Regina also fastened her dark penetrating eyes on the visitor. One would think that they perfectly understood each other, for the language of songs needs no other lexicon than the heart. Or did a presentiment tell them, the girl of seventeen and the woman of thirty-six, that their loves were concentrated on the same object, and that both sang their shipwrecked hopes on the lonely shore, but in an infinitely differing way?

Up in the north the summer nights are clear until the beginning of August, then a light veil spreads itself over land and sea as soon as the sun goes down. By the middle of August this veil has already become thicker, and casts a mild soft shade over the summer leaves and grass. When the moon rises upon this world of vanishing green, then there is nothing more sadly beautiful to be found in all nature than one of these lovely evenings in August. Then the eye accustomed to three months unbroken day, shrinks from the darkness and yet sees this darkness in its loveliest aspect, like a mild sorrow softened by a ray of heavenly glory. This impression would return every year even if one lived for centuries; it is light and darkness which at the same moment are struggling in the world and in the human heart.

The two lonely singers felt the power of this impression; they both sat fixed and mute, quietly regarding each other in the twilight; neither of them spoke, and yet they understood each other's inmost thoughts.

Then the pale woman suddenly rose and turned her face towards the town. She seemed to be listening to a noise which disturbed the holy peace of the evening.

Lady Regina followed every movement of the stranger, and leaned out of the window so as to be able to see better. All nature was calm and silent, only the strokes of oars were heard from the sea, or the melancholy prolonged note from some shepherd's horn. This stillness increased by the first darkness of the autumn, had something solemn and inviting to worship about it, and made the noise which now came from the distant town still more singular. It was not the surges of the sea, or the roar of the fors,* or the crackling of a fire in the wood. Although it resembled all these. It was more like the murmur of an enraged populace, at once actuated by rage and want. Directly afterwards the reflection of a fire was seen afar off in the northern portion of the town.

* Fors, a stream peculiar to the north, like rapids.

With the speed of the wind the lonely woman outside the wall hurried away in the direction of the sounds and light .... We will now precede her for a moment.

The arrival of the man-of-war, which was destined to transport the conscripts, had placed the latter in a state of excitement much augmented by sorrow, pride, and ale. With their under officers at their head, they had thronged around the ale-shops, and at this time, when the soldier was all important, one was often obliged to overlook his irregularities and keep him in a good humour. The superior officers consequently pretended not to notice that 200 young men, with the combative temperament of East Bothnia, were in a state of intoxication more or less; and it is possible that this policy might have been the right one at the time, had not a special circumstance detrimental to peace brought their unrestrained passions into full play.

The brave sergeant, Bengt Kristerson, did not neglect this opportunity to do himself every possible justice. Filled with a sense of his own great importance, he had jumped on a table and easily demonstrated to the crowd of conscripts: first, that he especially had conquered Germany; secondly, that long before this he would have driven the Emperor Ferdinand into the River Danube, had not the latter been in league with Satan and bewitched the whole Swedish army, and the king himself first of all; thirdly, that Bengt, on the night of the Frankfurt ball, was on guard outside the king's bed-chamber, and there he had plainly seen Beelzebub in the form of a young girl, who then made a terrible commotion; fourthly—this thought naturally struck him during his inspired address—that the weal or woe of the country, yes, of the whole world, depended upon the witch, who was a prisoner at Korsholm...

"You will see that the black-haired witch will bring the plague to the town," observed thoughtfully a Malax peasant, with very fair hair and shabby appearance.

"The wolf-cub!"

"The king's murderess!"

"Shall we allow her to sit in peace and destroy both king and country with her witch-shots?" cried a drunken clerk of assizes, who had just joined the company.

"Let us duck her in the sea!" shrieked a Nerpes peasant.

"Let us club her on the spot!" yelled a Lappo cottager, with an eagle nose and dark bushy eyebrows.

"And if they do not give her into our hands, we will set fire to Korsholm and burn the owl and the nest at the same time," said a ferocious Laihela peasant.

"Better that, than to have the kingdom ruined," remarked a grave-looking seal-hunter from Replot.

"Here, take brands!" shouted a Worä peasant.

"To Korsholm!" cried the whole crowd. And stimulated as usual by their own clamour, they rushed to the big open fire-place in the large room, and pulled out all the brands from it. But, unfortunately, there was a lot of hemp hanging in bundles on the wall in the room. One of the conscripts in the scramble swung his brand too high, and the hemp caught fire; the strong draught from the open door fanned the flame, and in a few minutes the ale-house was in full blaze.

All inside rushed out, and no one had time to realise how it happened.

"It is a witch-shot!" cried some of them.

"The witch at Korsholm will have to pay for all this!" shouted the others.

And the whole raging mass rushed off at full speed towards the old castle.

As soon as Meri—for she was the lonely singer—understood the wild crowd's intention, she flew back to Korsholm. By the silver rays of the moonlight, which shone over the landscape, she plainly distinguished Regina's dark locks, which, blacker than the night, stood in relief from the room in the background, like a shadow in the midst of the shade. Under these locks shone two eyes, dreamy, deep, like the glimmer of the stars in the dusky mirror of a lake. The words died on Meri's lips; all the strange rumours rose like spectres in her mind. She who sat up there alone at the window, was she not, after all, a southern witch, weeping over her fate in being compelled to spend the seven years of her wondrous beauty within these walls, and then reassume her normal shape; a terrible monster, half-woman and half-serpent?

Meri stood as if petrified at the foot of the wall.

But nearer and nearer was heard the murmur of the wild crowd, and the light of the torches began to be reflected on the castle. Then the superstitious countrywoman gathered courage, and raised her voice to the window.

"Fly, your grace," she said rapidly in Swedish; "fly, a great danger threatens you; the soldiers are intoxicated and frantic; they say that you have tried to kill the king, and they demand your life."

Regina saw the pale form in the moonlight, and before her imagination rose all the stories she had heard about this land of witchcraft. During her ten months' stay in Sweden she had in some degree learned to understand the language; she did not immediately comprehend the other's meaning, but a single word sufficed to attract all her attention.

"The king?" she repeated in broken Swedish. "Who are you, and what can you tell me about the great Gustaf Adolf?"

"Lose not a moment, your grace," continued Meri, ignoring Regina's question. "They are already at the gates, and Fru Marta, with six soldiers, will not be able to protect you against two hundred. Quick! don't come out by the door, but tie together sheets and shawls, and let yourself down through the window; I will receive you."

Regina saw that a danger threatened, but far from being terrified by it, she heard it with a secret joy. Was she not a martyr to her faith, transported to this wild land for her zeal in trying to convert the mightiest enemy of her Church? Perhaps the moment was at hand when the saints would grant her a martyr's-crown, richly earned by her devotion. Was it not the tempter himself, who in this pale woman's form, tried to lure her from an imperishable glory?

And Regina answered:

"And Satan saith unto Him: 'Cast Thyself down: for it is written, He shall give His angels charge concerning Thee, that they may preserve Thee, so that no harm may befall Thee...'"*

* Compare Matthew iv. 6, where the Lutheran text differs from the Catholic.

At these words the moon appeared round a corner of the wall and threw its pale beams on the beautiful girl's face. Her cheeks glowed, and her eyes burned with an ecstatic fire. Meri looked at her with wonder and dread ... and again it seemed to her that it was not well with a being, who possessed such a singular appearance, and uttered such strange sounds from her lips. An overwhelming fear seized her, and she fled, without knowing why, back to the town.

In the meantime Regina heard the murmur from the castle yard up in her chamber. The drunken horde had been checked by a stout gate, and stood clamouring outside, threatening to burn down the fortress, unless the witch was immediately given up to them. But Fru Marta, just awakened from a sound sleep, was not one easily scared. She had been in more than one siege in her younger days, and understood like a wise commander, that a fortress does not fall at big words.

"One who gains time, gains all," she thought, and therefore began to negotiate about the capitulation, wishing to know what the besiegers especially wanted, and why they wanted it. In the meantime six old muskets were hunted up, with which the defenders were armed; the soldiers were also provided with clubs and pikes; the servant girls themselves received orders to take the poles, with which more than one of Fleming's horsemen received their doom during the Club or Peasants' War. Thus prepared, Fru Marta thought that she could safely break off all negotiations; she therefore advanced to the inside of the gate, and began a tirade which meant action and no play.

"Ye crazy boors!" shrieked the brave dame with more energy than courtesy, "may the devil take you all, drunken ale-bibbers! Be off this instant, or, as sure as my name is Marta Ulfsparre, you shall have a taste of 'Master Hans' on the back, you villains, sots, shameless knaves, and night loafers!"

"Master Hans" was a good-sized braided rattan, which seldom left Fru Marta's hand, and for which all the inmates of the castle entertained a profound respect. But whether the noisy crowd did not know of "Master Hans'" fine qualities, or whether Fru Marta's words were only imperfectly heard in the uproar, the mob continued to press on with loud cries, and the strong gate shook on its hinges.

"Out with the witch!" shouted the most excited, and some threw lighted brands against the gate, hoping to set it on fire.

Fru Marta had on the ramparts two old cannon from Gustaf I.'s time, called "the hawk" and "the dove." Their functions were to respond to the salutes of vessels arriving in the harbour, and to roar forth the delight of the people on royal christening days and nuptials. It is true that the ramparts lay outside the high fence with its iron spikes, which constituted the only fortification of the castle, and were thus easily accessible to the besiegers. But Fru Marta thought correctly, that a cannonade from the ramparts would frighten the enemy, and serve as a signal of distress, to summon assistance from the man-of-war and the town. She therefore ordered two of her soldiers to steal out under cover of the night, load "the hawk" and "the dove," and directly after the blank charges were fired, to return quickly to the castle.

The effect was instantaneous. The uproar ceased at once, and Fru Marta did not let the opportunity slip from her grasp.

"Do you hear, you pack of thieves?" she screamed, mounted on a ladder, so that her white night-cap was seen in the moonlight just above the gate, "if you don't take yourselves off this minute from his Majesty's castle, I will make my cannon shatter you into fragments, like cabbage stalks, you noisy, drunken swine! Angry dogs get torn skins; and the chicken who sticks his neck in the jaws of the fox will have to look around to see where his head is. I will cut you to pieces, you rowdy set," continued Fru Marta, getting more and more excited. "I will let them make mince-meat of you, and throw you to the——"

Unhappily the brave commander was not allowed to finish her heroic speech. One of the crowd had found a rotten turnip on the ground, and hurled it with such good aim at the white night-cap, which shone in the moonlight, that Fru Marta, struck right on the brow, was obliged to retreat, and for the first time in her life had her tongue silenced. A huge laugh now spread through the crowd, and with it Fru Marta's supremacy was at an end. The enemy battered still more arrogantly against the gate, the hinges bent, the boards gave way, and finally half of the gate fell in with a great crash, and the whole crowd rushed into the courtyard.

Now one would say that Fru Marta would have to surrender. But no, she quickly withdrew with all her force to the interior of the castle, barred the entrance, and placed her musketeers at the windows, threatening to shoot down the first comers. Such determined courage ought to have succeeded, but the infuriated mob neither heard or saw. One of the front men, who had found a crowbar, began to batter the door...

Then confusion and outcries arose in the rear of the crowd ... those in the middle turned round and saw through the broken gate, as far as one could discern in the moonlight, the whole way filled with heads and muskets. It was as if an army had sprung from the earth in order to annihilate the besiegers. Could it be the shades of all the dead champions of Korsholm, who had risen from their graves to avenge the violence offered against their old fortress?

In order to explain the unexpected sight which now alarmed the crowd, one must remember that a large portion of the country people from the adjacent hamlets had flocked to the town to witness the departure of the recruits. It should also be mentioned that the peasant king had remained all night in Vasa, probably in the secret expectation of hearing some news about Bertel from the crew of the "Maria Eleonora." The burning of the ale-house and the march of the intoxicated crowd towards Korsholm had set all Vasa in commotion, and when Meri arrived in breathless haste, imploring her father to rescue the imprisoned lady, she found everywhere willing ears. The East Bothnian is soon ready for battle, and when the peasants learned the insults put upon old Bertila, their best man, the ancient animosity arose within them against the soldiers. They forgot that many of their own sons and brothers were conscripts; they could not neglect such a fine chance to give the soldiers a thrashing, both in the name of humanity and loyalty to the crown. They marched therefore, with Bertila at their head, about a hundred strong, to the rescue of the castle, and what in the moonlight appeared to be pikes and muskets, were mostly poles and rails, which had been hastily snatched up, the usual weapons employed in the battles of that region.

As soon as the soldiers saw that they were attacked in the rear, they tried to conceal their alarm with loud shouts and cries. Uncertain of the enemy's strength, some of them already wished to beat a dangerous retreat over the spiked fence; others imagined that they had to deal with an army of goblins, called up by the incantations of the foreign witch. They were soon aroused from this delusion, however, by hearing the sounds of Malax Swedish, and Lillkyro Finnish, which could reasonably be thought to come from human and not spectral lips. At the moment the outer enemy blocked the gate with his forces, a silence arose on both sides, during which one could hear two voices speaking, together: one from the castle window, and the other from the ramparts.

"What did I tell you?" shrieked Fru Marta from the window; "didn't I tell you, drunkards and vagabonds, that you ought to think seven times before putting your noses between the wedges of the tree, and if the tail has once got into the fox-trap, there is nothing left but to bite it off. A large mouth needs a broad back, and now hold yourself in readiness to pay the fiddler."

With this outburst Fru Marta drew back; possibly from fear of another rotten turnip.

The other voice was that of an old man, who, in powerful tones, cried to the soldiers:

"Lay down your arms, and give up your leaders, then the rest may go in peace. If not, there will be a dance, the like of which Korsholm has never seen, and we will see to it that the bows are well rosined."

"May all the demons seize you, rascal peasant!" answered a voice from the courtyard, which clearly belonged to the jovial sergeant, Bengt Kristerson. "If I had you down here I would, blitz-donner-kreutz-Pappenheim, teach you to insult brave soldiers with offers of surrender. Go ahead, boys; clear the gateway, and drive the crew back to their porridge kettles!"

Fortunately none of the conscripts had muskets, which had not yet been distributed, and very few possessed swords. Most of them had only extinguished brands, fragments of broken carriages, and faggots snatched from a wood-pile in the yard. Thus armed, the warriors bore down upon the entrance.

At the first onset the recruits were received with such vigorous blows, that numbers had broken heads. Soon the press at the gate became so dense that no arm could be raised or blow dealt; those in front struggled furiously to extricate themselves, whilst the rest closed upon them and rendered all movement impossible. Strong arms and broad shoulders exerted themselves fruitlessly to make a way through the crowd. At last the pressure from within became so great, that the first ranks of the peasants were broken, and about half of the soldiers cleared a way towards the open plain outside the ramparts, whilst the remainder were again penned up in the courtyard.

A regular battle began. Poles, sticks, whips, and fists were used. Many a vigorous blow was delivered, which would have been much better bestowed on Isolani's Croats; many a fine exploit was performed, more in place on the German battlefields. The soldiers were split in two parties by the gate, and although the most numerous, soon had the worst of it. The youngest recruits took to flight, and ran towards the town; some were overpowered and badly beaten; others, including the old veterans, retired to the ramparts, and with backs to the wall defended themselves valiantly.

Victory now seemed on the side of the peasants, when their opponents received new assistance. The peasants at the gate, who on account of the struggle outside, forgot the enemy within, were surprised by the penned-up soldiers, who now rushed out to help their comrades. The latter thus relieved, fell upon the peasants with redoubled ardour; the affray became more and more involved, and victory more and more uncertain; both parties had defeats to avenge, and the rage on both sides increased as their strength became equal.

Over this scene of tumult, confusion, and wild conflict, the silvery August moon beamed like a heavenly eye. All the inlets shone in the moonlight; and in the tree-tops and the moist grass glittered millions of dewdrops, like pearls on summer's green robe. All nature seemed at peace; a gentle breeze from the west rippled the surface of the sea, and passed softly over the land; the monotonous roll of the surf upon the beach was heard in the distance, and the twinkling, silent stars looked down into the dark waters. When the yard was empty, Fru Marta and her men ventured out again to behold the strife from the ramparts. The courageous old lady undoubtedly wished to join in some way in the contest, for she cried to the peasants in a loud voice:

"That's right, boys, go ahead; let the sticks fly; many have danced to worse tunes!"

And to the soldiers she screamed:

"Good luck to you, my children; help yourselves to a little supper; Korsholm offers what it can give. Be at ease; your witch is in good keeping; Korsholm has bolts and bars for you too, miscreants!"

But as if a capricious destiny wished to convict the old lady of error and put her to the blush, a tall, dark female figure now appeared on the top of the ramparts, and was outlined against the clear night sky.

Fru Marta's words froze on her lips from dismay, when she recognised the figure of her well-guarded prisoner. How Lady Regina had got through locked doors and closed windows was an inexplicable problem, and for a moment she was infected by the common belief in the strange girl's alliance with the powers of darkness. She renounced all idea of arresting the fugitive, and expected each moment to see large black wings grow out of her shoulders, that she might take flight like a monstrous raven, and soar aloft to the starry heavens.

The reader, however, can easily discover a natural solution of the difficulty. The din of the conflict and the cannon-shots had reached Regina's isolated chamber. Every moment she expected her room to be invaded, and herself seized by executioners and dragged to a certain death; and so glorious did this martyrdom seem to her, that her impatience increased to the highest point. Then an hour passed, and whilst the noise below continued, no footsteps approached her door. At last the thought took possession of her fanatical soul that the Prince of Darkness envied her so grand a fate, and that the strife was fomented by him to ensure her a languishing life in captivity, without profit to herself or the Holy Faith. Then she remembered the advice of the singing woman, to let herself down through the open window by means of sheets and shawls; she took a sudden resolve, and in a few minutes stood on the ramparts in full view of all the combatants.

As soon as the latter saw the tall form in the moonlight, they were seized with the same superstitious dread which had just paralyzed Fru Marta's nimble tongue. The conflict gradually subsided in the vicinity, and continued only at the most remote points; friend and foe were affected by a common horror, and near the ramparts rose a silence so profound, that one could hear in the distance the sea's low murmur on the pebbly beach.

Lady Regina then spoke with a voice so strong and clear, that if her terribly imperfect Swedish had not stood in the way, she would have been understood by all those within hearing.

"Ye children of Belial," she said in tones, trembling at first, but soon calm and composed, "ye people of the heretic faith, why do ye delay to take my life? I am defenceless, without human protection, with the high heavens above me, and the earth and sea at my feet, and say to you: Your Luther was a false prophet; there is no salvation except in the orthodox Catholic Church. Be converted, therefore, to the Holy Virgin and all the saints, acknowledge the Pope to be Christ's vicegerent, as he truly is, that you may avert St. George's sword from your heads, which is already raised to destroy you. But you can kill me in order to seal the veracity of my faith; here I stand; why do you hesitate? I am ready to die for my faith."

It was Lady Regina's good fortune that her speech was not understood by the crowd, for so strong was the power of Lutheranism at this fanatical time, when nations and individuals sacrificed life and welfare for their creed, that all were filled with flaming zeal, and a blind hatred for the Pope and his followers—of which our crabbed but pithy old psalm-books bear witness to-day. Had this crowd, whether peasants or soldiers, heard Regina extol the Pope, and declare Luther a false prophet, they would have certainly torn her to pieces in their rage. As it was, the young girl's meaning escaped them; they saw her bold bearing, and the respect which courage and misfortune together always inspire, did not fail to have its effect upon them; they now stood wavering, and at a loss what to think or do.

Lady Regina again expected, in vain, to be dragged to death. She descended from the rampart, and mingled with the irresolute crowd; they all saw that she was quite unprotected, and yet not a hand was put forth to seize her.

"She is not honest flesh and blood; she is a shadow," said an old Worä peasant doubtingly. "It seems to me that I see the moon shine right through her."

"We will soon prove that," exclaimed a rough fellow from Ilmola, laying his coarse hand rather heavily on Regina's shoulder.

It was a critical moment; the young girl turned round and looked her molester right in the face with such deep, shining eyes, that the latter seized with a strange feeling, immediately drew back, and stole away abashed. Some of the nearest bystanders followed him. None could understand the power of these dark eyes in the moonlight, but all felt their wondrous influence. In a few moments the space near Regina was empty, and the strife had ceased. A patrol, who now arrived, arrested the ringleaders.

Not long, however, did the rivalry engendered by the Club War continue between the peasants and the soldiers; between the peaceful plough, Finland's pride, and the conquering sword, which at this time was drawn to subdue the Roman Emperor himself.

Of Regina we need only say that she willingly allowed herself, yet with a sigh over the martyr's-crown she had missed, to be taken back to the dark, solitary prison-chamber. But Bertila returned with his daughter to Storkyro; the old man with thoughts of coming greatness, the young woman with the memory of a past joy. All this occurred during two days in the summer of 1632, thus, before King Gustaf Adolf's death.

Days and months elapsed, and human destinies changed their forms, so that the swift word is obliged to check its flight, and remain silent awhile in expectation of the evenings which are to come. For the surgeon's stories, like a child's joy or sorrow, lasted but a brief time—long enough for those who with friendship listened to them, and perhaps sufficiently long for the others. But never was the thread of the story clipped in the middle of its course without both young and old anticipating more. And the surgeon had to promise this. He had so much still left to relate about the half-spun skein of two family histories, that next time it will probably be spun; longer—if not to the end, at least to the knot, which says that the skein has reached its right length.

Six weeks passed before the surgeon and his circle of listeners gathered again. During that time an accident had happened to old Bäck. Most of us in this world possess hobbies, and old bachelors in particular. Bäck had got it into his mind that he ought to have a certain comfort in his old age; he had in his garret a good-sized sack of feathers, which he increased in spring and autumn by bird-shooting. To what use these feathers were to be put no one knew; when he was asked about it, he said:

"I will do like Possen at the 'Wiborg explosion'; if Finland is in need, I will go up some tower and shake my feathers into the air, then there will be as many soldiers as the sack has feathers."

"You talk like a goose, my brother," replied Captain Svanholm, the postmaster. "In our days one must have different stuff to make soldiers of. By my soul, I think you consider us warriors like chickens!"

"Yes," added the surgeon, when the captain was about to continue, "I know what you wish to say: exactly like Fieandt at Karstula."

However, the fact was, that the surgeon had one fine April day gone to the sea-shore on a shooting expedition, with artificial decoy ducks. He was accompanied by an old one-eyed corporal called Ritsi (Finnish for Fritz), who had been a pedlar in his youth, and wandered over Germany with a pack on his back; but he brought home nothing except a change in his name.

The ice still remained in patches, with gaps between; both the old men strolled along the edge, and discharged a shot every now and then; but it amounted to very little, as both of them had rather poor eyesight. It happened early one morning that Bäck thought he saw a pair of fine ducks at the further end of the ice, which could only be reached by making a long circuit. He set off, and sure enough the ducks were there. He crept as near as he dared, aimed, and fired ... the ducks' feathers were slightly agitated, but they did not stir from the spot. "Those creatures are pretty tough," thought Bäck; he reloaded, and fired again at thirty paces. The same result followed. Much astonished, Bäck went nearer, and discovered for the first time that he had been shooting at his own decoy ducks, which the wind had imperceptibly driven from the inner to the outer edge of the ice.

The old gentleman now thought about returning; but this was easier said than done. The wind had separated the ice on which he stood, from the ice which held Ritsi, and the loose block was drifting out to sea. The two old friends looked sadly at each other; scarcely a dozen yards separated them, and yet the corporal could not assist his companion, for there was no boat. Bäck was drifting slowly and steadily out to sea.

"Good-bye, now, comrade," cried the surgeon, whilst still within hearing. "Tell Svenonius and Svanholm that my will is locked up in the bureau-drawer to the right. Tell them to have the bells rung for me next Sunday. As for the funeral, you need not give yourself any trouble; I will attend to that myself."

"God have mercy!" yelled the corporal, putting the wrong side of his jacket to his eyes, and returning to the shore slowly and tranquilly, as if nothing had happened.

For the honour of the good town, it must be said, that the rest of the surgeon's friends were far from taking the matter like the corporal. The postmaster cursed and swore; the schoolmaster marched out at the head of his boys; and the old grandmother quietly sent off a couple of able-bodied pilots in their boats to cruise between the blocks of ice. The greatest excitement prevailed; confusion and running about everywhere; and those who made the most fuss accomplished the least.

Two days passed without any trace of the surgeon; on the third the pilots came back from a fruitless search. All gave the surgeon up for lost. There was sincere mourning in the town for such an old institution as Bäck—everyone's friend, and everybody's confidant—he was one of the little town's house-spirits, without whom the community could not get on. But what could be done? When the third Sunday arrived, without any news of the unfortunate bird-hunter, the bells were rung for his soul, according to custom, and a fine eulogy composed by Svenonius, was read in the church, and the city magistrate appointed a day in the ensuing week for taking an inventory of his effects.

I hope, however, that the reader, who has noticed the title of this veracious story, will not be alarmed. In reality it would be very hard if the surgeon should be called away just now, when Regina sits imprisoned at Korsholm, under Fru Marta's stern control, and Bertel lies bleeding on the battlefield of Lützen. And what would become of the gentle Meri, of the peasant king of Storkyro, and of so many other important personages in this narrative? Patience! the surgeon had certainly gone through worse experiences in his day ... he had not been born for nothing on the same day as Napoleon!

Everything was arranged to take the inventory. Astonishing order prevailed in Bäck's garret; something unusual had happened there; the place was swept and cleaned. All his things were set out: medicine chest dusted, stuffed birds placed in a row, the collection of eggs exposed to view. The silver-headed Spanish cane stood in a corner; the old peruke hung with a melancholy look on its hook; the innermost mysteries of Bäck's bureau, the pale locks of hair from former days, were drawn forth to be valued in roubles and kopeks; probably not at high amounts. An alderman, with an official air, had taken his place at the old oak table, where a large sheet of official paper now occupied the space usually reserved for the surgeon's carpenter's tools; a clerk was sharpening his pencil opposite the alderman, and the old grandmother as hostess, had presented herself with moist eyes to deliver up Bäck's property, as the old man had no relations. One thing, however, was still unopened: it was the old seal-skin trunk under the surgeon's bed. The official's eyes occasionally wandered there with a pious thought of the profit to be derived from the inheritance; but no one knew what the trunk contained, and who was the rightful and legal heir.

It was time to begin. Svanholm and Svenonius were called as appraisers. The alderman coughed once or twice, assumed a judicial air, and then said:

"Whereas it has come to the knowledge of the worthy magistrate that the deceased surgeon of the High Crown, Andreas Bäck, met his death on the ice whilst engaged in bird-shooting; and although not found in body, is in soul, rightfully and lawfully killed..."

"I would most humbly beg to contradict that!" suddenly interrupted a voice from the door.

The effect was truly marvellous.

The magistrate lost both his wits and official bearing; he turned his eyes upwards, and his eloquent tongue for the first time refused its office. The secretary sprang up like a rocket, and knocked over the learned Svenonius, who, being somewhat deaf, had not heard the cause of the sudden commotion. The brave Svanholm was in a terrible plight; one could have sworn that not even at Karstula had he gone through such an ordeal. He looked as white as a ghost, and tried in vain to compel his left foot to advance. The old grandmother was the only one who showed self-possession; she put on her spectacles, went straight to the new-comer, and shook her ancient head dubiously, as if to say that it was very wrong of corpses to come to life again.

But old Bäck—for who else could it be?—was not at all daunted. His feelings had quite a different character. When he beheld his dear old garret so altered, his precious effects on show, and the magistrate in full activity with what Bäck thought none of his business, he was seized, excusably enough, with righteous anger, and took the myrmidons of the law by the neck, one after the other, and threw them without ceremony from the room. Then came the turn of brother Svenonius, who was not spared, and finally Svanholm, before he could utter a word, found himself rolling headlong down the stairs. All this happened in the twinkling of an eye. Only the grandmother remained. When Bäck met her mild, reproachful glance, he was ashamed, and came to his senses.

"Well, well," said he, "you must not take it ill, cousin; I shall teach brooms and dusters to disorder my room ... be so kind as to take a seat. It would provoke a stone to see such actions. See how these wretches have scrubbed my room and dusted my birds. It is a positive crime!"

"Dear cousin," said the grandmother, at once vexed and delighted, "I am the one to be blamed; we thought you must be drowned."

"Drowned, indeed!" muttered the surgeon. "I tell you, cousin, that poor powder isn't so easily got rid of. It is true that I floated around on that miserable ice-floe for three whole days and nights. It wasn't exactly a warm bed and spread table, but it served. I shot a venturesome seal. It was pretty oily, I assure you, but 'better that than nothing.' I had a tinder-box and salt, too; so I made a fire of my game bag, and fried a steak. On the fourth day I drifted to firm ice at West Bothnia, and marched ashore. 'Now it's time to go home,' I thought. Said and done; I sold my gun and hired a team. And I tell you what, cousin, they would have been spared from upsetting my room, and sticking their noses into my affairs, had not the Swedes quadrupled the rate, compared with old times. My purse was empty before I came to Haparanda. Then I thought, 'let the Medical College go to the dogs!' and began my old practice with the lancet and 'essentia dulcis,' as I went along; and all the old women—God bless you, I thought you were going to sneeze—and all the old women were amazed to see former times revived. In this manner I was able to reach home—a little too late, but still in time to throw out my uninvited guests."

The surgeon had great difficulty in pardoning his friends for their invasion of his peaceful kingdom. Had they taken his treasures, or slandered his good name, he could have forgiven them, but to put his room in order was more than he could stand! Little by little, however, the storm was allayed through the old grandmother's wise diplomacy; and so the day came when the reconciliation was celebrated with a third tale. It is true that some plain people still looked upon the surgeon as a ghost; the magistrate doubted his right to live when he had been legally declared dead; the postmaster swore over his sore back, which still bore the marks of the meeting with brother Bäck; Svenonius sighed over a hole in his twenty-year-old black coat, which he had worn in honour of the solemn occasion. But the old grandmother smiled as usual; Anne Sophie was friendly as ever; the little folks were as noisy; and—thus it happened that the sunshine scattered the morning mists, and the horizon was cleared for the captive Regina.

* * * * *

"My dear friends," began the surgeon, "it may puzzle you why I call this story 'Fire and Water.' You understand The King's Ring, and how The Sword and the Plough came into conflict. Perhaps you think that I shall now treat you to natural history. That would be well and good. But I entertain the opinion that in a story, humanity is the great thing. If we look at pictures, we heartily admire a fruit or a game painting, but I believe figure-painting, with fine human forms, is nevertheless superior. Therefore I do not intend to describe conflagrations and deluges, but have chosen my title from the fact that human temperaments correspond to the elements—some to fire, some to air, others to water and earth. I intend to tell you about four persons: two of whom possessed a fiery nature, and two a watery. All is not said that could be said, for most titles have the fault of only giving one aspect of many. I thought of calling this part 'The Coat of Arms,' when I realised that it might also be called 'The Axe.' I might have alarmed you with the terrible title of 'The Curse'; but when I came to think it over, I found that it could just as well be styled 'The Blessing.' Therefore you will have to be contented with the elements; I have now said all I wished, and I will leave you to guess the rest."

The first thing to be borne in mind is, that the story of the Sword and the Plough happened before the Battle of Lützen. On now going back to that combat, on the 6th of November, 1632, we may forget for a time that the "Sword and the Plough" ever existed, and imagine that we still stand by the great hero's dead body, as it lay embalmed in the village of Meuchen.

It was a fine but terrible spectacle when the Pappenheimers charged the Finns on the east of the River Rippach. These splendid cuirassiers rushed upon Stälhandske; the tired Finns and their horses reeled and gave way before this terrific onslaught. But Stälhandske rallied them again, man to man, horse to horse; they fought to the death; and friends and foes were mixed together in one bleeding, confused mass. Here fell Pappenheim and his bravest men; half of the Finnish cavalry were trampled under the horses' hoofs, and yet the battle raged till nightfall.

Bertel rode at Stalhandske's side, and here he encountered Pappenheim. The youth of twenty could not cope with this arm of steel; the brave general struck Bertel on the helmet with such tremendous force, that he reeled and became unconscious. But in falling he mechanically grasped his horse by the mane, and the faithful Lapp galloped away, dragging his master with one foot in the stirrup.

When Bertel opened his eyes he was in utter darkness. He vaguely remembered the last incident of the combat, and Pappenheim's uplifted sword. He thought he was now dead, and lay in his grave. He then put his hand to his heart; it was beating: he bit his finger; it hurt him. He realised that he was still in existence, but how and where it was impossible to guess. He reached out his hand and picked up some straw. He felt the damp ground under him, and the empty space above. He tried to raise himself up, but his head was too heavy. It still suffered from the blow of Pappenheim's sword.

Then he heard a voice not far from him, half-complaining, half-mocking, saying in Swedish:

"Saints and fiends! Not a drop of wine! Those rascally Wallachians have grabbed my flask; the miserable hen-thieves! Hollo, Turk, or Jew—it is all one—here with a drop of wine!"

"Is it you, Larsson?" said Bertel in a faint voice, for his tongue was also parched with a burning thirst.

"What sort of a marmot is it whispering my name?" replied the voice in the darkness. "Hurrah, boys, loose reins and a smart gallop! Fire your pistols, fling them to the devil, and slash away with swords! Cleave their skulls; peel them like turnips! Grind them to powder! The king has fallen ... Devils and heroism, what a king! ... to-day we bleed. To-day we shall die, but first revenge. That's the way, boys, hurrah ... pitch in, East Bothnians!"

"Larsson," repeated Bertel; but his comrade did not heed him. He continued in his delirium to lead his Finns to the combat.

After a time a ray of the late autumn morning shone through the window of the miserable hut upon Bertel. He could now distinguish the straw upon the bare ground, and two men asleep.

Then the door opened, and a couple of uncouth, bearded men entered, and thrust roughly at the sleepers with the butts of their muskets.

"Raus!" they cried in Low German; "it is the signal to start!"

And outside the hut was heard the well-known trumpet-blast, which at that time was the usual signal for breaking up the camp.

"May they spear me like a frog," said one of the men in a bad humour, "if I can guess what the reverend father wishes to do with these heretic dogs. He should have given them a passport to the arch-fiend, their lord and master."

"Fool!" replied the other; "do you not know that the heretic king's death is going to be celebrated with a great festival at Ingolstadt? The reverend father intends to hold a grand auto-de-fé in honour of the happy event."

The two sleepers now stood up half-awake, and Bertel could recognise by the faint morning light the little, thick-set Larsson and his own faithful Pekka. But there was no opportunity for explanations. All three were brought out, bound, and put into a cart, and then the long caravan, composed of wagons for the wounded and baggage, under the charge of the Croats, began slowly to move.

Bertel knew that he and his companions were now prisoners of the Imperialists. He soon recovered his memory, and learned from his countrymen in captivity how it all happened. When the faithful Lapp felt the reins loose, he galloped with his unconscious master back to camp. But this was being plundered by the wild Croats, and when they saw a Swedish officer dragged along half dead by his horse, they took him prisoner, in the hope of a good ransom. Pekka, who would not forsake his master, was also taken prisoner. Larsson, on the other hand, had, at the Pappenheimers' attack, charged too far amongst the enemy, and having received a sabre thrust in the shoulder, and a wound in the arm, was unable to extricate himself. Who had triumphed Larsson did not know with certainty.

It was now the third day after the battle; they had marched for a day and night in a southerly direction, and then stopped for a few hours in a deserted village.

"Accursed crew!" exclaimed the little captain, whose jovial disposition did not abandon him under any circumstances; "if they had not stolen my flask, we might now drink Finland's health together. But these Croats are thieves of the first water, compared with whom our gipsies at home are innocent angels. I should like to hang a couple of hundred of them from the ramparts of Korsholm, as they hang petticoats on the walls of a Finnish garret."

The march continued with brief halts for several days, not without great suffering and discomfort to the wounded, who, improperly bandaged, were prevented by their fetters from helping each other. At the outset they travelled through a desolated country, where provisions were obtained with great difficulty, and whose population took to flight at the sight of the dreaded Croats. But they soon arrived in richer parts, where the Catholic inhabitants assembled to curse the heretics, and exult over their king's fall. The whole Catholic world shared this rejoicing. It is stated that in Madrid brilliant performances took place, in which Gustave Adolf, another dragon, was conquered by Wallenstein as St. George.

After seven days' wearisome journeying, the cart with the captive Finns drove late one evening over a clattering drawbridge, and stopped in a small courtyard. The wounded prisoners were led out, and conducted up two crumbling flights of stairs into a turret room in the form of a semi-circle. It seemed to Bertel as if he had seen this place before, but darkness and fatigue prevented him from making sure. The stars shone through the grated windows, and the prisoners were revived with a cup of wine. Larsson said with satisfaction:

"I will bet anything that the thieves have stolen their wine from our cellars, while we lay in Würzburg, for better stuff I have never tasted!"

"Würzburg!" said Bertel thoughtfully. "Regina!" added he, almost unconsciously.

"And the wine-cellar!" sighed Larsson, mocking him. "I will tell you something.

'The greatest fool upon the earth
Is he that believes in a girl's worth.
When love comes, the little dear,
Marry instead the cup of good cheer.'

"The black-eyed young Regina now sits and knits stockings at Korsholm. Yes, yes, Fru Marta is not one of the folks who sit and weep in the moonlight. Since we last met I have had news from Vasa through the jolly sergeant, Bengt Kristerson. He said he had fought with your father. You had better believe that the old man is a trump; he carried Bengt out at arm's-length and threw him down the steps there at your home in Storkyro. Bengt cursed and swore, declaring that he would put the old man and twelve of his hands into the windmill at once, and grind them to groats; but Meri begged for them. Smart fellow, Bengt Kristerson! fights like a dragon, and lies like a skipper. Your health!"

"What else did you hear from East Bothnia?" inquired Bertel, who with the bashfulness of youth, blushed at the thought of revealing to his prosaic friend the secret of his heart—his love for the dark-eyed and unhappy Lady Regina von Emmeritz.

"Not much, except the bad harvests, immense drain caused by the war, and heavy conscriptions. The old men on the farm, your father and mine, quarrel as usual, and make it up again. Meri pines for you and sings doleful songs. Do you remember that splendid girl, Katri? round as a turnip, red as mountain-ash berries, and soft about the chin as a lump of butter. She has run away with a soldier. Your health, my boy!"

"Nothing more?" said Bertel abstractedly.

"Nothing more! What the devil do you want to know, when you don't care for the prettiest girl in the whole of Storkyro. 'Yes, noch etivas,' says the German. There has been a great affray at Korsholm. The conscripts got it into their heads that Lady Regina had tried to kill the king with 'witch-shots,' and then they stormed Korsholm, and burned the girl alive. Cursedly jolly! here's to the heretics! We also know the art of holding autos-da-fé."

Bertel started up, forgetting his wounds; but pain mastered him. Without a cry he sank fainting into Larsson's arms.

The honest captain was both troubled and angry. While he bathed Bertel's temples with the remainder of the noble fluid in the tankard, and presently brought him to life once more, he gave vent to his feelings in the following manner, crescendo from piano to forte.

"There, there, Bertel ... what next? What the deuce, boy? Are you in love with the girl? Faint like a lady's maid! Courage! did I say that they had burned her? No, my lad, she was only a little scorched, according to what Bengt Kristerson says, and afterwards she tore Fru Marta's eyes out, and climbed like a squirrel to the top of the castle. Such things happen every day in war ... Well, I declare, you have got both your eyes open at last. You are still alive, you milk-baked wheat loaf ... are you not ashamed to behave like a poltroon? You are a pretty soldier! blitz-donnerwetter-kreutz-Pappenheim, you are a pomade pot! D—n it, now the tankard is empty also!"

The stout little warrior would perhaps have continued to vent his bad humour for some time longer, especially as there was no consolation now left in the cup, had not the door opened, and a female figure then stepped over the threshold. At this sight the captain's pale and fluffy face brightened up. Bertel was laid aside, and Larsson leaned eagerly forward, in order to see better, for the light of the single lamp was very faint. But the result of his observation did not seem very satisfactory.

"A nun! Ah, by Heaven ... to convert us!"

"Peace be with you," said a youthful voice from underneath the veil. "I am sent here by the worthy prioress of the cloister of 'Our Lady' to bind your wounds, and heal them, if it is the will of the saints."

"Upon my honour, charming friend, I am much obliged; let us become better acquainted," said the captain, as he stretched out his hand to lift the nun's veil. In a flash the latter retreated, and two soldiers appeared at the door.

"The devil!" exclaimed Larsson, startled, "What proud nuns they have here! When I was at Würzburg, I used to get a dozen kisses a day from the young sisters at the convent; such sins always obtain absolution. Well," he continued, seeing the nun still hesitating at the door, "your venerableness must not take offence at a soldier's freedom of speech; an honest soldier is a born gallant. Although an unbelieving heretic, I can talk Latin like a monk. When we stayed at Munich I was very intimate with a plump Bavarian nun, twenty-seven years old, with brown eyes and a Roman nose."

"Hold your tongue!" impatiently whispered Bertel, "you will drive the nun away."

"I haven't said a word. Walk in; don't be frightened. I will bet it is a long time since you saw twenty-seven. Posito, says the Frenchman, that your venerableness is an old woman."

The nun returned in silence, with two others, and examined Bertel's wounded head. A delicate white hand drew out some scissors and cut his hair off on each side of the wound. In a short time Bertel's wound was dressed by an experienced hand. Bertel, touched by this compassion, kissed the nun's hand.

"Upon my honour, charming matron," cried the voluble captain, "I am jealous of my friend, who is fifteen years younger than I. Deign to stretch out your gentle hand and plaster this brave arm, which has conquered so many pious sisters' pity..."

The silent nun began to undo the bandages which covered Larsson's wounds. Her hand touched his.

"Potz donnerwetter!" burst out the captain in surprise. "What a fine and soft little hand! I beg your pardon, amiable Fru doctoress; ex ungua leonem, says one of the fathers of the church ... that is to say in good Swedish: by the paw one knows the lion. I will wager ten bottles of old Rhine against a cast-off stirrup, that this little white hand would much rather caress a knight's cheek than finger rosaries night and day."

The nun drew her hand away. The gallant captain feared the consequences of his gallantry.

"I will say no more; I am silent as a karthäuser monk. But I will say that this hand is not an old woman's ... well, well, your lovely venerableness hears that I keep silent."

"Tempus est consummatum, itur in missam," said a solemn voice at the door, and the nun hastened her task. In a few moments the prisoners were again alone.

"I have heard that voice before," said Bertel thoughtfully. "We are surrounded by mysteries."

"Bah!" replied the captain, "it was a mangy and jealous monk. Bless me, what a dear little hand!"

When the autumn sun on the following morning spread its first rays into the turret room, Bertel arose and looked out of the iron-barred window. It was a beautiful view that here met his eye. Underneath the turret wound a lovely river, and on the other side of it lay a town with thirty spires, and beyond were seen a number of still verdant vineyards.

Bertel at once recognised Würzburg. The castle of Marienburg, where the prisoners were confined, had at the retreat of the Swedes fallen back into the bishop's hands; but his grace, on account of the insecurity of the times, did not return there himself, but remained in Vienna. The castle had suffered much, from the last conquest, and the consequent plundering; one tower had been destroyed, and the moat was filled up in several places. At present there were only fifty men in the garrison, guarding the sisters of charity from the cloisters in the town, and many sick and wounded.

When Bertel had carefully examined his prison, he thought he recognised Regina's room, the same in which that beautiful young lady with her maids in waiting had watched the battle, and where the image of the Holy Virgin had been broken into fragments by the splinters from the cannon-shot.*

* The surgeon forgets that this room was totally destroyed.—Author.

"Here," thought the dreaming young man, "she slept the last night before the storm."

For Bertel this room was sacred; when he pressed his lips against the cold walls, he thought he kissed the marks of Regina's tears.

A wonderful thought struck him like lightning. If the nun that visited them yesterday was a princess ... if the white hand belonged to Regina! It would be a miracle, but ... love believes in miracles. Bertel's heart beat fast.

His neglected wounds had greatly improved under the gentle hands of his nurse. He now felt much stronger. His unfortunate comrades were still asleep after their terrible journey. Then the door was quietly opened, and the nun softly entered with a drink for the wounded prisoners. Bertel felt his head swim. Overcome by his violent emotions, he fell on his knees before her.

"Your name, you kind angel, who remembers the prisoners!" he cried. "Tell me your name, let me see your face ... Ah! I should have known you amongst thousands ... you are Regina, yourself!"

"You make a mistake," said the same kind voice that Bertel had heard the day before. It was not Regina's voice, and still he knew the tones. To whom then did it belong?

Bertel rushed forward and pulled the veil from the nun's head. In front of him stood the beautiful mild Ketchen with a smiling face. The surprised Bertel drew back.

"Imprudent one," she said, covering her face with her hands. "I wished to have you in my care, but now you make me leave the place to another."

Ketchen disappeared. On the evening of the same day another nun entered the room.

Larsson addressed a long speech to her, and put her hand to his lips, and impressed on it a loud kiss. He then swore fearfully.

"Millions of devils!" he said, "that I should kiss an old shrivelled hand like that. The skin was like a century-old parchment."

"Verily, my dear Bertel," continued the chagrined captain with philosophical resignation, "there are secrets in nature which will for ever remain concealed from human sagacity. This hand, for example—manus mana, manum—hand, as the old Roman used to say: this hand, my friend, would undoubtedly occupy a shining place in the Greek poet Ovid's 'Metamorphoses,' which we formerly studied in the Cathedral School at Abo, the time my father wanted to make me a priest. Yesterday I could have sworn that it was the beautiful white hand of a young girl, and to-day I will be shaved as bare as a monk it it was not a hand that belongs to a seventy-year-old washerwoman. Sic unde ubi apud unquam post, as the ancients used to say. That is, so can a pretty girl be changed into a witch before anyone knows it."

The prisoners' wounds healed rapidly under the care of the nuns. The fierce autumn storms whistled around the castle turrets, and the heavy rain beat against the small panes. The verdure of the vineyards faded, and a thick, heavy mist rose from the Main, and obscured the view of the town.

"I cannot stand it any longer," growled Larsson. "The wretches! they do not give us either wine or dice. And forgive me, Saint, the devil may kiss their hands or lips, not I. No. I have a great respect for old women. I cannot stand this. I will jump out of the window."

"Do it," said Bertel, provoked.

"No, I will not jump out of the window," said the captain. "No, my dear friend—micus ameus, as we learned people used to express ourselves—I will instead honour our companion with a game."

And the inventive captain for the thirtieth time summoned Pekka to a game of pitch and toss. This uninteresting game, which was his only diversion, was played with a Carl IX. six-öre piece.

"Tell me what they are building over there on the square of Würzburg, just opposite the bank of the Main?" said Bertel.

"An ale-house," said Larsson. "Crown!"

"It looks to me like a pyre."

"Tail!" repeated Larsson monotonously. "Dash it, what ill luck I have; this damned Limingo peasant will win my horse, my saddle, and my stirrups."

"The first morning after we were taken prisoners, I heard something about an auto-de-fé, to celebrate the battle of Lützen. What do you think of it?"

"I? What should I care; they might burn a dozen witches for our amusement."

"But if we are concerned in it? If they are waiting for the bishop's arrival?"

Larsson dilated his small grey eyes, and took hold of his goatee.

"Blitz-donner-kreutz ... the wretched Jesuits! They would cook us like turnips ... we ... the conquerors of the Holy Roman Empire ... I mean, my friend Bertel, that in such desperate straits, an honest soldier would not be to blame if he tried to escape in silence—for example, through the window..."

"There is a fall of seventy feet to the Main underneath."

"The door," said the thoughtful captain.

"Is guarded night and day by two armed men."

The captain fell into some melancholy reflections. Time passed on; it was evening; it became night. The nun with their suppers did not appear.

"The festival begins with a fast," muttered the captain in a gloomy tone. "I am shaped like a fish, if I do not wring the head off our neglectful nun as soon as she appears."

At this moment the door opened, and the nun entered alone. Larsson exchanged a glance with his companions, suddenly approached the nun, caught her round the neck, and held her against the wall.

"Be still, like a good child, highly honoured abbess," mockingly said the captain; "if you make a sound you are lost. By right I ought to throw you out of the window and let you have a swim in the Main, to teach you punctum preciosum, that is, a precise punctuality in your attendance. But I will give you grace for this night. Tell me, you most miserable of meal bringers, what is the meaning of that fire which they are preparing on the square; who is going to be roasted there?"

"For the sake of all the saints, speak low," whispered the nun. "I am Ketchen, and have come to save you. A great danger threatens you. To-morrow the bishop is expected, and Father Hieronymus, the implacable enemy of all the Finns, has sworn to burn you alive for the glory of the saints."

"My fine little soft hand!" cried Larsson delighted. "Upon my honour, I am a fool not to recognise it at once. Well, my beautiful friend, for the glory or St. Brita I will take a kiss on the spot..."

The captain kept his word. But Ketchen freed herself, and said quickly:

"If you do not behave yourself, young man, you will afford fuel for the flames. Hurry! bind me to the bedpost, and tie a handkerchief over my mouth.

"Bind you..." replied the captain; "explain yourself."

"Make haste! the guard are drunk and asleep, but in twenty minutes they will be inspected by the pater himself. Seize their cloaks and hurry to get out. The passwords are Petrus and Paulus."

"And yourself?" said the captain.

"They will find me bound. I have been overpowered, and my mouth stopped."

"Noble girl! The crown of all Franconia's sisters of charity; had I not sworn never to marry.... Very well, hasten, Bertel! hurry, Pekka, you lazy dog! Farewell, little rogue! another kiss ... Good-bye!"

The three prisoners hastened out. But scarcely were they outside the door when they were seized by iron fists, thrown down, and bound.

"Take the dogs down into the treasury," said a well-known voice. It was Father Hieronymus.

Bound hand and foot, the prisoners soon found themselves in the deep, dark, damp vault, blasted out of the rock, where the Bishop of Würzburg had kept his treasures before the Swedes delivered him from the trouble. No ray of light penetrated the gloom, and the moisture from the rocks trickled through the crevices and dropped steadily on the ground.

"Lightning and Croats! may all the devils take you, cursed earless monk!" bawled the captain, as soon as he felt firm ground beneath him. "To shut up officers of his Royal Highness and the Crown in this rat-trap. Diabolus infernalis multum plus plurimum! ... Are you alive, Bertel?"

"Yes. In order to be burned living to-morrow."

"Do you believe that, Bertel?" asked the captain in a lugubrious tone.

"I know this treasury. On three sides is the solid rock, on the other a door of iron, and the man who guards us here is harder than either rock or metal. We shall never see Finland again! Never shall I see her more..."

"Listen to me, Bertel; you are a smart chap, but that does not prevent you from talking like a milksop occasionally. You are in love with the black-eyed lady; well, well, I will say nothing about that; love is a bandit, as Ovidius so truly says. But I cannot stand whimpering. If we live, there are other girls to kiss; if we die, then good-bye to them all. So you really fancy that they intend to roast us like picked woodcocks?"

"That entirely depends upon you yourselves," answered a voice in the darkness. All three prisoners started from fright.

"The evil one is here in the midst of us!" exclaimed Larsson.

Pekka began to say his prayers. Then a clear ray from a dark lantern shot through the darkness, and they all saw the Jesuit Hieronymus standing alone near them.

"It depends upon you," he repeated. "To escape is impossible. Your king is dead; your army defeated; the whole world acknowledges the power of the Church and the Emperor. The pile is ready, and your bodies shall burn in honour of the saints. But the holy Church in its clemency wishes to save you, and has sent me here to offer you mercy."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Larsson mockingly. "Come, worthy father, loosen my bonds and let me embrace you. I offer you my friendship, and of course you believe me. How, says Seneca, homo homini lupus, we wolves are all brothers."

"I offer you mercy," continued the Jesuit coldly, "on three conditions, which you will certainly accept. The first is, that you abjure your heretic faith and publicly join the only saving Church."

"Never!" exclaimed Bertel hastily.

"Be quiet!" said the captain. "Well, posito that we abjure the Lutheran faith?"

"Then," continued the Jesuit, "as prisoners of war you shall be exchanged for the high-born Lady and Princess Regina von Emmeritz, whom your king tyrannically sent a prisoner to the north."

"It shall be done!" answered Bertel eagerly.

"Be still!" cried Larsson. "Well, go on; posito that we accomplish the lady's deliverance?"

"Only a trifle remains. I demand of Lieutenant Bertel King Gustaf Adolf's ring."

"Your money or your life, like a highwayman!" said Larsson derisively.

"You ask for that which I do not possess," answered Bertel.

The Jesuit gave him a suspicious glance.

"The king ordered Duke Bernhard to give you the ring, and you must have received it."

"All this is quite unknown to me," said Bertel with truth, but surprised and delighted at this unexpected news.

The Jesuit resumed his smiling composure.

"If that is how it stands, my dear sons," said he, "let us talk no more about the ring. As far as your conversion to the true believing Church is concerned..."

Bertel was just about to answer, but was interrupted by the captain, who, a moment before, had made a movement with the upper part of his body, which the light did not reach.

"Yes, as far as that matter is concerned," Larsson hastened to add; "you know, reverend father, that there are two sides to it: questio an and questio quomodo. Now to speak of questio an first, my sainted rector, Vincentius Flachsenius, used to say, always place negare as prima regula juris. Your reverence undoubtedly finds it unexpected and agreeable to hear a royal captain talk Latin like a cardinal. Your reverence should know that we, in Abo Cathedral School, studied Ciceronem, Senecam, and Ovidium, also called Naso; for my part I have always considered Cicero a great talker, and Seneca a blockhead; but as for Ovid ..."

The Jesuit moved towards the door, and said dryly,

"Then you choose the stake?"

"Rather than the disgrace of an apostasy!" exclaimed Bertel, who had not noticed Larsson's hints and motions.

"My friend," the captain hastily added, "thinks very sensibly and naturally that the worst part of the matter is the public scandal. Thus, worthy father, let us confer about questio quomodo. Posito that we become good Catholics, and enter the Emperor's service ... but deign to come a little closer; my friend Bertel is rather hard of hearing ever since he had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the mighty Pappenheim."

The Jesuit cautiously advanced a little nearer, after convincing himself with a glance that retreat stood open.

"It is I who decide the conditions," said he haughtily. "Yes or no?"

"Yes, yes, of course," replied Larsson quickly, as he continued to rub himself. "Consequently we are on sound grounds both with questio an and questio quomodo. Your reverence possesses a persuasive tongue. We will now come to questio ubi and questio quando, for according to logicam and meta-physicam ... Pardon me, worthy father, I don't say a word, I consent to it all. But," continued the captain, as he lowered his voice, "deign to cast a glance at my friend Bertel's right forefinger. I can tell your reverence my friend is a great rogue; I am very much mistaken if he has not got the king's ring on at this moment."

The Jesuit, carried away by his curiosity, came a few steps nearer. Swift as an eel Larsson rolled himself to the door, for he was unable to rise on account of his bonds; and when the monk wished to retreat, the captain, who had cut through the ligatures which held his right arm, against a sharp stone, suddenly seized the Jesuit's legs and threw him down. Father Hieronymus made desperate efforts to free himself from the captain's grasp; the lantern was broken into fragments, the light extinguished, and a thick darkness enveloped the wrestlers. Bertel and Pekka, both unable to get up and assist, rolled themselves at random towards the spot, but without reaching it. Then the brave captain felt a sharp sensation in his shoulder, and directly afterwards a warm stream of blood. With a mighty oath he wrenched the dagger from his enemy's hand, and returned the stab. The Jesuit now begged for mercy.

"With the greatest pleasure, my son," answered the sarcastic captain. "But only on three conditions: the first, that you renounce Loyola, your lord and master, and declare him to be an emissary of the devil. Do you agree to it?"

"I agree to everything," murmured the pater.

"The second: that you start off and hang yourself to the first hook you find in the ceiling."

"Yes, yes, only let me go."

"The third: that you travel to Beelzebub, your patron," ... and with these words Larsson flung his enemy violently against the rocky wall, after which there was a dead silence.

The dagger was now used to quickly sever the prisoners' bonds, and then it only remained to find the door.

When the three fugitives, after having secured the treasury door from the outside, reached the dark and narrow stairway, which led to the upper portion of the castle, they stayed a moment to consult together. Their situation even now was not enviable, for they knew of old that the stairs led to the bishop's former bed-chamber, from whence two or three rooms had to be crossed before they came to the large armoury, and through that to the courtyard, after which they still had to pass the closed drawbridge and the guard. All the rooms, except the bed-chamber, which the Jesuit himself had taken possession of, had, two hours before, when the prisoners were carried down, been filled partly with soldiers, and partly with the sick and their nurses.

"One thing grieves me," whispered Larsson, "and that is, that I did not draw the fur off the fox when I held him by the ears. In the garments of piety I could have gone scot-free through purgatory like another Saulus inter prophetas. But as it is, my friend Bertel, I ask, in my simplicity, how shall we get away from here?"

"We will cut our way out. The garrison are asleep; the darkness of the night favours us."

"I confess, my friend, that if anybody, even I, Larsson himself, should call you a poltroon, I would call that fellow a liar. It is true that you once as good as solo, alone, alienus, all by yourself, took this fortress; but you had then at least a sword in your hand, and a few thousands of brave boys in the rear. Hush! I heard a step on the stairs ... no, it was nothing. Let us push on cautiously. Here it will serve us to tread gingerly, like maidens; the heavy peasant's boots sound as if we were a squadron of cavalry."

The fugitives had ascended about thirty or forty steps, and yet there seemed more, until a faint ray of light glimmered at the top in the passage. They then came to a door; it stood ajar. They stopped, and held their breath; not a sound could be heard. The brave captain now ventured to put in his head, then his foot, and finally his whole stout person.

"We are on the right track," he whispered; "boots off, the whole company must march in their stockinged feet—posito that the company has stockings. March!"

The bishop's bed-chamber, into which the three now entered on tip-toe, was a large and magnificent room. A flickering lamp faintly illumined the precious gobelin tapestry, the gilded images of the saints, and the ebony bedstead, inlaid with pearls, where the wealthy prelate used to fall asleep, with his goblet of Rhenish wine beside him. No living creature was visible, but from one of the windows which overlooked the courtyard they could see the castle chapel opposite, brilliantly lighted and filled with people. Even the courtyard was occupied by a crowd, visible owing to the reflection from the windows, and many of whom carried lighted candles.

"I will let them salt and pickle me like a cucumber if I understand what all these people are doing here in the dead of night," muttered the enraged captain. "You will find that they have assembled here to see three honest Finnish soldiers roasted by a slow fire like Aland herrings."

"We must look for weapons, and die like men," said Bertel, as he glanced through the room.

"Hurrah!" he exclaimed, "here are three swords, just what we require."

"And three daggers," added Larsson, who, in a large niche behind the image of a saint, found a little arsenal of all kinds of weapons. "The worthy fathers have a certain weakness for daggers, as the East Bothnians for 'punkkons,' or peasants' knives."

"I think," joined in the taciturn Pekka, as he caught sight of a good-sized flask in a corner, "that to-night being Xmas eve..."

"Brave boy!" interrupted the captain, inspired also by this sight, "you have a wonderfully keen scent where good liquor is concerned. Pious Jesuit, you have, anyhow, accomplished some good in the world! Xmas eve, did you say? Stupid, why didn't you tell us at once? It is clear as the day, that half of Würzburg is streaming to the chapel to hear Father Hieronymus say mass. 'Pon my honour, I fear that he will keep them waiting for some time, the good pater. Here goes, my friend, I will drink to you; an officer ought to always set his troops a good example. Your health, my boys ... damnation ... the miserable monk has basely cheated us. I have swallowed poison. I am a dead man!" And the honest captain turned pale as a corpse.

Both Bertel and Pekka had hard work to restrain their laughter, notwithstanding their critical position, when they saw Larsson at once white from fright and black from the fluid he had drank and spat out again.

"Be more careful another time," said Bertel, "and you will avoid drinking ink."

"Ink! I might have known that the earless scrawler would be up to some devilry. Two things trouble me to-night more than all the autos-da-fé: that the sweet Ketchen, with the soft hands, deceived us, and that I have swallowed the most useless stuff in the world—ink, bah!"*

* Here Captain Svanholm trod on Cousin Svenonius' toes, and the latter thoughtfully took a pinch of snuff.

"If we had nothing else to do I could show you something that ink has done," rejoined Bertel, as he hastily turned over a pile of papers on the writing-table. "Here is a letter from the archbishop ... he is coming to-morrow ... we are to be solemnly burned ... they will tempt us to abjure our faith, and promise us grace ... but burn us, nevertheless! Infamous!"

"Roman!" observed the captain phlegmatically.

In the meantime Larsson had drawn out three monks' cloaks and hoods; they put them on, and now ventured to proceed farther on their dangerous enterprise.

The next two rooms were empty. Two common beds indicated that some menial monks had here their abode, and were now gone to mass.

"Bravo," whispered Larsson, "they will take us for sheep in wolves' clothing, and believe that we are also going to attend mass. Hist! didn't you hear something? A woman's voice. Be still!"

They stopped, and heard in the darkness a young female's voice, praying:

"Holy Virgin, forgive me this time, and save me from death; I will to-morrow take the veil, and serve you for ever."

"It is Ketchen's voice," said the captain. "She may be innocent, poor child! Upon my honour, it would be base of a cavalier not to deliver a sweet girl with such a soft hand."

"Let us be off!" whispered Bertel in vexation. But the captain had already discovered a little door, bolted on the outside; inside was a cell, and in the cell a trembling girl. Her eyes, used to the darkness, saw the monk's garb, and she threw herself at the captain's feet, exclaiming,

"Grace, my father, grace! I will confess all; I have favoured the prisoners' flight; I have given wine to the guard. But spare my life, have mercy upon me, I am so young. I do not wish to die."

"Who the devil has said that you are to die, my brave girl?" interrupted the captain's voice. "No, you shall live, with your soft hand, and your warm lips, as true as I'm not a Jesuit, but Lars Larsson, captain in his Royal Majesty's and the Crown's service, and herewith take you ... as my wedded wife, for better or for worse," continued the captain, no doubt because he thought that the well-known formula ought to be said to an end when he had once begun it.

"Away, away, with or without the girl, but away; they are coming, and we still have to pass the large armoury!"

"Allow me to tell you, my friend Bertel, that you are the greatest fidget I know, maximus fiescus, as the ancients so truly expressed themselves. How is it, my girl, you are not a nun ... only a novice? Well, it makes no difference to me. You shall be my wedded wife ... in case I ever marry. Here is a cloak; there now, straighten yourself up and look bold."

"It is no cloak, it is a mass-robe," whispered Ketchen, who had scarcely time to recover from her amazement.

"The deuce, a mass-robe! Wait, you take my cloak, and I will take the robe. I shall chant in their ears dies irae, so that all will be astonished."

The sound of several voices in the armoury outside interrupted the captain in his priestly speculations.

"They have missed the Jesuit, they are looking for him, and we are lost through your silly jabbering," whispered the exasperated Bertel. "We must be careful now not to betray ourselves. Come along, all of you."

"And Latin first!" exclaimed the captain.

All four went out. In the armoury there were about thirty sick beds, but only two sisters in attendance. This sight was reassuring, but much more dangerous was the meeting with two monks, who were in violent altercation in the doorway. When they saw Larsson in the mass-robe, and three figures behind him in hooded cloaks, the pious fathers were evidently startled. The captain raised his arm to bless them, uttered a solemn pax vobiscum, and was then going to steal by with a grave step, when he was checked by the foremost monk.

"Worthy father," said the latter, as he surveyed the unknown prelate from head to foot, "what procures our castle the honour at so unusual a time...?"

"Pax vobiscum!" repeated the captain devoutly. "The pious Father Hieronymus orders you to say mass with all your might ... his reverence is sick ... he has toothache."

"Let us go and wait upon him," said one of the monks, entering the smaller room. But the other seized Larsson by the robe, and regarded him in a way which much alarmed the brave captain.

"Quis vus et quid eltis!" said the captain in a regular dilemma. "Qui quoe quod, meus tuus suus ... go to the devil, you bald-headed baboons!" roared Larsson, unable to restrain himself any longer, and pushing the obstinate monk into the chamber he bolted the door. Then all four hastened at full speed down to the courtyard. The alarm was immediately given behind them; the monks shouting at the top of their voices, and the nuns joining in, until the crowd of people who thronged the courtyard began to listen.

"We are lost!" whispered Ketchen, "if we do not reach the drawbridge by the back way."

They hurried there ... the tumult increased ... they passed the guard at the large sally-port.

"Halt! who's there?"

"Petrus and Paulus," promptly answered Bertel. They were allowed to pass. Fortunately the drawbridge was down. But the whole castle was now alarmed.

"We will jump into the river, the night is dark, they will not see us!" cried Bertel.

"No," said Larsson, "I will not leave my girl, even if it should cost me my head."

"Here stand three saddled horses, be quick and mount."

"Up, you sweetest of all the nuns in Franconia, up in the saddle!" and the captain hastily swung the trembling Ketchen before him on the horse's back. They all galloped away into the darkness. But behind them raged tumult and uproar, the alarm bells sounding in all the turrets, and the whole of Würzburg wondering greatly what could have happened on Xmas eve itself.

Three months after the events related in the preceding chapter we find Lieutenant Bertel one day in one of the rooms at the martial court, which Duke Bernhard of Weimar kept sometimes at Kassel and sometimes at Nassau, or wherever the duties of the war compelled him to go.

It was a spring day in March, 1633. Officers came and departed, orderlies hastened in all directions; Duke Bernhard had the greatest share of the south and west of Germany to look after, and the times were most anxious.

After having waited a good while, the young officer was conducted to the duke. The latter looked up irritably from his maps and papers, and seemed to wait to be spoken to; but Bertel remained silent.

"Who are you?" asked the duke in sharp, harsh tones.

"Gustaf Bertel, Lieutenant in his Royal Majesty's Finnish cavalry."

"What do you want?"

The young man coloured up and remained silent. The duke noticed this and looked at him with a discontented air.

"I understand," the latter said at last, "you have as usual been fighting with the German officers about the girls. I will not allow this sort of thing. A soldier's sword should be reserved for his country's enemies."

"I have not been fighting, your highness."

"All the worse. You came to ask for a furlough to go to Finland. I refuse it to you. I want all my men here. You will stay, Lieutenant. Good-bye!"

"I do not come to ask for a furlough."

"Well, What the devil do you want? Can you not speak out? Be short and quick! Leave the clergy to say prayers, and the girls to blush."

"Your highness has received from his Majesty, the late king, a ring..."

"I cannot remember it."

"... which his Majesty asked your highness to give to an officer in his life-guards."

The duke passed his hand over his high forehead.

"That officer is dead," he said.

"I am that officer, your highness. I was wounded at Lützen, and shortly after taken prisoner by the Imperialists."

Duke Bernhard beckoned Bertel to come nearer, and gave him a searching look; he seemed satisfied with his examination.

"Close the door," he said, "and sit down by my side."

Bertel obeyed. His cheeks were burning with anxiety.

"Young man," said the duke, "you carry on your forehead the marks of your origin, and I ask for no further evidence. Your mother is a peasant's daughter of Storkyro, in Finland, and her name is Emerentia Aronsdotter Bertila."

"No, your highness, the person you speak of is my elder sister, born of my father's first marriage. I have never seen my mother."

The duke looked at him with surprise.

"Very well," said he doubtfully, as he looked among some papers in his portfolio, "we will now speak of this sister of yours, Emerentia Aronsdotter. Her father had performed great services for Carl IX., and he was urged to ask a favour. He asked to be allowed to send his only daughter, then his only child, to Stockholm, to be educated with the young ladies of rank at the Court."

"I know very little about this."

"At thirteen years of age the peasant girl was sent to Stockholm, where her father's vanity and wealth procured her an abode, appearance, and education, far above her station. He was consumed with ambition, and as he himself could not gain a noble crest, he relied upon his daughter's high birth on her mother's side. Bertila's first wife was an orphan of the noble family Stjernkors, deprived of her inheritance by the war, and then rejected by her proud family on account of her marriage with the rich peasant Bertila."

"This is all unknown to me."

"The young Emerentia suffered a great deal in Stockholm from the envy and contempt of her aristocratic companions; for many of them were poorer than herself, and could not endure a plebeian at their side as an equal.

"But her beauty was as extraordinary as her wisdom and goodness. Within two years she had acquired the habits of the upper classes, whilst preserving the rustic simplicity of her heart. This wonderful combination of mental and physical graces reminded old persons of a lovely picture of their youthful days—Karin Mansdotter."

As he said these words, the duke closely watched the young officer; but Bertel did not betray any agitation, and remained silent. All this was something new and incomprehensible to him.

"Very well," continued the duke after a pause. "This beauty did not long remain unnoticed. A very young man of high birth soon fell in love with the beautiful maiden, then only fifteen years old, and she returned his affection with the whole devotion of a first love. This attachment soon became known to those who surrounded the noble youth; state policy was endangered, and the nobility were offended by the distinction thus conferred on a girl of low birth. They resolved to marry the maiden to an officer of the same origin as herself, who had distinguished himself in the Danish War. This intention came to the ears of the young people. Poor children! they were so young; he seventeen, she fifteen, both inexperienced and in love. Shortly after, the youth was sent to the war in Poland. The young girl's marriage came to nothing, and she was sent back by the offended nobility in disgrace to her cabin in Finland. Do you wish to hear any more, Lieutenant Bertel?"

"I do not understand, your highness, what this account of my sister's life has to do with..."

"... the ring you ask for. Patience. When the young man had a secret meeting with his beloved for the last time, just before his departure, she gave him a ring, whose earlier history I do not know, but which was probably made by a Finnish sorcerer, and had all the qualities of a talisman. She conjured her lover to always wear this ring on his finger, in war and danger, as he would thus become invulnerable. Twice this warning was forgotten, once at Dirschau..."

"Great God!"

"... the second time at Lützen."

Bertel's emotions were of such a violent nature that all the blood left his cheeks, and he sat pale as a marble statue.

"Young man, you now know part of what you ought to know, but you do not know all. We have spoken of your sister. We will now speak of yourself. It was his Majesty's intention to offer you a nobleman's coat of arms, and which you with your good sword have so well deserved. But old Aron Bertila, actuated by his hatred for the nobility had asked as a favour that the king would give you an opportunity to gain any other distinction than that one. The king could not refuse this request from a father, and therefore you are still a commoner by name. But I, who am not bound by any promise to your father, will offer you, young man, that which has hitherto been denied you: a knight's spur and coat of arms."

"Your highness ... this favour makes me wonder and mute; how have I deserved it?"

Duke Bernhard smiled with a strange expression.

"How, my friend? you have only half understood me."

Bertel remained silent.

"Well, with or without your knowledge and will, my friend, I already regard you as a nobleman. We will speak more about it another time. Your ring ... Ah! I have forgotten it. Do you remember what it was like?"

The duke now searched zealously in his portfolio. "They say that the king wore a copper ring, and on the inside of it magic signs were engraved, and the letters R.R.R."

"It is possible that I have mislaid it, for I cannot find it. And who the devil has time to think of such childish things? The ring must have been stolen from my private casket. If I find it again I will give it to you, and if not, you know that which is worth more. Go, young man, and be worthy of my confidence and the great king's memory. No one is to know what I have told you. Farewell; we will see each other again."

Again we fly from Germany's spring back to the North's winter. Before we go further on the bloody path of the Thirty Years' War, we will pay a visit to two of the chief personages of this narrative high up in East Bothnia.

It was about Advent time, 1632. A violent storm with heavy snow beat against the old ramparts of Korsholm, and drove the waves of the Baltic against the ice-covered shores. All navigation for the year had ceased. The newly conscripted soldiers had gone to Stralsund by way of Stockholm, at the end of July, and were impatiently waiting for news from the war. Then it happened in the middle of November that a rumour was spread about the country of the king's death. Such reports fly through the air, one does not know how or where they come from. Great misfortunes are known at a distance as presentiments, just as an earthquake far beyond its own circle causes a qualm in the mind. But this report had more than once been spread and refuted. The people relied upon King Gustaf Adolf's good fortune, and when corroboration did not arrive, the whole matter was forgotten, all thinking it was a false story.

It is an ordinary fact in life that, as we hate those to whom we have occasioned a wrong, so we feel well disposed towards persons whom we have had the opportunity of serving. Lady Marta of Korsholm was not a little proud of her brave defence against the drunken soldiers, and did not hesitate to attribute the preservation of the castle to the heroism she had then displayed. That she had saved Regina's life gave the latter great importance in her eyes; and neither could she refuse her admiration for the courage and self-sacrifice which the young girl had shown on the same occasion. The high-born prisoner was her pride; and she did not omit to watch her steps like an Argus; but she gave Regina a larger room, let her have old Dorthe again as a waiting woman, and provided her with an abundance of good food. Regina also was less proud and cold, she would sometimes answer Lady Marta with a word or a nod; but of all the nice things that were offered her, the choice meats, the strong beer, etc., she took little or nothing; she had sunk apparently into a state of indifference, told her beads devoutly, but in other respects let one day pass as another.

Lady Marta held the deep conviction that her prisoner, if not precisely the Roman Emperor's own daughter, was, nevertheless, a princess of the highest birth. She therefore hit upon the unlucky idea of trying to convert so distinguished a person from her papistical heresy, on the supposition that she would thereby accomplish something very remarkable when the war was ended and Regina was exchanged. Regina thus became exposed to the same proselytizing attempts which she herself had undertaken with the great Gustaf Adolf; but Lady Marta's were not so delicate or refined in their application as her own. She overwhelmed the poor girl with Lutheran sermons, psalm-books, and tracts, also often made long speeches interspersed with proverbs, and when this was without avail, she sent the castle chaplain to preach to the prisoner. Of course all this occurred to deaf ears. Regina was sufficiently firm in her faith to listen with patience, but she suffered from it; her stay at Korsholm became more unbearable every day, and who can blame her, if with secret longings she sighed for the day when she could regain her freedom.

Dorthe, on the contrary, flamed up every time the heretic preacher or the plucky old lady began their sermons, and rattled through a whole string of prayers and maledictions both in Latin and Low German, the result generally being that she was shut up for two or three days in the dungeon of the castle, until her longing for her lady's company once more made her tractable.

And so passed a half-year of Lady Regina's captivity.

A better product of Lady Marta's goodwill was, that Regina was allowed to embroider, and fine materials were ordered for her in the autumn from Stockholm. Thus it became possible for her to work a large piece of silk with the Virgin Mary and the infant Christ in silver and gold. Lady Marta in her innocence considered the work a sacrament cloth, which Regina might present to Vasa church, as a proof of her change of sentiments. A warrior's eyes, on the other hand, would have discerned in it an intended flag, a Catholic banner, which the imprisoned girl was quietly preparing in expectation of the day when her work would wave at the head of the Catholic hosts.

Still Lady Marta was not quite satisfied with the Holy Virgin's image, which seemed to her surrounded by too large a halo to be truly Lutheran. She therefore considered how she could procure her prisoner a more suitable occupation. It happened now and then that the daughter of the Storkyro peasant king, Meri, when she was in town, made an errand to Korsholm, and in order to gain the favour of the lady of the castle, presented her with several skeins of the finest and silkiest linen floss, which no one in the whole vicinity could spin as well as Meri. Lady Marta consequently got the idea one fine day to teach her prisoner to spin, and to give her Meri as a teacher in this art. Meri on her part desired nothing better. The near connection in which the imprisoned lady had stood to the king, gave her an irresistible interest in Meri's eyes. She wished to hear something about him—the hero, the king, the great, never-to-be-forgotten man, who stood before her mind's eye with more than earthly lustre. She wished to know what he had said, what he had done, what he had loved and hated on earth; she wished for once to feel herself transported by his glory, and then to die herself—forgotten. Poor Meri!

So Meri made her second acquaintance with Lady Regina in the castle. She was received at first with coldness and indifference, and her spinning scarcely pleased the proud young lady. But gradually her submissive mild demeanour won Regina's goodwill, and a captive's natural desire to communicate with beings outside the prison walls finally made Regina more open.

They spun very little, it is true, but they talked together like mistress and maid, especially during the days when Dorthe was shut up on account of her wicked tongue, and it was quite opportune that Meri recollected some German from more brilliant days. Meri knew how to constantly lead the conversation on to the subject of the king, and she soon divined Regina's enthusiastic love. But Regina was very far from having any idea of Meri's earlier experiences; she ascribed her questions to the natural curiosity which such high personages always excite in the minds of the common people. Sometimes she seemed astonished at the delicacy and nobleness of the simple peasant woman's expressions and views. There were moments when Meri's personality appeared to her as an enigma full of contradictions, and then she asked herself whether she ought not to consider this woman as a spy. But the next instant she repented this thought; and when the spinner looked at her with her clear, mild, penetrating gaze, then there was something which said to Regina's heart, this woman does not dissemble.

They were sitting one day in the beginning of December, and Dorthe was again shut up for her unseasonable remarks to the chaplain. There was a striking contrast between these two beings whom fate had brought together from such opposite directions, but who on one point shared the same interest.

The first, young, proud, dark, flashing, and beautiful, a princess, even in captivity; the other of middle age, blonde, pale, mild, humble, and free, and yet very submissive. Regina now seventeen, could be considered twenty; Meri now thirty-six, had something so childish and innocent in her whole appearance, that at certain moments she might be taken for seventeen. She could have been Regina's mother, and yet she who had suffered so much, seemed almost like a child in comparison with the early matured southerner at her side. Lady Regina had been spinning a little, and during the operation broken many threads. Provoked and impatient, she pushed the distaff away and resumed her embroidery. This happened very often, and her instructress was accustomed to it.

"That is a pretty image," said Meri, after a look at the piece of silk. "What does it represent?"

"God's Holy Mother, Sancta Maria," answered Regina, as she made the sign of the cross, which she was always in the habit of doing when mentioning the name of the Holy Virgin.

"And what is it for?" asked Meri with a naïve familiarity.

Regina looked at her. Again a suspicion came into her mind, but it immediately passed away.

"I am embroidering the banner of the Holy Faith for Germany," replied Regina proudly. "When it one day waves, the heretics will flee before the wrath of the mother of God."

"When I think of the mother of God," said Meri, "I imagine her mild, good, and peaceful; I imagine her as a mother alone with her love." Meri said these words with a peculiar tremor in her voice.

"The mother of God is Heaven's queen; she will fight against the godless and destroy them."

"But when the mother of God takes to strife, King Gustaf Adolf will meet her with uncovered head and lowered sword, bend his knee to her, and say: 'Holy Virgin, I am not fighting for thy glory, but for that of thy son, our Saviour.' 'He that fights for my son also fights for me,' she will reply, 'because I am a mother.'"

"Your king is a heretic," excitedly answered Regina. Nothing irritated her more than opposition to the Catholic faith, of which the doctrine of the Holy Virgin as Heaven's ruler is a constituent. "Your king is a tyrant and unbeliever who deserves all the anger of the saints on his head. Do you know, Meri, that I hate your king?"

"And I love him," said Meri in a scarcely audible voice.

"Yes," continued Regina, "I hate him like sin, death, and perdition. If I were a man and had an arm and sword, it would be the aim of my life to destroy his hosts and his work. You are happy, Meri, you know nothing about the war, you do not know what Gustaf Adolf has done to the poor Catholics. But I have seen it, and my faith and my country cry out for revenge. There are moments when I could kill him."

"And when Lady Regina lifts her white hand with the gleaming dagger over the king's head, then the king will expose his breast where the great heart beats; look at her little white hand with a glance of sublime calmness and say, 'Thou delicate white hand, which worketh the image of the mother of God, strike, if thou canst, my heart is here, and it beats for the freedom and enlightenment of the world;' then the white hand will sink slowly down, and the dagger will drop from it, unnoticed, and God's mother on the cloth will smile again. She knew well that it would be so. It would have been just the same with herself. For King Gustaf Adolf none can kill, and none hate, because God's angel walks by his side and turns human beings' hate to love."

Regina forgot her work, and regarded Meri with her large, dark, moist eyes. There was so much that surprised and astonished her in these words, but she kept silent. Finally she said:

"The king wears an amulet."

"Yes," said Meri, "he wears a talisman, but it is not the copper ring that the people speak of—it is his exalted human heart which gives up everything for what is good and noble on earth. When he was still very young, and had not yet acquired fame or renown, he only possessed his blonde hair, his high brow, and his mild blue eyes. Then he wore no amulet, and yet blessing and love and happiness walked by his side. All the angels in Heaven and all human beings on earth loved him."

Regina's eyes glistened with tears.

"Did you see him when he was young?" she asked.

"Did I see him! yes."

"And you have loved him like all the others?"

"More than all the others, lady."

"And you love him still?"

"Yes, I love him much. Like you; but you would kill him and I would die for him."

Regina sprang up, burst out weeping, clasped Meri in her arms and kissed her.

"Do not think that I would kill him. Oh, Holy Virgin, I would a thousand times give my life to save his! But you do not know, Meri. It is an anguish that you cannot understand, it is a fearful conflict when one loves a man, a hero, the personification of the highest and grandest in life, and yet is commanded by a Holy Faith to hate this man, to kill him, to persecute him to the grave. You do not know, happy one, who only needs to love and bless, what it means to be tossed between love and hate, like a ship on the mighty waves; to be obliged to curse one whom you bless in your heart, to sit within the walls of a prison a prey to the battling emotions which incessantly struggle for mastery in your innermost soul. Ah! that was the night, when I tried to reconcile my love with my faith, and bring him, the mighty one, to the way of salvation. If the saints had then allowed my weak voice to convince him of his error ... Then poor Regina would have followed him with joy as his humblest servant through all his life, and received in her own breast all the lances and balls that sought his heart. But the saints did not grant me—unworthy being—so great an honour, and therefore I now sit here a prisoner on account of my faith and my love; and if an angel broke down the walls of my prison and said to me, 'Fly, your country again awaits you,' I would answer: 'It is his will, the beloved; for his sake I suffer, for his sake I remain,' and yet you believe that I wish to kill him."

Regina wept much and bitterly, with all the violence of an intense passion which had been pent up for a long time. Meri with gentle hands removed the dark locks from her brow, and looking mildly and kindly into her tearful eyes, said with prophetic inspiration:

"Do not weep so, the day will arrive when you will be able to love without being obliged to curse him at the same time!"

"That day will never come, Meri."

"Yes, that day will come, when Gustaf Adolf is dead."

"Oh, may it never come, then! Rather would I suffer all my life ... It is still for his sake."

"Yes, lady, that day will come, not because you are younger and he is older. But have you never heard anyone say of a child which is brighter, kinder, and better than others, 'that child will not live long; it is too good for this world?' So does it seem to me about King Gustaf Adolf. He is too great, too noble, too good, to live long. God's angels wish to have him before his body withers and his soul grows weary. Believe me, they will take him from us."

Regina looked at her with an alarmed air.

"Who are you that speaks such words? How your eyes shine! you are not what you seem! who are you then? Oh, Holy Virgin, protect me!"

And Regina started up with all the superstitious terror that belonged to her time. Probably she could not account for her fear, but Meri's conversation had all along seemed strange and unaccountable, coming from the mouth of an uncultivated peasant woman in this barbarous land.

"Who am I?" repeated Meri, with the same mild look. "I am a woman who loves. That is all."

"And you say that the king will die?"

"God alone presides over human destinies, and the greatest among mortals is still but a mortal."

At that moment someone opened the door, and Lady Marta entered more solemnly than usual, and also somewhat paler. She now wore, instead of her bright striped woollen jacket, a deep mourning attire, and her whole appearance indicated something unusual. Regina and Meri both started at the sight.

Meri became pale as death, went straight to Lady Marta, looked her fixedly in the face, and said mechanically with a great effort,

"The king is dead."

"Do you know it already?" answered Lady Marta, surprised. "God preserve us, the bad news came an hour ago, with a courier from Tornea."

Lady Regina sank down in a swoon.

Meri, with a broken heart, retained her self-possession, and tried to recall Regina to life.

"The king has then fallen on the battlefield in the midst of victory?" she asked.

"On the battlefield of Lützen, the 6th of November, and in the midst of a glorious victory," replied Lady Marta, more and more surprised at Meri's knowledge.

"Awake, gracious lady, he has lived and died like a hero, worthy of the admiration of the whole world. He has fallen in the hour of triumph, in the highest lustre of his glory; his name will live in all times, and his name we will both bless."

Regina opened her dreamy eyes and clasped her hands in prayer.

"Oh, Holy Virgin," she said, "I thank thee that thou hast let him go in his greatness from the world, and thus taken away the curse which rested upon my love!"

And Meri dropped down at her side in prayer.

But below in the castle yard stood a tall, white-haired old man, with his stiff features distorted by grief and despair.

"A curse upon my work!" he cried; "my plan is frustrated beforehand, and the object for which I have lived slips from my grasp. Oh, fool that I was, to count upon a human being's life, and trying to hope that the king would acknowledge his son, and live until the son of Aron Bertila's daughter had time to win a brilliant fame in war, and walk abreast with the heiress to the Swedish throne! The king is dead, and my descendant is only a boy in his minority, who will soon be mixed with the multitude. Now it is only wanting for him to gain a nobleman's coat of arms, and place himself amongst the vampires between the only true powers of the state, the king and the people. Fool, fool that I was! The king is dead! Go, old Bertila, into the grave to fraternize with King John and the destroyer of aristocracy, King Carl, and bury thy proud plans among the same worms that have already consumed Prince Gustaf and Karin Mansdotter!"

And the old man seized Meri, who just then came out, violently by the hand, and said:

"Come, we have neither of us anything more to do in the world!"

"Yes," said Meri with suppressed grief, "we both still have a son!"

Until now the Swedish lion, through the wisdom and valour of Gustaf Adolf, and of the leaders and men trained under him, had hastened from victory to victory, and overthrown all his opponents. At last a day of misfortune dawned; in a great battle the Swedish arms suffered a terrible defeat.

The brilliant Wallenstein had died the death of a traitor at Eger; now Gallas, the destroyer, overran central Germany, captured Regensburg, and advanced against the free city of Nördlingen, in Schwaben; Duke Bernhard and Gustaf Horn hurried with the Swedish army to its rescue. They had, however, but 17,000 men, whilst Gallas had 33,000.

"We will attack," said the duke.

"Let us wait," said Horn.

They expected 5,000 men as a reinforcement, and fourteen days passed. Then Nördlingen came to sore straits, and began to light beacon fires on the walls at night. Again the duke wished to attack; again Horn preferred to entrench and assist the city without battle. Then they called this brave soul a cowardly man; and, indignant, but with dark presentiments, he resolved to fight. Repeated victories had made the Swedes over-confident, and they entered the conflict assured of success beforehand.

The battle took place on the 26th of August, 1634. Outside Nördlingen is a height called Arensberg, and between it and the town a smaller one. Upon the last the Imperialists had raised three redoubts.

The Swedish army stood on Arensberg, Horn on the right and the duke on the left wing. The battle-cry was the same as at Breitenfeld and Lützen: God with us!

Early in the morning a heavy rain fell. Once more the wise Horn wished to wait, but the duke, who held the supreme command, ordered an advance. Horn obeyed, and the right wing marched down the valley between the two heights. The impatience of the cavalry hastened the conflict, which resulted unfavourably even in the very beginning. The cannon of the Imperialists in the redoubts made great gaps in the lines of the cavalry, and the enemy's superiority made them hesitate. Horn sent two brigades to storm the middle redoubt. They captured it and pursued the enemy. Piccolomini checked their course and drove them back to the redoubt. There the powder happened to take fire. With a terrific explosion the earthwork flew into the air, and several hundreds of Swedes and Finns with it. This was the first calamity.

Upon this position, however, depended the victory. For a few moments the spot stood empty; Piccolomini's soldiers, alarmed by the report and destruction, could not be induced to advance and occupy it. At last they did so. Horn asked for help in order to expel them. The duke sent the young Bohemian, Thurn, with the yellow regiment. He made a mistake, attacked the wrong redoubt, and engaged with a greatly superior force. Seventeen times he charged the enemy, and as often was he repulsed. In vain did Horn try to storm the height. Thurn's error was the second calamity.

On the left wing the duke had begun the conflict against the artillery and cavalry. At the first encounter the Imperialists were hurled back, and the duke's German cavalry broke their ranks and pursued the enemy. But Tilly's spirit seemed to-day to give the Imperialists courage. They advanced their ordered and superior troops against the assailants, checked them, and drove them back with loss. The duke tried to get reinforcements into Nördlingen, but failed. In vain did he drive Gallas before him. New masses of the enemy constantly opposed him, and in his rear the Croats plundered his baggage-wagons.

It was about noon. Horn's troops had been under fire for eight consecutive hours, and were worn out with fatigue. With every hour their hopes of victory grew less and less, but their unflinching, indomitable courage remained the same. They had observed the disorder in the left wing. They themselves were in a desperate plight down in the valley, where Piccolomini's bullets fell every moment into the underbush, and sprinkled the fallen branches with blood. Then Horn proposed to withdraw to Arensberg, and the duke at last consented. He considered the matter, however, for nearly two hours; but these two hours he would afterwards have been glad to purchase with half a lifetime.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Horn made the Finnish cavalry make a feigned attack, so as to cover the retreat, and began like a prudent general to withdraw in good order. The Imperialists perceiving his intention, pressed on with double force. They began to hope, what they had not dared to entertain before, that even the Swedes might be conquered, and Piccolomini's stumpy figure flew through the ranks, urging his men to bear down with their collected forces upon the Swedes' exposed flanks, and totally crush them.

In the valley behind the Swedes and between the two heights flowed a stream with high banks, and swollen by the abundant rains. At the little village of Hirnheim, the stream was spanned by a single bridge, and this point Horn had carefully guarded in order to secure the retreat. The artillery passed first over the bridge, and were safe on Arensberg. The first lines of Horn's wing had also reached the village, and the rest were only a short distance from it, when a new calamity occurred, the third and the worst on this most disastrous day. Duke Bernhard had undertaken to detain the enemy with his left wing until Horn and his men had crossed the stream. But he soon discovered that he had consulted valour rather than prudence. The enemy concentrated their forces, and increased their terrible attacks. Three times De Werth charged the duke's cavalry; three times was he repulsed. The fourth time, however, he broke through the duke's lines. In vain the latter sent a squadron to take him in flank. Mad with rage, the duke snatched his gold-embroidered banner from an ensign's hand, and followed by his bravest men, rushed into the midst of the enemy. It was all useless. His best men were slain, his horse shot under him, and the banner wrenched from his hand; wounded and overpowered he was nearly taken prisoner, when a young officer at his side lent him his horse, and he escaped with great difficulty. His infantry had already been routed, being unable to support the attacks of the cavalry on the open plain; and when the wounded leader galloped away, his whole wing followed in the utmost disorder, convinced that all was lost.

At that moment, Horn's infantry crossed the narrow bridge. Then confused and loud cries arose, that the battle was lost, and the enemy close upon them. First single horsemen, then whole troops of the duke's cavalry rushed along the road to the bridge, and rode amongst the infantry, trampling some under their horses' hoofs, and throwing the rest into fearful confusion. The efforts of Horn and his nearest officers to stay the frantic rout were fruitless. On the narrow bridge everything was mixed pell-mell—men, horses, wagons, dead, and wounded; and finally the duke's whole wing rushed to this fatal spot. Like a storm Piccolomini pressed upon the rear of the fugitives; he sent some light guns up on the heights, where they played with terrible effect on the retreating mass; every ball cut long lanes through it. Then the Croats fell upon the rout, and as friend and foe became mixed together, the artillery fire had to cease. The long lances and swords of the Imperial cavalry made great slaughter. All the Swedes and Finns seemed doomed to destruction.

Gustaf Horn, the wise and courageous Finnish general, whom Gustaf Adolf called "his right hand," was now the last to retain self-possession and courage at this terrible crisis. With the remains of three regiments he had taken up a position by the bridge, and the fugitives fled past him without drawing his force into the current. They implored him to save himself; but his stubborn, Finnish will refused to listen to these appeals, and he stayed where he was. For a time the pursuit was checked, the only thing that Horn hoped to gain by his intrepid resistance. Gallas sent one of his best Spanish brigades to oust him. Horn drove them back with loss. The victorious De Werth fell upon him with his dragoons. The result was the same. The enemy now concentrated their forces, and Horn was attacked on three sides at once. They offered him his life if he would surrender. He replied with a sword-thrust, and his men gave the same response. Not one would ask for quarter. At last, when nearly all those near him had fallen, he was overwhelmed by numbers and taken prisoner. Then the few surviving heroes surrendered.

When the Swedish army in full flight rushed over Arensberg, Duke Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar tore his hair, and exclaimed that he was a fool, and Horn a wise man. Later on the duke consoled himself with Elsas, but that day he had reason to repent of his rashness. Six thousand Swedes, Finns, and Germans covered the blood-stained heights of Nordlingen; 6,000 were taken prisoners, and amongst them the two Finns, Horn and Wittenberg, who were well treated by the enemy. Of the other 10,000, half were wounded, and most of the remaining mercenaries deserted. The army had lost 4,000 baggage-wagons, 300 banners, and all their artillery. A miserable remnant made its way to Mentz, plundering and pillaging as it fled, and suffering from extreme want.

More disastrous to Sweden than the loss of these 12,000 men was the damage to its prestige, and the enemy's regained belief in victory. The battle of Nordlingen became the turning point in the Thirty Years' War, and excited both joy and consternation. throughout Europe, until Baner's genius and victories restored their lost lustre to the Swedish arms once more.

Amongst those who fought at Horn's side to the last, was our old friend, Captain Larsson. The sturdy little captain had on this occasion no time to open his talkative mouth; he perspired profusely from the heat, and had fought since dawn; yet he had not received the least scratch upon his fleshy person. Let it be said in his praise, that at Nordlingen he thought of neither Rhine wine or Bavarian nuns, but honestly plied his weapons as well as possible. Nevertheless, we will not assert that he then cut down thirty Imperialists with his trusty sword, as he afterwards declared in good faith.

He was taken prisoner with Horn; but it was not his capture that most provoked the captain, but the terrible vexation he experienced on seeing the Croats afterwards empty at their leisure the Swedish stock of wine which they had captured with the baggage-wagons.

Another of our friends, Lieutenant Bertel, fought at the duke's side all day, and was the one who offered him his horse. We shall see, by-and-by, that the duke did not forget this service. Bertel, like Larsson, was hotly engaged in the battle, but, less fortunate than the latter, received several wounds, and was finally borne along in the stream of fugitives to Arensberg. Almost without knowing how, he found himself the next day far from the battlefield, and proceeded with the remnant of the duke's army to Mentz.

It is Epiphany, in 1635, thus in mid-winter. In Aron Bertila's "stuga,"* at Storkyro, a large fire of pine logs crackled on the spacious hearth, for at that time heavy forests still grew around the fertile fields. Outside rages a snow-storm, with a heavy blast; the wolves howl on the ice of the stream; the famished lynx prowls around to find shelter. It is Twelfth-day evening, an hour or two after twilight. The Storkyro peasant king sits in his high-backed chair, at a short distance from the hearth, listening with scattered thoughts to his daughter Meri, who by the firelight reads aloud a chapter of Agricola's Finnish New Testament, for at that period the whole Bible had not been translated into the Finnish tongue. Bertila has grown very old since we last met him, then still vigorous in his old age. The great ideas that constantly revolve in his bald head give him no peace, and yet these plans are now completely shattered by the king's death, like fragments from a shipwreck floating around on the stormy billows of a dark sea. Strong souls like his generally succumb only by destroying themselves. All the changes and misfortunes of his turbulent life had not been able to break his iron will; but grief over a ruined hope, the vain attempt to reconstruct the vanished castles in the air, and the sorrow of seeing his own children themselves tear down his work, all this gnawed like a vulture upon his inner life. A single thought had made him twenty years older in two years, and this idea was presumptuous even to madness.

* A large room, filling the entire house space with the exception of one or two small chambers. Sleeping bunks are arranged round the walls. The later peasants' houses have more rooms.

"Why is not one of my own family at this moment King of Sweden?" Thus it ran.

At times Meri raises her mild blue eyes from the Holy Book and regards her old father with anxious looks. She, too, looks older; the quiet sorrow lies like the autumn over green groves; it neither breaks or kills, but makes the fresh leaves wither on the tree of life. Meri's glance is full of peace and submission. The thought that shines forth from her soul like a sun at its setting, is none other than this:

"Beyond the grave I shall again meet the joy of my heart, and then he will no longer wear an earthly crown."

Near her, to the left, sits old Larsson, short and stout like his jovial son. His good-natured, hearty face has for a time assumed a more solemn expression, as he listens to the reading of the sacred book. His hands are folded as in prayer, and now and then he stirs the fire a little, with friendly attention, so that Meri can see better.

Behind him in a devotional attitude sit some of the field hands; and this group, illuminated by the reflection of the fire, is completed by a purring grey cat, and a large shaggy watch-dog, curled up under Meri's feet, to which he seems proud to serve as a footstool.

When Meri in her reading came to the place in Luke, where it speaks of the Prodigal Son, old Bertila's eyes began to glitter with a sinister light.

"The reprobate!" he muttered to himself. "To waste one's inheritance, that is nothing! But to forget one's old father ... by God, that is shameful!"

Meri read until she came to the Prodigal Son's repentance: "And he arose and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him."

"What a fool of a father!" again muttered Aron Bertila to himself. "He ought to have bound him with cords, beaten him with rods, and then driven him away from his house back to the riotous living and the empty wine-cups!"

"Father!" whispered Meri reproachfully. "Be merciful, as our Heavenly Father is merciful, and takes the lost children to His arms."

"And if your son ever returns..." began Larsson in the same tone. But Bertila stopped him.

"Hold your tongues, and don't trouble yourselves about me. I have no longer any son ... who falls repentant at my feet," he added directly, when he saw two large, clear pearls glistening in Meri's eyelashes.

She continued: "And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son."

"Stop reading that!" burst out the old man, in a bad temper. "See that my bed is in order, and let the folks go to sleep; it is now late."

At this moment horses' hoofs were heard outside on the creaking snow. This unusual occurrence on the evening of a sacred day made Larsson go to the low window, and breathe on the frost-covered pane, so as to look out into the storm. A sleigh, drawn by two horses, worked its way through the snow-drifts and drove into the yard. Two men in sheep-skin cloaks jumped out.

Seized with a sudden intuition, Larsson hurried out to meet the travellers, and quick as lightning Meri followed him. The door swung to behind them, and there was a moment's delay before it opened again.

But now a young man in a soldier's garb entered with bowed head, threw aside his plumed hat, white with snow, and going straight to old Bertila, knelt down, and bent his beautiful curly head still lower, as he said:

"Father, I am here, and ask your blessing!"

And behind him stood Meri and old Larsson, both with clasped hands, and raising their pleading eyes to the stern old man, with the same words:

"Father, here is thy son, give him thy blessing!"

For a brief moment Bertila struggled with himself, his lips slightly trembled, and his hand was unconsciously stretched out, as if to lift up the young man at his feet. But soon his bald head rose higher, his hand drew back, his keen eyes flashed darker than ever, and his lips trembled no more.

"Go!" said he, short and sharp; "go, you reprobate boy, back to your brother noblemen, and your sisters, the fine ladies. What seek you in the plain peasant's 'stuga,' which you despise? Go! I have no longer a son!"

But the youth went not.

"Do not be angry, my father," he said, "if in my youthful ambition I have at any time violated your commands. Who sent me out amongst the great and illustrious ones of the earth, to win fame and honour? Who bade me go to the war to ennoble my peasant name with great deeds? Who exposed me to the temptation of all the brilliant examples which surrounded the king? You, and only you, my father; and now you thrust away your son, who for your sake twice refused a patent of nobility."

"You!" exclaimed the old man with foaming rage. "You renounce a patent of nobility, you, who have blushed for your peasant name and taken another which would look more imposing? No, on your knees have you begged for a coat of arms. What do I know about its being offered you; what do I care. I only know that since your earliest childhood I have tried to implant in your soul, recreant, that there are no other rightful powers than the king and people, that all who place themselves between, whether they bear the name of aristocrats, ecclesiastics, or what not, are monstrosities, a ruin, a curse to State and country ... all this have I tried to teach you, and the fruit of my teachings has been that you have smuggled yourself among this nobility, which I hate and despise, that you have coveted its empty titles, paraded with its extravagant display, imbibed its prejudices, and now you stand here, in your father's house, with a lie on your lips, and aristocratic vanity in your heart. Go, degenerate son! Aron Bertila is what he has always been—a peasant! He curses and rejects you, apostate!"

With these words the old man turned away, rose and went with a firm step and a high head into the little bed-chamber, leaving Bertel still on his knees in the same place.

"Hear me, father, father!" cried Bertel after him, as he quickly unbuttoned his coat and took out a folded paper; "this paper I have intended to tear to pieces at your feet!"

But the old father did not hear him; the paper fell to the ground, and when Larsson, a moment later, unfolded and read it, he saw it contained a diploma from the Regency in Stockholm, conferring upon Gustaf Bertel, captain of horse in the "life-guards," a patent of nobility, and a coat of arms with the name of Bertelsköld* at Duke Bernhard of Weimar's solicitation.

* Bertila is a Finnish peasant name. Bertel is a burgher name. Bertelsköld is a noble name, indicated by the termination sköld, always a sign of nobility in Sweden and Finland.

While all in the "stuga" were still perfectly stupefied by old Bertila's conduct, three of Fru Marta's soldiers from Korsholm entered in great haste.

"Hullo, boys!" they exclaimed to the hands, "have you seen her? Here is something that will pay. Two hundred silver thalers reward to him who seizes and brings back, alive or dead, Lady Regina von Emmeritz, state prisoner at Korsholm."

At the sound of this name Bertel was aroused from his stupefying grief, sprang up, and seized the speaker by the collar.

"Wretch, what did you say?" he exclaimed.

"Ho, ho, if you please! Be a little more careful when you speak to the people of the Royal Majesty and the Crown. I tell you that the German traitress, the papistical sorceress, Lady von Emmeritz, succeeded in escaping last night from Korsholm castle, and that he who does not help to catch her is a traitor and a..."

The man had no time to finish his speech, before a blow from Bertel's strong arm stretched him at full-length on the floor.

"Ha, my father, you have wished it!" cried the young man, and in a flash was outside the door and in his sleigh, which at the next moment was heard driving off through the raging tempest.

We will now see what has become of Lady Regina, and what has induced her to exchange Fru Marta's tender care for the desperate adventure of fleeing in the middle of winter, through a strange country filled with desolate tracts, where she was profoundly ignorant of the roads and paths, and did not even know how to make herself understood in the language of the people.

We must not overlook the fact that our story is laid in a period when Catholicism and Lutheranism were in the sharpest conflict; when Lutheranism, heated by the violent opposition, was as little inclined to religious tolerance as Catholicism itself. Fru Marta had once for all been possessed by the idea that she was in duty bound to convert Lady Regina to the Lutheran faith, and from this well-meant but futile enterprise, no one could dissuade her. She therefore persisted, in and out of season, to torment the poor girl with her views; sometimes with books, sometimes with exhortations, and at others with persuasions and threats, or promises of freedom; and when Regina refused to read the books, or listen to the preaching, the zealous old lady had prayers read in her prisoner's room every morning and evening, as well as services on Sundays. All these means were thrown away on what Fru Marta considered Regina's stubbornness. The more the former exerted herself, the calmer, colder, and more unyielding became her captive. Regina naturally looked upon herself as a martyr for her faith, and suffered every humiliation with apparent fortitude for the sake of the holy cause.

But within the young girl's veins fermented the hot southern blood, and it was with great difficulty that she could always appear calm on the surface. There were times when Regina would have blown up the whole of Korsholm, if it had been in her power. But the old granite walls defied her silent rage, and flight finally became her only method of escape from the persecution. Night and day she pondered over it; and at last she discovered a means of eluding Fru Marta's vigilance.

In Kajaneborg castle was then confined the celebrated and unfortunate Johannes Messenius, who in his youth had been educated by the Jesuits in Braunsberg, and chosen by them to become the apostle of Catholicism in Sweden. Imprisoned for his lampoons and conspiracies in the interest of Sigismund's party, he had now for nineteen years, under hard treatment, sat there like a mole in his hole, when the report of his learning, his misfortunes, and his Popish sentiments reached Lady Regina in her prison. From this moment some bold plans began to ferment in the young girl's mind.

One day, about New Year's time, a wandering German quack came to Korsholm with his medicine-chest on his back, just like peddling Jews at a later date.* Such doctors and apothecaries combined in one individual did a lucrative business at the expense of the common people, and were frequently consulted even by the upper classes, for in the whole country there was not a single regular physician, and only one apothecary in Abo; and even this one was not well stocked. No wonder, then, that our man found enough to do, even at Korsholm, what with pains, stomach-aches, and gout; nay, Fru Marta, who, every time she had thrashed her male servants, complained of colic and shortness of breath, received the foreign doctor with very good will. In a few days the latter was quite at home, and thus it fell out that he was called in to prescribe for Lady Regina, who was suffering from a severe headache.

* It was peculiar that the surgeon always spoke of quacks with great contempt, although he had himself travelled about with a medicine chest on his back.

This time, Fru Marta's usual perspicacity deserted her. Two days afterwards the young lady, old Dorthe, and the quack doctor were all missing. A grating which had been broken off from the outside, and a rope ladder, made it certain that the quack had been instrumental in procuring for the prisoner a free passage over wall and ramparts. Fru Marta forgot both her colic and shortness of breath, from sheer amazement and anger, stirred up the castle and the town, and immediately dispatched her soldiers in all directions to capture the fugitives. It will soon be seen how far she succeeded.

Let us now return for a moment to Bertel, whom we find driving ahead in the stormy night, attended by the faithful Pekka, and with a heart full of the most conflicting feelings. The faithful attendant could not understand the enormous folly of leaving a cheerful fireside and good wholesome porridge, for snow-drifts and wolves in the wild woods, as soon as they had arrived. Neither did Bertel comprehend it himself. On returning to the north, by way of Tornel, on a furlough from Germany, while the army lay in winter quarters, he had hurried through Storkyro to Vasa, which was his secret destination. And now he had met in one place a father's anger, and in the other the empty walls, where she had been, but was no longer. Regina had disappeared without leaving a trace.

"Where shall I drive?" asked Pekka monotonously and gruffly, when they entered the broad highway.

"Wherever you like," answered his master just as testily.

Pekka turned his horses towards Vasa, about twenty miles away. Bertel noticed this.

"Ass!" he cried, "have I not ordered you to drive north?"

"North!" repeated Pekka mechanically, and with a heavy sigh turned his horses towards Ny-Karleby, to which town it was quite forty miles. At that time they had no regular stations, with horses provided for the accommodation of travellers. But there were farms at intervals, where all who travelled on Government business could reckon on finding horses, while other travellers were obliged to bargain as best they could.

The parsonages were the usual stopping-places for the night, and always had a room in order in an out-building, where beds of straw and a table with cold food stood hospitably prepared for travellers.

It was, therefore, quite natural that Pekka, with his mind still full of the porridge-kettle, ventured to ask as a further question whether they would spend the night at Wort parsonage.

"Drive to Ylihärmä," answered the captain of horse, provoked, and wrapping himself up in his long sheepskin cloak, for the night wind was icy cold.

"The devil take me if I understand the pranks of these noblemen!" murmured Pekka to himself, as he turned off into the narrow village road, which from Storkyro leads northward towards Lappo parish.

Here the snow had drifted several feet high between the fences, and the travellers could only advance step by step. After an hour's efforts the horses were completely worn out, and stopped every few paces.

Bertel, absorbed in his thoughts, was scarcely conscious of it. They had left Kyro's wide plains behind them, and were now in the midst of Lappo's thick woods. The silence of the wilderness, interrupted by the wailing of the storm, surrounded the travellers on all sides, and as far as the eye could reach there were no traces of human habitations.

Pekka had for a time walked by the side of the sleigh, and with his broad shoulders lifted it up again, when it sank so deep in the snow that the horses' strength was insufficient to move it from the spot.

Finally his sinewy arms also refused their services, and the sleigh stopped right in the midst of a mountain of snow.

"Well!" exclaimed Bertel impatiently, "what is the matter?"

"Nothing," replied Pekka stolidly, "except that we need neither priest nor undertaker to find us a grave."

"How far is it from here to the nearest farm?"

"Between six and seven miles, I think."

"Do you not see something resembling a light, far away there in the woods?"

"Yes, yes, it looks like it..."

"Unharness the horses and let us ride there."

"No, dear master, it is of no use; these woods have been fearfully haunted, that I know of old, ever since the peasants beat the bailiff to death during the Club War, and burned his house and his innocent children."

"Nonsense! I tell you that we will ride there."

"It is all the same to me."

In a few moments the horses were taken out of the traces, and the two travellers pushed on in the direction of the light, which sometimes disappeared and then again shone between the snow-covered pines.

"But tell me, Pekka," resumed Bertel, "what is the story about this wilderness? I remember that I often heard them speak of it in my childhood."

"Yes, yes, your mother was born here."

"There used to be quite a little colony in this wood."

"Yes, indeed, it was many hundreds of acres in extent. The bailiffs had laid it all out for miles, as far back as Gustaf Vasa's time; and here many hundreds of tons of grain have been grown, so father has told me; and the noble bailiff had built a fine house here, and lived like a prince in the wilderness; and then, as I told you, the peasants came and set fire to the place in the night-time, destroying both people and cattle, with the exception of the young 'Lady,' whom your father saved and afterwards took for his wife. It is very certain that he had a finger in that pie."

"And so the farm was never built up again."

"You may depend upon it that the fields were a fat slice, and so there were plenty of people ready to move here and bid defiance to the devil. But the old Evil One was too artful for them; he began to make such a rumpus here with supernatural performances day and night, so that no one was sure of his life, much less of his sinful soul. If they sat in their homes, the chairs were pulled from under them, and the porridge-bowl rolled of its own accord down on the floor; the stones were torn from the walls and were showered around people's ears. If they went out in the woods they were no better off; they had to keep a sharp look-out that the trees did not come crashing down upon their heads, although the weather might be perfectly quiet, and that the ground did not open under their feet, and draw them down into a bottomless pit. And when I think that we are now travelling through the same woods ... Oh, oh, I am sinking..."

"You fool, it is only the pure snow!—and then you say people could not stand it any longer?"

"They all moved away, so that there was not even a cat left, except an old cottager, but I suppose he died long ago. The whole settlement was again deserted, the ditches filled up, the fields became covered with moss, and the pine-woods spread over the former grain lands. It is now forty years since that time..."

And Pekka, who was not in the habit of making long speeches, seemed astonished at his own loquacity, and came to a sudden stop as he reigned in his horse.

"What is it now?" asked Bertel impatiently.

"I don't see a glimpse of the light."

"Neither do I. It is hidden by the trees."

"No, dear master, it is not concealed by the trees; it has sunk into the earth after decoying us here into the depths of the forest. Did not I tell you that it would be so? We shall never get out of this alive."

"For the devil's sake ride on and do not stop, else both man and beast will stiffen with the cold. It seems to me I see something like a hut over there."

"Fine hut; it is nothing but a granite rock with grey sides, from which the wind has blown away the snow. It is all over with us."

"Hold your tongue, and ride on! Here we have an open space with young woods; I caught a glimpse of something there between the snow-drifts."

"All the saints be with us! We are now on the very spot where the house stood. Do you not see the old fire-place sticking out through the snow? Not a step farther, master!"

"I am not mistaken ... it is the hut."

Bertel and his companion found themselves on very rough ground, where the horses stumbled at every step over large stones, or sank into great hollows covered with snow. Deep snow-drifts and fallen trees made it worse still, as if to obstruct the passage to a dilapidated peasant's hut, which by design or chance was hidden behind two spreading firs, with branches hanging to the ground. The only window of the hut had a shutter, which was at one moment blown open by the wind and then slammed to again, thus causing the light within to show itself and disappear by turns.

Bertel dismounted from his horse, tied it to a branch of the fir, and approached the window to throw a glance inside. A secret hope gave wings to his feet. He took it for granted that unless the fugitives had gone in a northerly direction, they could not have followed the main highway, but had sought to escape their pursuers on the side roads. But in this part of the plain of East Bothnia hundreds of small roads crossed each other at that time, all leading to the new settlements in the East. Who told him that the fugitives would select just this road?

Still his heart beat faster when he approached the window. Of the four small panes two were of horn, which was formerly used in default of glass; one of them was broken and stopped up with moss; only the fourth was of glass, but so covered with ice and snow that at first nothing could be seen. Bertel breathed on the glass, but found to his vexation that the frost on the inside defied his curiosity. Just then his horse neighed.

It seemed ridiculous to Bertel to stand spying into a poor peasant's hut. He was already on the point of knocking at the door, when at that instant a shadow obscured the light, and the frost on the inside of the glass was quickly melted by the breath of a human being, as eager to look out as he was to look in. Bertel was soon able to discern a face with burning eyes, which stared out close to the window, to discover the cause of a horse's neighing so late at night in the wilderness.

The sight of this face had the effect of an electric shock upon the inquisitive captain. With his thoughts on the beautiful Regina, Bertel had expected a sight not involving so great a contrast. But instead he beheld a corpse-like face surrounded by a black tight-fitting, leather hood, and this dark frame made the pale face seem still paler.

Bertel had seen these features before, and when he searched his memory, the picture of a terrible night in the Bavarian woods rose before his mental vision. Involuntarily he drew back, and hesitated for a moment. This motion was observed by Pekka, who had remained on his horse so as to be ready to fly.

"Quick, away from here!" he cried. "I have told you that nobody but the devil himself lives in these woods."

"Yes, you are right," said Bertel, now smiling at his own fears, and what he considered to be the offspring of his heated fancy. "If ever the Prince of Darkness has assumed a human form, then he resides in this hut. But that is just the reason why we will look the worthy gentleman in the face, and force him to give us lodgings for the night. Hullo, there! open the door to some travellers."

These words were accompanied by some heavy blows on the door.

After some time the door was opened, and an old man, bent with age, and with snow-white hair, disclosed himself. Accustomed by the right of war to take whatever was necessary, when it was not given voluntarily, Bertel pushed the old man aside and entered the miserable hut without ceremony. To his great astonishment he found it empty. A half burnt "perta,"* stuck in between the bricks of the fire-place, threw a flickering light around this abode of poverty. There was no door except the entrance; no living being besides the old man and a large woolly dog, which lay outstretched on the hearth, and showed his teeth to the uninvited guest.

* A thin stick of pine-wood, a yard long and an inch thick, which the peasants sometimes use instead of candles.

"Where is the man in the black leather hood, who was here a moment ago?" asked Bertel sharply.

"God bless your grace," answered the old man humbly and evasively, "who could be here but your grace?"

"Out with the truth! Somebody must be hidden here. Under the bed ... no. Behind the oven ... no. And yet you have just had a large fire kindled in the fire-place. What? I believe it is put out with water? Answer."

"It is so cold, your grace, and the hut is full of cracks..."

Bertel's aroused suspicions were not so easily dispelled. His eyes searched every part of the room, and soon discovered a little object which had fallen under a bench. It was a fine and soft lady's glove, lined with flannel.

"Will you now confess, old wretch?" burst out the excited young man.

The old man seemed dismayed, but only for a moment. He suddenly changed his manner, nodded slyly, and pointed to the corner nearest the oven. Bertel followed the hint ... took a few steps ... and suddenly felt himself precipitated downwards. He had fallen into the open hole of a cellar, whose entrance had been hidden by the heavy shadow of the fire-place. Instantly a trap-door was closed over the opening, and he heard the rattling of an iron hook, which secured the trap and deprived him of all chance of opening the door from below.

Bertel had fallen into one of those places under the floor in which poor people keep roots and home-brewed beer. The cellar was not deep, nor his fall dangerous, but, nevertheless, Bertel's anger was quite natural. The little glove had betrayed the whole story. She must be here; she, the beautiful, proud, unfortunate princess, whom he had so long adored in secret. Perhaps she had fallen into the hands of cruel robbers. And just now, when he was near to her after years of longing, and when, perhaps, she most needed his help and protection, he had been caught in a miserable trap; imprisoned in a rat-hole, more miserable than the hut itself, of which the floor this moment served him for a ceiling. In vain did he try to lift up the planks of the floor by the strength of his shoulders; they were as inexorable as the fate which had so long mocked his dearest hopes.

Then he heard the footsteps of several persons passing over the floor overhead. Then all was silent.

Pekka was now Bertel's only hope, but the former had not dared to enter the hut. Nothing was heard of him, however, and three or four hours passed in torturing suspense, increased by the prospect of perishing from hunger and cold. Then steps again sounded overhead; the iron hook was unfastened, and the trap-door raised. Half-frozen, Bertel crawled up from the damp hole, in the firm belief that Pekka had at last spied out his prison. He was met instead by the old man with the snow-white hair, who, humble and submissive as before, offered his hand to help him up.

The enraged young warrior seized him by his bony shoulders, and proceeded to catechise him in a thorough manner.

"Wretch," he exclaimed, "are you tired of life, or do you not know what you are doing, dotard? What hinders me from crushing your miserable carcase against the walls of your own hut?"

The old man looked at him with an unchanging countenance.

"Do so, Bertila's son," he replied; "kill your mother's old faithful servant if you wish; why should he live any longer?"

"My mother's old servant, do you say?"

"I am the last survivor of all those who formerly inhabited this fertile region, which is now a wilderness. It was I who said to Aron Bertila, when my master's house was destroyed in blood and ashes: 'Save my young mistress.' And Bertila did it; cursed is he and blessed at the same time! He carried my lovely young mistress out of the flames, and she, a noble maiden, became the haughty peasant's humble wife."

"But are you mad, old man? If you are, as you say, my mother's old servant, why did you shut me up in that damned hole? You must admit that your friendship is of a strange kind."

"Kill me, sir. I am ninety years of age. Kill me, I am a Catholic!"

"You! Well, by my sword now I begin to understand you."

"I am the last Catholic in this country. I belong to King John's and King Sigismund's time. I am one of the four who buried the last nun in Nadendal's cloister. For twenty years I have not heard mass, or been sprinkled with holy water. But all the saints be praised, an hour before your arrival, I had eaten of the holy wafer."

"A monk has been in your hut?"

"Yes, sir, one of ours."

"And with him a young girl and her old waiting-maid? Answer."

"Yes, sir, they were in his company."

"And on my arrival you concealed them..."

"In the garret. Yes, your grace."

"Then you decoyed me into that miserable rat-hole, while you allowed the women and the monk to escape."

"I do not deny that it is so."

"And what do you think that your reward will be?"

"Anything—death, perhaps."

"I will spare your life on one condition: you shall show me the way the fugitives have taken."

"My life; I told you that I was ninety years old."

"And you do not fear the torture?"

"The saints be praised, if I was worthy of so great an honour."

"But if I burn you alive in your own hut?"

"The holy martyrs have been burnt at the stake."

"No, old man, I am not an executioner. I have learnt in the service of my king to revere faithfulness." And Bertel pressed the old man's hand with emotion.

"But I will tell you one thing," he continued, "you think that I have come to take the fugitives back to their prison. It is not so. I give you my word of honour, that I will defend Lady Regina's freedom with my life's blood, and do all in my power to favour her flight. Will you now tell me which way she has gone?"

"No, your grace," said the calm old man; "the young lady is under the protection of the saints, and a wise man's guidance. You are hot-blooded and young, and would bring them all to ruin. Turn back, you will not find any trace of the fugitives."

"Bull-head," muttered Bertel indignantly. "Farewell, I shall get along without your help."

"Remain here quietly until to-morrow, your grace. To-night you are at liberty to walk, if you choose, six miles through the high snow-drifts, to the nearest farm. To-morrow you can ride comfortably."

"Wretch! you have sent my horses away?"

"Yes, your grace ... you must be hungry. Here is a kettle with boiled turnips; may they be to your taste."

"Ah!" thought Bertel to himself, as he impatiently paced the floor, "I would not let Larsson see me at this moment for ten bottles of Rhine wine. He would certainly compare me to the wandering knight of La Mancha, who, on the way to his Dulcinea, fell into the most peculiar adventures. How shall I get away from here through these terrible snow-drifts?"

"But," he added aloud, "I have an idea; I will try if one of the greatest amusements of my youth cannot serve me a good turn now. Old man, where do you keep your snow-shoes?"

"My snow-shoes?" replied the old man, confused. "I have none."

"You have, I see it in your face. No Finn in the wilderness is without snow-shoes. Out with them, quick!"

And without heeding the old man, Bertel pushed open the door which led to the garret, and drew out a fine pair of snow-shoes.

"Well, old friend," exclaimed the young cavalier, "what do you think of my horses? ... I call them mine, for I will bet anything that you will sell them to me for three hard silver thalers: swifter steeds have seldom hurried over high snow-drifts. If you have any greeting for the monk or Lady Regina, I will take it with pleasure."

"Do not go alone into the wilderness," said the old man. "There is neither track or path; the woods extend for miles, and are filled with wolves. It will be certain death to you."

"You are wrong, my friend," replied Bertel. "If I am not mistaken, there are traces in two directions: one from my horses, the other from the fugitives. Tell me, did they go in a sleigh, or on horseback?"

"I think they went on horseback."

"Then I am certain they drove. You are a finished rogue. But I forgive you for the sake of your excellent snow-shoes. Farewell, in a couple of hours I will find those whom I seek."

With these words Bertel hurried out.

It was yet early in the morning, a short time before sunrise. But fortunately the storm had ceased, the sky was clear, and the winter stars twinkled brightly in the blue firmament. The cold had increased, and a sharp frost had covered all the branches and snowdrifts with those ice diamonds, which at once dazzle and charm the wanderer's eye. The sight of woods and snow on a starry winter morning gives the Northerner a peculiar exhilarating feeling. There is in this scene a grandeur, a splendour, a purity, a freshness, which carries him back to the impressions of his childhood and the brilliant illusions of youth. There is nothing to cramp the heart, or paralyze the soaring imagination; all is there so vast, so solemn, so free. One might say that nature in this deep silence of winter and night is dead, and yet she lives, warm and rich, in the wanderer's heart.

It is as if she had in this little spot, this solitary place in the wilderness, compressed all her throbbing life, only to let it exist all the more beautifully in the midst of silence, stillness, and the radiance of the stars.

Bertel also experienced this feeling of freshness and life. He was still young and open to every impression. As he hastened along, light as the wind, between the trees and snow-drifts, he felt like a child. It seemed to him that he was again the boy who flew over the snow on Storkyro plains to spread his snares for the black-cock in the woods. It was true that he was a little unsteady in the beginning for lack of practice, and the snow-shoes slid merrily down the icy slopes; occasionally he made false pushes, and sometimes stumbled, but he soon regained his former skill, and stood firm on the uneven ground.

Now it was necessary to find the traces of the fugitives, and this was not easy. Bertel had wandered about for more than an hour in the direction of Ylihärmä, but had not discovered the slightest sign. The last outbreak of the storm had destroyed all indications; one could only see the fresh track of the wolf, where he had just trotted along, and now and then a frightened bird flew between the branches which were heavy with snow. Want of sleep, hunger, and fatigue, exhausted the young man's strength. The cold increased as sunrise approached, and covered his moustache and plumed hat with frost.

At last he saw on a wood-path, which the broad pines had shielded from the blast, fresh traces of runners and horses' feet. Bertel followed these with renewed energy; at times the tracks were lost in the snow, and then reappeared where the road was sheltered. The sun rose deep red in the south-east over the tops of the trees. The day was cold and clear. In every direction nothing was to be seen but trees and snow-drifts, but far away in the north a little column of smoke rose towards the morning sky. Bertel aimed at this point. The snow-shoes regained their speed, the road seemed smoother, and at last the weary adventurer reached a solitary farmhouse by the side of the high road.

The first person he encountered was Pekka, who was going to feed his horses.

"Scoundrel!" cried Bertel, with glad surprise, "who sent you here?"

"Who?" repeated Pekka, equally delighted and astonished. "Well, I shall tell you that the devil did it. I waited and waited outside that accursed old shanty in the woods until my eyes and feet became heavy together, where I sat in the snow-drift. After a little while I was aroused by the neighing of horses. And then I saw a sleigh just like ours harnessed to two horses, dashing away along the road. It is either my master or the devil. It is all the same to me. I will follow him, I said. Then I climbed up again on the horse's back. I was so hungry that it is a shame to speak of it; but I went after him. Finally the horse became tired and I lost sight of the sleigh; and thanked are both Lutheran and Catholic saints that I came here to the farm and got a good bowl of porridge. For was it not at Lützen and Nördlingen ... it is damned cold at Ylihärmä, that is sure."

"Good," said Bertel, "they shall not escape us. But do you know one thing, Pekka: there are moments when hunger and want of sleep are even stronger than love itself. Come, let us go in."

Bertel entered, and drank a bowl of boiled milk, and threw himself, overcome by fatigue, on a straw bed in the "stuga." Here we will leave our wandering knight for a couple of hours in peace.

Far away in the North roar the mighty waters of the sea under vaults of ice; the fors never freezes, the green of the pine never withers, and the grey rocks, which confine the foaming floods in narrow ravines, never shake. Here the powers of nature have pursued their incessant warfare for centuries without rest, without reconciliation; the flood never tires of battling with the rocks, and these persist in resisting the stream; the hills never seem to grow old, and the immense morasses defy cultivation; the frosty transparent atmosphere quivers as of old in the northern light, and the winter sky looks down with its imperturbable, majestic calm upon the scattered huts on the banks of the streams.

This is the home of night and terror; this is the shadow of Finnish poetry's golden pictures. Here the light-shunning Black Art spins its webs around human beliefs; here are the graves of heroes; here the last giants spent their rude strength in the mountain wilderness; here stood Hüsis ancient fortress, of which the steps were each six feet in height; here the spirit of the middle ages brooded over its darkest thoughts; here it receded, step by step, before the light of a newer time, and here it has bled in its impotent rage; heathenism, fallen from its greatness, steals outlawed from place to place, in the sheep's clothing of Christendom, going restlessly around the country, and performing its miserable mummeries in churchyards at night.

Before the great northern waters, irritated by their battles in hundreds of forssar* go to seek a brief repose in Uleä Sea, they once more pour out their anger into the two mighty waterfalls of Koivukoski and Ämmä, near the little Kajana. Like two immense surfs the torrents throw themselves headlong down the narrow pass, and so violent is their fall that human daring, accustomed to struggle with nature and conquer in the end, has here stopped with dismay and acknowledged its powerlessness. Up to the latest times the boats which have steered down the forssar in their course towards Uleäborg, have always been obliged to land here and be drawn by horses through the streets of Kajana.**

* Plural of fors.

** After the surgeon's time, a lock was completed here at each fall, and the boats now continue on their way without much delay.

In the stream, right between the two falls, Koivukoski and Ämmä, lies a flat rock, to which bridges are attached from both sides. Here stand the grey walls of an ancient fortress, now in ruins, and constantly bathed by the waves of the flood. This fortress of Kajaneborg was founded in 1607, during Carl IX.'s time, as a protection against Russian invasion. Perhaps the time may come in our stories when we shall speak more of it.

It is now 1635, and the castle stands in its original strength. Its form resembles an arrow with the point turned towards the stream. Unless famine occurs, or the enemy can bring heavy artillery to the heights, it is considered impregnable. But how can a hostile army find any road to Kajaneborg? In the immense wilderness all around there is not a single road where a wheel can run. In summer the traveller follows the narrow paths, and in winter the Laplander, with his reindeer and sleigh, drives over the frozen lakes.

It is winter; a thick crust of ice on the shores and over the walls of the castle shows that the cold has been severe, though it has not been able to bind the fors in its rapid course.

Some soldiers, clad in sheep-skin jackets, with the fur side turned inwards, are busy drawing home wood from the adjacent forest. There is peace in the land, the drawbridge is down, and horses' feet thunder over the bridge. Then a violent squabble arises in the castle yard. An old woman, tall in stature, with rather disagreeable features, has taken possession of one of the loads of wood, and pushed away the soldiers, while she picks up as many pieces as she is able to carry, and commands another younger woman to do likewise.

The soldiers utter coarse oaths, but the woman with the keen eyes does not deign to reply.

A sub-officer, drawn there by the noise, informs himself of the cause, then addresses the woman with hard words, and orders her to return the wood she has taken. The woman refuses to obey; the sub-officer endeavours to use force; the woman plants herself back to the wall, raises a small log of wood in the air, and threatens to break the head of the first man who approaches her. The soldiers swear and laugh; the sub-officer hesitates; the old woman's courage holds them all in check.

Then an elderly man appears on the steps, to whom all give way with reverence. It is Governor Wernstedt. As soon as the old woman sees him, she leaves her hostile attitude, and relates with a torrent of words all the injustice she has suffered.

"Yes, gracious Excellency," she said, "that is the way they dare to treat a man who is the pride and ornament of Sweden. It is not sufficient to shut him up in this miserable out-of-the-way hole, but they let him freeze to death in the bargain. What wood have they given us? Great God! nothing but green and rotten chunks, which fill the room with smoke, and do not give out heat enough to thaw the ink on his table. But I tell you, Excellency, that I, Lucia Grothusen, do not intend to be imposed upon any longer. This wood is good, and I take it, as you see, Excellency, right before the face of these vagabonds, who deserve to all hang upon the highest pine in the Paldamo forest. Pack yourselves off, you lazy, good-for-nothing rascals, and look out how you act before me and the Governor. The wood is mine, and that is all to be said about it."

The Governor smiled.

"Let her keep the wood," he said to the soldiers, "or else there will be no peace in the castle. And you, Lucia, I warn you to hold your wicked tongue, which has already done so much mischief; otherwise it may happen that I shall again put you and your husband in that basement you know of, where Erik Hare kept you, and where the stream rolls right under the floor. Is this the thanks I get for the mild treatment I have bestowed upon you, that you are eternally exciting quarrels in the castle? The day before yesterday you gave rein to your tongue, because you did not receive enough soap for your washing; yesterday you took a leg of mutton by force from my kitchen, and to-day you make a noise about the wood. Take care, Lucia; my patience may be exhausted."

The woman looked the Governor right in the face.

"Your patience!" she repeated. "How long do you think that mine will last. I have stayed now nearly nineteen years in this owl's nest. For nineteen long years has it cast a stain upon Sweden that its greatest man is confined here like a criminal! ... Mark what I say: Sweden's greatest man; for the day will arrive when you, and I, and all these souls of lard, all these wandering ale-jugs, will be food for worms, and no more thought of than the hogs you killed to-day; but the glorious name of Johannes Messenius will shine for all time. Your patience! Have I, then, had none—I who in these long weary years have been fighting with you for a bit of bread, for firewood, for a pillow for this great man, whom you abuse? I, the only one who has kept his frail body alive, and strengthened his soul for the great work which he has now accomplished? Do you realise what it means to suffer as I have; to be snatched away from one's children, to go about with despair in the heart, and a smile on the lips, so as to seem to have a hope when none remains? ... Do you know, your Excellency, what all this means? And you stand there and talk about your patience!"

The soldiers' loud laughter all at once interrupted the voluble old woman. She now perceived for the first time that the Governor had chosen the wisest course, and gone his way. It was not the first time that Lucia Grothusen had put the commander of a fortress to flight. She felt able to drive a whole garrison to the woods. But it vexed her that she could not fully relieve her heart. She threw a stick of wood at the nearest and worst of her mockers, and then hurried with the wood in her arms, to reach a low back door. The soldier, struck in the leg, seized the stick with an oath, and flung it in his turn after the old woman. Lucia, hit in the heel, uttered a cry of pain and anger ... and then she disappeared through the door, followed by the soldiers' loud laughter.

During this scene of self-sacrifice on one side, and rudeness on the other, a group of strangers had arrived over the left castle bridge, and asked to be conducted to the Governor.

The soldiers regarded them with curiosity. They wore the common garb of peasants, but their whole appearance betrayed their foreign origin. An old man, with dark squinting eyes and sallow complexion, came first; his face partly hidden under a woolly cap of dog-skin, which with its ear-flaps covered the greater portion of the head. After him followed a young woman in a striped home-spun skirt, and a tight-fitting jacket of new and fine white sheep-skin. Her face, also, is almost entirely concealed under a hood of coarse felt, bordered with squirrel-skin, the fine fur of which is covered with frost. One only saw a pair of beautiful dark eyes of unusual brilliancy, which peeped forth from the hood. The third of the company was a little old woman, so wrapped up in furs that her short figure had widened out into the shape of a well-stuffed cushion.

All these persons were conducted to the Governor. The man in the dog-skin cap showed a passport, according to which, Albertus Simonis, in his royal Majesty's service, was appointed army physician to the troops which were to go to Germany the following spring, and was now, with his wife and daughter, on a journey from Dantzig to Stockholm, by way of the north road through Wiborg and Kajana. The Governor closely examined both the document and the man, and seemed to find a satisfactory conclusion to his survey. Then he sent the travellers to a room in the east wing of the castle, and gave orders for them to be provided with the necessary refreshments after such a long journey in the severe cold.

The room which we now enter is situated in the south tower of the castle, and is not very inviting. It is large and dark. Although with a sunny aspect, the narrow window, with its thick iron gratings, only admits a few of the winter's day sunbeams. A large open fire-place, with a granite hearth, occupies one corner of the room; a rough unpainted bed, a couple of benches, two chairs, a clothes-chest, a large table under the window, and a high cupboard next to it, make up the furniture of the room. All these things have a new appearance, which to some degree reconciles the eye to their coarseness.

But the room is a curious combination of kitchen and study. Learning has established its abode at the upper end nearest the window. The table is adorned with ink spots, and covered with old yellow manuscripts and large folios of parchments. The door of the cupboard is open, and shows its use as a library. The lower part of the room, near the fire-place, has a different appearance. Here stands a wash-tub by a sack of flour; a kettle is waiting to receive some dried pike and bits of salt pork, and leaves room for a bucket of water, and a shelf filled with coarse stone dishes.

Such was the habitation which Governor Wernstedt had assigned to the state prisoner, Johannes Messenius, his wife, and servant, instead of the horrible place where Messenius' tormentor, old Erik Hare, for so many years confined these unfortunate beings. The room was at least high and dry above the ground, and its furniture was likewise a friendly gift from the Governor. Messenius occupied the upper part, and the women of his household the lower.

By the large ink-spotted table sat a grey-haired man, with his body wrapped in furs, his feet clad with reindeer boots, and his head covered with a thick woollen cap. One who had seen this man in the days of his prosperity, when he occupied the rostrum in Upsala "Consistorium," or proud as a king on his throne, exercising sole control over all the historical treasures of the Swedish state archives, would scarcely now recognise in this withered form, bent by age and misfortune, the man with the arrogant mind, the opponent of Rudbeck and Tegel, the learned, gifted, haughty, Jesuit conspirator, Johannes Messenius.

But if one looked deep into those keen, restless eyes, which seemed constantly trying to penetrate the future as they had done the past, and read the words which his shaking hand had just penned—words full of egotism even to presumption—then one could divine that within this decayed tenement toiled a soul unbroken by time and events, proud as it had always been, ambitious as it could never cease to be.

The old man's gaze was fixed upon the paper long after he had laid down his pen.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully and reflectively, "so shall it be. During my lifetime they have trampled me like a worm in the dust; once I am dead they will know upon whom they have trodden. Gloria, gloria in excelsis! The day will arrive, even if it be a century hence, when the miserable prisoner who, now forgotten by the whole world, pines away in the wilderness, shall with admiration and respect be called the father of Swedish history....

"Then," he continued with a bitter smile, "they can do nothing more for me. Then I shall be dead ... Ah, it is strange! the dead man, whose bones have long mouldered in the grave, lives in his works; his spirit goes quickening and ennobling through the ages. All that he has endured while he lived, all the ignominy, all the persecutions, all the prison gratings are forgotten; they exist no longer, provided his name still shines like a star through the night of time, and posterity, with its short memory and its ingratitude, says, with thoughtless admiration, he was a great man!"

During this soliloquy the old woman, whose acquaintance we made in the castle yard, entered the room. She carefully opened the door, and walked on tip-toe, as if afraid of waking a sleeping babe. Then she carefully put down the wood she carried in her arms. A little noise, however, was unavoidable; the old man at the table, startled from his thoughts, began to upbraid the intruder:

"Woman!" he said, "how dare you disturb me! Have I not told you iterum iterumque, that you shall take away your penates procul a parnasso? Do you understand it ... lupa?"

"Dear Messenius, I am only bringing you a little wood. You have been so cold all these days. Do not be angry now. I shall make the room nice and warm for you; it is excellent wood..."

"Quid miki tecum. Go to the dogs. You vex me, woman. You are, as the late King Gustaf always said, Messenü mala herba; my wormwood, my nettle."

Lucia Grothusen was an extremely quick-tempered woman, angry and quarrelsome with the whole world; but this time she kept quite still. How strangely her domestic position had altered! She had always idolized her husband, but as long as he was in the full strength of his manhood and prosperity, she had bent his unquiet, vacillating spirit like a reed under her will. All that time the feared and learned Messenius was held in complete subjection. Now the rôles were changed. As his physical strength declined, indicating more and more that he approached the end of his life, his wife's idolatrous love came into conflict with her masterful disposition, and finally produced the extraordinary result of reducing this character to humble submission. She nursed him as a mother nurses her sick child, for fear of losing him. She bore everything patiently, and never had an angry word in reply to his querulous remarks. Even on this occasion, only a slight trembling of the lips gave evidence of the effort it cost her to check her anger.

"Never mind," she said kindly, as she went a few steps nearer, "do not feel angry about it, my dear, because it injures your health. I will not do it again; next time I will lay a mat under the wood, so that it will not disturb you. Now I will cook you a splendid leg of mutton for supper ... Believe me, I had trouble enough to get it. I almost had to take it by force from the Governor's kitchen."

"What, woman! have you dared to beg beneficia from tyrants? By Jupiter, do you think me a dog, that I should eat the crumbs from their tables? And then you limp. Why do you do that? Answer me; why do you limp? I suppose you have been running around like a gossiping old woman, and tripped on the stairs."

"Do I limp?" repeated Lucia, with a forced smile. "I really believe I have hurt my foot ... Ungrateful!" added she silently to herself; "it is for your sake that I suffer."

"Go your way, and let me finish my epitaph."

But Lucia did not go; she came closer to him. Her eyes filled with tears, and she folded both her arms around the old man's neck.

"Your epitaph!" she repeated in a voice so mild that one would never have expected it from those withered lips, used so very often for hard words and invective only.

"Oh, my God!" she continued in a low tone, "shall, then, all that is great and glorious on earth finally become dust? But that day is still far distant, my friend; yes, it must be so. Let me see the epitaph of the great Johannes Messenius!"

"Certainly," said the old man, consoled by her sincere flattery, "you are decidedly the true persona executrix who ought to read my epitaphium, as you are also the one who will have to engrave it on my tombstone. Look, my dear; what do you think of this?

"Here lie the bones of Doctoris Johannes Messenii. His soul is in God's kingdom, but his fame is all over the world!"

"Never," said Lucia, weeping, "have truer words been placed over a great man's grave. But let us say no more about it. Let us speak of your great work, your Scondia. Do you know I have a feeling that its glory will in a short time prepare freedom for you..."

"Freedom!" repeated Messenius, in a melancholy tone. "Yes, you are right; the freedom of the grave to decay wherever one chooses."

"No," replied Lucia with eagerness and enthusiasm, "you shall yet receive the honour that is due to you. They will read your great Scondia illustrata, they will have it printed ... with your name in gilded letters on the title-page ... the whole world will say, full of admiration: 'never has his equal existed in the North'!"

"And never will exist again!" added Messenius, with confidence. "Oh! who will restore me my freedom—freedom that I may behold my work and triumph over my enemies. Hear me, Lord, I stretch out my hands before Thy face. Save me from misery, for Thou hast said: 'I will prostrate thine enemies, to be trampled under thy feet.' Who will give me freedom—freedom and ten years of life to witness the fruits of my labour?"

"I," answered a muffled voice at the lower end of the room.

At the sound of this voice both Messenius and his wife looked around with superstitious terror. The loneliness of the prison, and the associations of this wild country, which in all ages has been the fruitful soil of superstition, had in both increased the belief in superhuman things to a perfect conviction. More than once had Messenius' brooding spirit been on the point of plunging into the enticing labyrinth of the Kabala and practical Magic; but his zealous labours and his wife's religious exhortations had held him back. Now came an unexpected answer to his question ... from Heaven or the abyss, no matter which, but an answer, nevertheless—a straw for his drowning hopes.

The short winter day had drawn to a close, and twilight already spread its shadows over that part of the room which lay nearest the door. From this obscurity advanced a man, in whose sallow features one recognised the same person who two hours before had gained an entrance to the castle, under the name of Albertus Simonis. He had probably, in his capacity of physician, obtained permission to see the prisoner, for the whole medical faculty of the castle consisted of a barber, who practised chirurgery, and an old soldier's widow, whose skill in curing internal diseases was highly commended, especially when it was assisted by luvut, or incantations, which, although forbidden by the Church, were still used in the vapour-baths as powerful magical aids.

"Pax vobiscum!" said the stranger with a certain solemnity, and coming nearer the window.

"May the Lord be with you also!" answered Messenius, in the same tone, and with curiosity mingled with inquietude.

"May the woman's tongue be far from the consultation!" continued the stranger also in Latin.

Lucia, in whose youth the daughters of learned men knew Latin better than those of the nineteenth century read French, did not wait for a further reminder, and left the room with an inquisitive glance at the mysterious stranger.

Messenius made a sign to his visitor to take a seat near him. The whole conversation was conducted in Latin.

"Receive my greeting, great man, whom misfortune has only been able to elevate!" began the stranger, with artful discrimination attacking Messenius' weakest point.

"Be welcome, you who do not disdain to visit the forsaken!" replied Messenius with unusual courtesy.

"Do you recognise me, Johannes Messenius?" said the stranger, as he let the light fall on his pale face.

"It seems to me that I have seen your face before," replied the prisoner hesitatingly; "but it must have been a long time ago."

"Do you remember a boy in Braunsberg, some years younger than yourself, who was educated with you in the school of the holy fathers, and afterwards in your company visited Rome and Ingolstadt?"

"Yes, I remember ... a boy who gave great promise of one day becoming a pillar of the church ... Hieronymus Mathiæ."

"I am Hieronymus Mathiæ."

Messenius felt a shudder run through his frame. Time, the experiences of life, and the soul destroying doctrines of the Jesuits, had completely changed the features of the once blooming boy. Pater Hieronymus observed this impression, and hastened to add:

"Yes, my revered friend, thirty-five years' struggle for the welfare of the only saving Church has caused the roses in these cheeks to fade for ever. I have laboured and suffered in these evil times. Like you, great man, but with much lesser genius, I have dug in the vineyard, without any reward for my toil but the prospect of the holy martyr's crown in Paradise. You were very kind to me in my youth; now I will repay it so far as it lies in my power. I will restore you to freedom and life."

"Ah, reverend father," replied the old man, with a deep sigh, "I am not worthy of this; you, the son of the holy Church, extending your hand to me, a poor apostate? You do not know, then, that I have renounced our faith; that I, with my own hand and mouth, have embraced the accursed Lutheran religion, which I abhor in my heart; nay, even in my time persecuted your holy order with several godless libels."

"Why should I not know all this, my honoured friend; have not the great Messenius' work and deeds flown on the wings of fame throughout Germany? But what you have done, has been done as a blind, so as to work in secret for the highest good of our holy Roman Church. Do not the Scriptures teach us to meet craft with craft in these godless times? 'Ye shall be as wily as serpents.' The Holy Virgin will give you her absolution as soon as you have worked for her sake. Yes, esteemed man, even had you seven times abjured your faith, and seven times seventy sinned against all the saints and the dogmas of the Church, it shall all be accounted to you for reward, and not for condemnation, provided you have done it with a mental reservation, and with the design of thereby serving the good cause. Even if your tongue has lied, and your hand killed, it shall be deemed a pious and holy work, when it was for the purpose of bringing back the stray sheep. Courage, great man, I absolve you in the name of the Church."

"Yes, good father, these teachings which the worthy Jesuit fathers, in Braunsberg so eloquently instilled into my young mind, I have faithfully followed in my life. But now, in my old age, it sometimes seems to me as if my conscience raised some opposition in the matter..."

"Temptations of the devil! nothing else. Drive them away!"

"That may well be, pious father! Yes, to calm my conscience, I have written a formal confession, in which I openly declare my profession of the Lutheran faith a hypocritical act, and as openly proclaim my adherence to the Catholic Church."

"Hide this confession, show it not to any mortal eye!" interrupted the Jesuit quickly. "Its time will yet come."

"I do not understand your reasons, pious father."

"Listen attentively to what I have to say! Do you think, old man, that I, without important reasons, have ventured up here in the wilderness, daily exposed to hunger, cold, wild beasts, and the still wilder people in this country, who would burn me alive if they knew who I was, and what I was about? Do you think I would have left the wide field in my native land, had I not hoped to accomplish more here? Well, then, I will briefly explain to you my point ... Can anyone hear us? Perhaps there are private passages in these walls."

"Be sure no mortal can hear us."

"Know, then," continued the Jesuit in a low voice, "that we have again before us the never-abandoned plan of bringing heretic Sweden back to the bosom of the Roman Church. There are only two powers which can any longer resist us, and the saints be praised, these powers are becoming day by day more harmless. The House of Stuart, in England, is surrounded by our nets, and in secret does everything for our cause. Sweden still lies stunned by the terrible blow at Nördlingen, and cannot, without fresh miracles, retain its dominant position in Germany. The time has come when our plans are fully matured; we must avail ourselves of our enemies' powerlessness. In a few years England will fall into our hands like a ripe fruit. Sweden, still proud of former victories, shall be forced to do the same. The means to this end will be a change of dynasty."

"Christina, King Gustaf's daughter..."

"Is a nine-year-old child, and besides a girl! We are not without allies in Sweden, who still remember the expelled royal family. The weak Sigismund is dead; Uladislaus, his son, stretches out his hands, with all the impatience of youth, for the crown of his forefathers. It shall be his."

"Uladislaus on the Swedish throne? I doubt whether we shall ever live to see that day," said Messenius incredulously.

"Hear me to the end," continued the Jesuit, engrossed by the stupendous plan his scheming head had concocted. "You, Messenius, are the only one who can perform this miracle."

"I ... a miserable prisoner! Impossible."

"To the saints and genius nothing is impossible. The Swede is now well disposed towards royalty. The example of his kings leads him to good or evil. He has especially a great reverence for old King Gustaf Vasa. If it could now be proved that the said king on his death-bed, with repentance, declared the Lutheran doctrine to be heterodox, that he had abjured and cursed the Reformation, and that he had charged his youngest son, the papistical Johan, to atone for his great errors..."

"What do you dare to say?" burst out Messenius, with undisguised surprise. "Such an obvious lie is in direct opposition to Gustaf Vasa's last words at death, all of whose utterances have been so faithfully recorded..."

"Calm yourself, revered friend," interrupted the Jesuit coldly. "Supposing it could be further demonstrated that the second founder of Lutheranism, Carolus IX., likewise on his death-bed declared the Reformation to be a blasphemy and a misfortune...?"

Messenius regarded the Jesuit with dismay.

"And if it can finally be proven that even Gustaf Adolf, before giving up the ghost at Lützen, was struck by a sudden inspiration, and died a heretic's death, under the greatest torment and anguish of soul...?"

Messenius' pale cheeks were covered with a flush.

"Then," continued the Jesuit, with the same composed daring, "there remains of the Vasa dynasty only the demented Erik XIV., the admitted papist, Johan III., and the professed Catholic, Sigismund, with all of whom we need not trouble ourselves in the least. Once convinced that all of their greatest kings either have been papistical, or have become so in their last moments, the scales will fall from the eyes of the Swedish people; they will penitently confess their guilt, and at last fall back into the bosom of the only saving Roman Catholic Church.

"But how will you, revered father, in the face of all the facts, convince the Swedes of the apostasy of their kings?"

"I have already told you," replied the Jesuit flatteringly, "that such a great and meritorious mission can only be accomplished by the gifted Johannes Messenius. All know that you are Sweden's most learned man and greatest historian. They know that you possess and hold in your care more historical documents and secrets than anyone else in the whole kingdom. Use these advantages skilfully and judiciously; compile documents that never existed; describe events that never happened..."

"What do you dare to say?" exclaimed Messenius with burning cheeks.

The Jesuit misunderstood his excitement.

"Yes," continued the Jesuit, "the undertaking is a bold one, but far from impossible. A hasty flight to Poland will secure your safety."

"And it is to me ... to me that you make this proposal?"

"Yes," added the monk, in the same tone. "I realise that Gustaf Adolf will cause you the most trouble, and therefore I will be responsible for him. You will have therefore Gustaf I. and Carl IX. as your share, to present in such a light as will best serve the cause of the holy Church."

"Abi a me, male spiritus!" burst out Messenius in a fit of rage, which the Jesuit with all his sagacity was far from expecting. "You arch-villain! you liar! you infamous traitor, to lay your hand on the holiest; do you think that I, Johannes Messenius, have worked for long years to become Sweden's greatest historian, to all of a sudden, in such an infamous way, violate the historical truth which I have re-established with such long and continuous efforts? Be off this moment, quick ... away, to Gehenna!" ... and with these words the old scholar, wild with rage, flung everything that he could get hold of at the Jesuit's head—books, papers, inkstand, sand-box—with such violence that the monk started. The latter's face became still paler ... then he took a few steps backwards, rose to his full height, and opened the plaited Spanish doublet which covered his breast. A crucifix of flashing diamonds, surmounted by a crown of thorns set with rubies, glittered suddenly in the gathering twilight.

This sight seemed to have a magical effect upon Messenius. His excited voice was suddenly hushed ... his rage changed immediately to fear ... his knees trembled; he staggered, and was on the point of falling, but supported himself with difficulty against the chair at the table. The Jesuit again advanced slowly, and looked steadily at the prisoner with his piercing eyes, which were like those of the rattlesnake.

"Have you forgotten, old man," he said, in a measured and commanding tone, whilst every word was followed by a pause to increase its effect, "the penalty which the Church and the laws of our holy order inflict for sins like yours? For apostasy: death ... and you have seven times apostatized! ... For blasphemy: death ... and you have seven times blasphemed! ... For disobedience: death ... and you have seven times disobeyed! ... For sin against the Holy Ghost: damnation ... and who has sinned like you? ... For heresy: the stake ... and who has merited it like you? ... For offence and disrespect against the holy ones of the Lord: the eternal fire ... and who has given offence like you?"

"Grace, holy father, grace!" exclaimed Messenius, while he writhed like a worm under the Jesuit's terrible threats.

But Father Hieronymus continued:

"The celebrated Nicolaus Pragensis went over to Calvin's false doctrines, and dared to defy the Head of our order. He fled to the farthest corner of Bohemia, but our revenge found him. The dogs tore his body to pieces, and the spirits of hell obtained his soul..."

"Grace! mercy!" sighed the prisoner, completely crushed.

"Well, then," added the Jesuit in a haughty tone or superiority, "I have given you the choice between glory and perdition; I will once more place it before you, although you are undeserving. Do you imagine, miserable apostate, that I, the head of the German and Northern Jesuits, who do not acknowledge any superior except the Holy Father at Rome—do you believe that I, who have braved myriads of dangers to seek you here in your miserable corner, will allow you to stop me, the invisible ruler of the whole North, with your disobedience and irresolution? I ask you once more, in the name of our holy order, if you, Johannes Messenius, will be faithful to the oath you swore in your youth, and implicitly obey the behests and commands which I, your superior and judge, enjoin upon you?"

"Yes, holy father," answered the trembling captive; "yes, I will."

"Hear, then, the penalty I impose. You say that for your whole life you have striven for a single aim; that of gaining the name of the greatest historian in the North, and you think that you have at last attained your desire?"

"Yes, holy father, that has been my object, and I have obtained it."

"Your aim is evil!" exclaimed the Jesuit in stern tones, "and it is that of the devil, for you have worked for your own glory, and not for that of the holy Church, as you have sworn. Therefore, I command you to destroy, with your own hands, the idol of your life—your great fame with posterity—by perverting history and writing it, not as it is, but as it ought to be. I order you to cast away fame, to serve the cause of the Roman Church in the North. You shall write the history of Gustaf I. and Carl IX. in such a manner that all they have done for the Reformation may redound as a ruin and curse both to them and their kingdom. And I will that you base this new history on such reliable documents, that in the eyes of the people they will be above suspicion ... documents which do not exist, but which you shall manufacture ... documents of which the falsity may possibly be discovered in a future generation, but which will at present produce the desired effect."

"And thus," said Messenius, in a voice trembling with the most varied emotions—fear, anger, and humiliation—"I shall stand before posterity as a base falsifier, an infamous perverter of historical truth."

"Yes, and what then?" continued the Jesuit with a sardonic smile; "what matters it, if you, miserable tool, sacrifice your name, provided the Church gains its great victory? Of what advantage is the praise of men, if your soul burns in the eternal fires of hell; and what matters humanity's contempt, if you, through this sacrifice, gain the martyr's crown in Heaven?"

"But the cause of truth ... the inflexible judgment of posterity."

"Bah! what is historical truth? Well, is it the obedient slave who follows at the heels of human errors ... the parrot which thoughtlessly repeats all their folly? Or is it not rather truth, such as it ought to be, purified from error, freed from crime and folly ... God's kingdom on earth, as wise as it is almighty, as good as it is holy and wise?"

"But is it then we who dictate to God what is good and right? Has He not Himself told us that truth, such as it is?"

"Ha! vacillating apostate, you still dare to argue with your superior about right and wrong. Choose, obey or disobey! Choose on one side temporal and eternal death, and on the other the joys of Paradise and the glory of the saints. Yet a word, and upon this depends your weal or woe. Will you obey my commands?"

"Yes, I will obey," answered the crushed and terrified prisoner. And the Jesuit went away silent and cold, with a ruler's nod that the slave had his good grace.

About a week had passed since the private conversation to which we last listened. The Jesuit during this time had not left the prisoner to himself. He was seen to enter Messenius' room every day, under the pretext of medical attendance, and spent some hours with him. He was too acute to rely upon the prisoner's promise. No one in the castle knew what they did together, and the Governor was unsuspicious. The remote situation of Kajajneborg, far from the rest of the world, had lulled Wernstedt into security; he rather found pleasure in the society of the learned and experienced foreign doctor.

There was one, however, who with a constant and vigilant eye followed every motion of the stranger, and this was Lucia Grothusen, Messenius' wife. A Catholic by education and conviction, she had always strengthened her husband in his faith; the Jesuit well knew this, and therefore felt sure of her co-operation, although he carefully avoided confiding his plans to the mercy of female gossip. But the most artful plans are often frustrated by those hidden springs and motives in the human heart, especially in a woman's heart, which work in quite a different direction from that of cold reason. The Jesuit, in spite of his astuteness, was mistaken in our Lucia. He did not know that when the fanaticism in her mind shouted, push on! love cried still louder in her heart, hold back! and love in women always gets the upper hand.

Lucia was a very penetrating person; she had looked through the Jesuit before he knew it. She saw the ruinous inward strife which raged in Messenius; a struggle for life and death between fanaticism on the one hand, which bade him sacrifice fame and posterity for the victory of the Church, and ambition on the other, which continually pleaded to him not to sacrifice with his own hand his whole life's work? "Will you," it said, "blindly desecrate the sanctuary of history? Will you expose to contempt the brilliant name, which in the night of captivity still constitutes your wealth and pride?"

Lucia saw all this with the discernment of love; she saw that the man for whom she lived an entire life of self-denial and restraint, would sink under this terrible internal battle, and she resolved to save him with a bold and decisive stroke.

Late one evening the lamp still burned on Messenius' writing-table, where he and the Jesuit had been working together ever since the morning. Lucia had received permission to retire to her bed, which stood at the other end of the room near the door, and pretended to be asleep. The two men had finished their work, and were conversing together with low voices, in Latin, which Lucia well understood.

"I am satisfied with you, my friend," said the Jesuit approvingly. "These documents, which bear the stamp of truth, will be sufficient to prove the conversion of King Gustaf Vasa and King Carl, and this preface, signed by you, will further confirm their veracity. I will now return to Germany through Sweden, and have these prayers printed, through our adherents in Stockholm, or if that is impossible, in Lübeck or Leyden."

Messenius involuntarily stretched out his hand, as if to snatch back a precious treasure from a robber's hands.

"Holy father," he exclaimed with visible consternation, "is there no reprieve? My name ... my reputation ... have mercy upon me, holy father, and give me back my name!"

The Jesuit smiled.

"Do I not give you a name," he said, "far greater and more abiding than the one you lose—a name in the chronicles of our holy order; a name among the martyrs and benefactors of the Church; a name which may one day be counted amongst the saints?"

"But, in spite of all this, a name without honour, a liar's, a forger's name!" burst out Messenius, with the despair of a condemned man, who is shown the glory of Heaven obscured by the scaffold.

"Weak, vain man, you do not know that great aims are never won by the fear or praise of humanity!" said the Jesuit in a contemptuous tone. "You might have taken back your word and forfeited your claims to the gratitude of all Christendom. But happily it is now impossible. These documents"—and he extended his hand triumphantly with the papers—"are now in a hand which will know how to keep them, and, against your will, use them for the glory of the Church, the victory of the faith, and your soul's eternal welfare."

Father Hieronymus had hardly uttered these words when a hand behind him swiftly and suddenly seized the papers, which he had so elatedly waved, crumpled them together, tore them in a hundred pieces, and strewed the bits over the floor. This move was so unlooked for, and the Jesuit was so far from divining anything of the kind, that he lost his usual presence of mind for a moment, and thus gave the daring hand time to complete its work of destruction. When the fragments lying around convinced him of the reality of his loss, he bit his lips with rage, raised his arms aloft, and with the ferocity of a wild beast, fell upon the presumptuous being who had dared to extinguish his plans at the very moment of consummation.

Lucia—for she owned the intruding hand—met the monk's outbreak of fury with the great courage which distinguishes a woman when she struggles for the holiest she possesses. In her youth she had been one of those who could take a man by the collar; and this more than womanly strength of arm had gained practice during her constant squabbles with the rude soldiers of the castle. She hastily clasped her sinewy fingers around the monk's outstretched arms, and held them fast as in a vice.

"Well," she said in a mocking tone, "three paces from death, sir; what do you wish?"

"Mad woman!" screamed the Jesuit, foaming with rage, "you do not know what you have done! Miserable thief, you have stolen a kingdom from your Church, and Paradise from your husband."

"And from you I have stolen your booty; his secure prey from the wolf; is it not so?" replied Lucia, whose voice began to glow with the fire of her hasty temper. "Monk," she added, violently shaking the eminent Jesuit, who in vain tried to escape, "I know a vile thief, who, in the sheep's clothing of the Church, comes to steal the fame of a great man; also the history of a nation; and from a poor, forsaken woman, her sole pride; her husband's peace, honour, and life. Tell me, holy and pious monk, what punishment such a thief deserves? Would not Ämmä fall be shallow enough for his body, and the eternal fires cool enough for his soul?"

The Jesuit looked out of the window with a hasty movement towards the mighty torrent which descended with a terrible roar in the winter's night.

"Ha!" exclaimed Lucia with a bitter smile, "you fear me, you, the powerful one, who rules kingdoms and consciences. You fear lest I conceal a man's arm under my grey frock, which could hurl you into the cataract's abyss. Be reassured. I am only a woman, and fight with a woman's arms. You see ... I do not throw you out of the window ... I will be content with chaining up the wild beast. Tremble, monk, I know you! Lucia Grothusen has followed your steps; you are betrayed, and she has done this."

"Betrayed!" echoed the Jesuit; he well realised what this statement meant. At a time so full of hate, when two great religions fought for worldly and spiritual supremacy, when the plots of the Jesuits irritated the Swedes to the highest extent, a member of this order, discovered in disguise, in the kingdom, was lost beyond redemption. But the dire peril restored the equilibrium of this powerful character.

"My daughter, betrayed by you," he said once more, as his arms relaxed, and his features assumed an expression of doubt and mild grief. "That is impossible."

Lucia regarded him with hate and suspicion.

"I your daughter!" she exclaimed, as she pushed the monk from her with repulsion. "Falsehood is your daughter, and deceit your mother. These are thy relatives."

"Lucia Grothusen," said the Jesuit with much suavity, "when you were a child, and followed your father, Arnold Grothusen, who was expelled with King Sigismund, you came one day as an exile in need, and surrounded by enemies, to a peasant's hut. They refused you a refuge, and threatened to deliver you up. Then your youthful eyes discovered an image of the Virgin in a corner of the hut, a relic from former times, and now profaned as a plaything for children. You took the image and kissed it; you held it up before the harsh inmates of the hut, and said to them, 'See, the Virgin Mary is here, she will succour us!'"

"Well, what then?" said Lucia reluctantly in a softer voice.

"Your childish trust ... no, what do I say? The Holy Virgin moved the stern peasants, they gave you shelter, and placed you all in security. Still more, they gave you the image, which you have carefully preserved as your guardian angel, and there it hangs on your wall. What you formerly said, you still say: 'The Virgin Mary is here, she will protect me!'"

Lucia tried in vain to struggle against her emotions. She bit her lip and made no reply.

"You are right," continued the astute monk. "I am a Catholic like you; persecuted like you; if they penetrated my disguise they would kill me. My life is in your hands; denounce me; I flee not; I die for my faith, and I forgive you my death."

"Fly from here," said Lucia, half vanquished; "I give you till to-morrow, but only on condition that you do not see my husband again."

"Well, then," said the Jesuit sadly, "I fly and leave behind my beautiful dream of a glorious future. Ah, I had imagined that the great Messenius and his noble wife would reinstate the Catholic Church in the North; I saw the time when millions of people would say: we were in darkness and blindness, until the historical light of the great Messenius revealed to us the falseness of the Reformation."

"If it could be done without injury to the truth," exclaimed Lucia, whose ardent spirit was more and more elevated by the future, which the Jesuit so skilfully placed before her in perspective.

"The truth!" repeated the Jesuit persuasively. "Oh, my friend, truth is our faith, falseness is the heretic's faith. If you are convinced that I ask only the truth itself from your husband, will you assist instead of trying to destroy your Church?"

"Yes, I will!" answered Lucia warmly and earnestly.

"Then listen..." added the Jesuit, but was just then interrupted by Messenius, who, hitherto stunned and crestfallen, now seemed to awaken from a horrible dream.

"Abi, male spiritus!" he frantically exclaimed, as if he feared that the Jesuit's serpent tongue would once more triumph. "Abi, Abi! you are not a human being, you are the prince of lies himself, you are the tempter in Paradise! Get ye gone, ye foul spirit, to the eternal fire, your abiding place, to the kingdom of lies, your realm!" he said in Latin. And with this he pushed the Jesuit towards the door, without Lucia's making the least attempt to prevent it.

"Insanit miser!" ("the miserable raver") muttered the Jesuit as he disappeared.

"Thanks, my dear!" said Lucia, with a lightened heart, as if freed from a dangerous spell.

"Thanks, Lucia!" replied Messenius, with a milder manner than he had for a long time assumed towards his wife.

Early the next morning Father Hieronymus entered the room that was occupied by Lady Regina von Emmeritz and old Dorthe. Pale from watching and suffering, the beautiful young girl sat by the bedside of her faithful servant. When the Jesuit entered, Regina rose quickly.

"Save Dorthe, my father!" she impetuously exclaimed ... "I have looked for you everywhere, and you have abandoned me!"

"Hush!" said the Jesuit whispering. "Speak low, the walls have ears. So ... actually? ... Dorthe is sick? Poor old woman, it is too bad, but I cannot help her. They have penetrated our disguise. They suspect us. We must fly this day—this moment."

"Not before you have made Dorthe well again. I beseech you, my father; you are wise, you know all the remedies; give her an immediate restorative, and we will follow you wherever you choose.

"Impossible, we have not a moment to lose. Come!"

"Not without Dorthe, my father! Holy Virgin, how could I abandon her, my nurse, my motherly friend?"

The Jesuit went to the bed, took the old woman's hand, touched her forehead, and pointed to it in silence, with an air which Regina understood but too well.

"She is dead!" cried the young girl with dismay.

"Yes, what then?" replied the Jesuit, a marked sinister smile on his lips fighting with the air of regret he tried to assume.

"You see, my child," he added, "that the saints have wished to spare our faithful old friend a toilsome journey, and have taken her instead to heavenly glory. There is nothing more to be done here. Come!"

But Regina had perceived the malignant smile through her tears, and it struck her with an indescribable horror. She seemed to detect a dark secret.

"Come!" he repeated hastily. "I will give Messenius' wife, who is a Catholic, the charge of burying our friend."

Regina's dark eyes looked on the monk with fear and aversion.

"At seven o'clock yesterday evening," she said, "Dorthe was in good health. Then she drank the beverage of strengthening herbs which you have prepared for her every evening. At eight o'clock she was taken ill ... ten hours afterwards she has ceased to live."

"The fatigue of the long journey ... a cold, an inflammation ... nothing more is wanted. Come!" said the monk uneasily.

But Regina did not move.

"Monk," she said in a voice trembling with disgust and horror, "you have poisoned her."

"My child, my daughter, what are you saying? Grief has clouded your reason; come, I forgive you."

"She was a burden to you ... I saw your impatience on our journey here. And now you wish me to place myself in your power without protection. Holy Virgin, save me! I will not go with you!"

The Jesuit's mobile features instantly changed their expression, and assumed that commanding air which had made Messenius yield.

"Child," he said, "do not draw upon yourself the anger of the saints by listening to the voice of the tempter. Remember where you are, unfortunate, and who you are. A moment's delay, and I leave you here a prey to want, captivity, and death; a target for the heretic's scorn, a lost sheep abandoned by the Holy Virgin. Here perdition and misery ... there in your Fatherland the favour of the saints. Choose quickly, for the sleigh stands waiting; the morning dawns, and day must not find us in this nest of heretics."

Regina hesitated.

"Swear," she said, "that you are innocent of Dorthe's death!"

"I swear it!" exclaimed the Jesuit, "by the cross and by the holy Loyola's bones. May the firm ground open under my feet, and the abyss swallow me alive, if I have ever given this woman any drink but what was healthful and medicinal."

"Well, then," said Regina, "the saints have heard your oath, and written it down in the book of judgment. Farewell, my mother, my friend! Come, let us go!"

Both hurried out.

It was still dark. A pale ray of light appeared over the dark firs on the edge of Koivukoski fall. The horses stood harnessed. The sleepy guard at the castle gate gave a free passage to the physician, who was well known to all.

The Jesuit already thought himself in safety, when a sleigh from the mainland met the fugitives on the narrow bridge, and drove close up to them in the darkness. The monk's sleigh turned on the edge, and was only hindered by the half-rotten railing from upsetting into the depths.

Regina gave a cry of terror.

At the sound of this cry a man sprang from the other sleigh and approached the fugitives.

"Regina!" cried a well-known voice, which trembled from surprise.

"You are mistaken, my friend," the Jesuit hastened to say in a disguised voice. "Give way to Doctor Albertus Simonis, army physician in the service of his Royal Majesty."

"Ha! it is you, accursed Jesuit!" cried the stranger. "Guard, to arms! To arms! and seize the greatest villain on earth." And so saying, he grasped the monk by his fur cloak.

For an instant Hieronymus tried to disengage the sleigh and escape through the speed of the horses. But when he found that this was impossible, he left his fur cloak behind him, wriggled from his enemy's grasp, and, throwing himself quickly over the railing of the bridge, jumped down on the ice, which, in the terrible cold, had formed between the castle island and the mainland. He soon vanished in the dim morning light.

Alarmed by the cry, the castle gate guard discharged his musket after the fugitive, but without effect. Some of the soldiers seemed inclined to pursue him on the ice.

"Do not do that, boys!" cried a bearded sergeant, "it has thawed during the night, and the stream has cut the ice underneath; I think it will break up to-day."

"But the fellow jumped down there!" cried some.

"The devil will get him," replied the sergeant, calmly lighting his morning pipe. "I guess by this time he is not far from Ämmä."

"What did you say?" cried the driver of the sleigh in alarm.

"I say that the old woman* has got her breakfast to-day," answered the sergeant with perfect composure. "Just listen, she barks like a chained dog; now she is satisfied."

* The Finnish word ämmä means old woman.

All listened, appalled, to the din of the waters. It seemed to them as if the mighty fall roared more wildly, more terribly than before, in the dreary winter dawn. The sergeant was right, it was like the howl of an angry dog, when they have thrown him his prey.

We left our wandering knight of La Mancha asleep in a peasant's house at Ylihärmä. We found him again just now at Kajaneborg castle, vainly trying to secure the feared and hated Jesuit, whom he had seen through the window-pane of the wretched hut. Bertel's circuitous course during the days between can be perhaps imagined. Led on a false scent in his chase after the fugitives, he had scoured all the roads in East Bothnia, and even went as far up as Uleiborg, and only when he had lost every sign of them did he resolve as a last resource to seek the runaways in the far-off Kajana desert. Why the young cavalier pursued them with such unconquerable perseverance will soon be manifest.

Some hours after the scene on the bridge we find Bertel in the apartment which the Governor had assigned to Lady Regina, under the protection of one of his female relatives. More than three years have passed since they last met in Frankfurt-on-the-Main, in the presence of the great king.

Bertel was then an inexperienced youth of twenty, and Regina an equally untrained girl of sixteen. Both had gone through many trials since then; in each case the burning enthusiasm of youth had been cooled by struggles and sufferings.

The distance between the prince's daughter and the lieutenant had been lessened by Bertel's military fame and lately acquired coat of arms; nay, at this moment, she, the abandoned prisoner, might consider herself honoured by a knight's attentions. But the distance between their convictions, their sympathies, their hearts—had it been diminished by these trials, which generally steel a conviction instead of destroying it?

Bertel approached the young girl with all the perfect courtesy which the etiquette of his time had retained as an inheritance from the chivalry of past centuries.

"My lady," he said in a slightly tremulous voice, "since my hope of finding you at Korsholm failed, I have pursued you through forest and wilderness, as one pursues a criminal. Perhaps you divine the cause that prompted me to do so."

Regina's long black eyelashes were slowly lifted, and she looked inquiringly at Bertel.

"Chevalier," she replied, "whatever has animated you, I am convinced that your reasons were noble and chivalrous. You cannot have meant to take an unhappy young maiden back to prison; you have only wished to snatch her from a man whom the poor deceived one has ever since childhood regarded as a holy and pious person, and whose deeply concealed wickedness she has now, for the first time, learned to know and abhor."

"You are mistaken," said Bertel warmly. "It is true I shuddered when I found that you were under the escort of this villain, whose real character I knew before you, and I then redoubled my efforts to deliver you from his hands. But before I imagined any danger from that quarter, I flew to find you with the glad tidings of a justice ... late, but I hope not too late."

"A justice, you say?" repeated Regina, with an emotion which sent the blood to her cheeks.

"Yes, my lady," continued Bertel, as he regarded her dazzling beauty with delight; "at last, after several years of fruitless efforts, I have succeeded in undoing this undeserved penalty. You are free! you can now return to your Fatherland under the protection of the Swedish arms, and here"—with these words Bertel bent one knee and handed Regina a paper with the regency's seal attached—"is the document which ensures your freedom."

Regina had controlled her first emotion, and received the precious paper with almost haughty dignity.

"Herr chevalier," she said in short measured tones, "I know that you do not desire my thanks for having acted like a man of honour before any of your compatriots."

Bertel arose, confused by this pride, which he, however, ought to have expected.

"What I have done," he said, with a touch of coldness, "I have done to efface a wrong which might have thrown a shadow upon the memory of a great king. Each and all of my countrymen would have done the same as I, had not the exigencies of war made them forget the reparation you had a right to demand. First of all would the noble King Gustaf Adolf himself have hastened to repair a moment's indiscretion, had not Providence so suddenly cut short his career. But," said Bertel, breaking off, "I forget that the king I love and admire, you, my lady, hate!"

At these words the bright and beautiful colour again rose to Regina's cheeks. Bertel had unknowingly touched one of the most sensitive chords in this ardent heart. A new discovery, a wonderful resemblance in figure, voice, gesture, nay, in thought—a likeness which she had never before observed, and which these three years had developed in Bertel's whole personality, made an indescribable impression upon the young Southerner's soul. It seemed to her as if she saw him himself, the greatest among mortals, the pride of her dreams, her life's delight and misery; he, the beloved and feared, her country's, her faith's, and her heart's conqueror ... and as if he himself had said to her in the well-remembered tones: "Regina, you hate me!"

This impression came so swiftly, so strongly, and with such a surprising power, that Regina suddenly grew pale, staggered, and was compelled to lean on Bertel's outstretched arm.

"Holy Virgin!" she whispered, bewildered, and not knowing what she uttered, "should I hate you ... you, whom I lo ...?"

Bertel caught this half incomprehensible word, so full of meaning, with a surprise as sudden and unexpected as Regina's. Beside himself with amazement, fear, and hope, he was still too chivalrous to avail himself of an involuntary confession. Mute and respectful, he led the young girl to her protectress, in whose care she soon recovered from her sudden prostration, an effect of long-suppressed emotions, which sought vent.

Bertel had obtained permission to escort Lady Regina to Stockholm, from whence she could return to her Fatherland, at the first open waters. He was, therefore, at liberty to remain at Kajaneborg until she was ready for the journey, and this was again delayed through lack of a fitting female companion for the high-born prisoner.

Weeks passed in waiting, and during this time entirely new relations were formed, which one could hardly have predicted after Regina's proud coldness towards her deliverer. Ah! this coldness was the ice over a glowing volcano; every day it grew thinner and melted away; every day the foundations of Regina's pride gradually became weaker, and finally only one barrier remained, the strongest one of all, it is true, namely, that of religious convictions. Vain wall! It, too, finally crumbled before the fire of a southern passion, and before these weeks were ended, the girl of nineteen, and the young man of twenty-three, had forgotten the great differences of faith and rank, and sworn each other fidelity for life.

Did Bertel know that he had to thank the memory of Gustaf Adolf for his beautiful, proud, black-eyed bride?

A singular destiny wished to seal this union in an unexpected and wonderful manner. With a secret apprehension for his future happiness, Bertel had tried in vain to discover the Jesuit's fate.

Since the morning when he leaped over the railing of the bridge, no one had heard or seen anything of him, until, three weeks afterwards, a peasant reported that on opening a hole in the ice, a little below Ämmä fall, they had discovered the body of a man without ears, clothed in a foreign garb, which the peasant brought with him, and which were recognised as those of Father Hieronymus. In addition, the honest Paldamo peasant produced a small copper ring, which had been found hanging by a cord on the dead man's neck.

Bertel looked at this ring with astonishment and delight.

"At last I have you!" he exclaimed, "the ring I have so long sought ... and with you the certainty of this terrible man's death."

"The judgment of the saints on the perjurer!" exclaimed Regina, awe-struck.

"The judgment of the saints, which confirms our happiness!" rejoined Bertel, and he placed on Regina's finger the King's Ring.

Again we return to Storkyro, to Bertila's farm, and the old peasant king.

It is a March day, in the year 1635. The spring sun is already melting the snow, and the roofs drip on the sunny side; the icy crust bears one's weight on the north side of the hill, but breaks on the south. Aron Bertila has just come home from church with all his folks, his grey head is bent, and he leans on Meri's arm. At his side walk two sturdy, thick-set figures—old Larsson, and his newly arrived son, the brave and learned captain, the faithful image of his father, except in age. On the captain's arm is his young, light-hearted, and pretty little wife, whose features we recognise. It is no other than Ketchen, the courageous and merry girl, whose soft hand once made the gallant captain lose his wits. Since that day he has sworn by all the Greek and Roman authors, whom he formerly read in Abo Cathedral School, that the soft-handed novice among the Würzburg sisters of charity should some day become his. And when the vicissitudes of war again brought them together, when Ketchen was without protection, and besides, had nothing against an honest, jovial soldier, this cheerful pair were formally wedded in the autumn at Stralsund, and then went to visit their kind-hearted father in Storkyro, where they were warmly welcomed, and received like children in the house.

It must be added that Larsson had obtained his discharge from the service after much trouble, and without having a rise in rank. It is to be regretted that he had not gathered a farthing from the booty in Germany, like many of his comrades. All that he had earned—and if we can believe him, it must have amounted to millions—had taken wings; but where? At Nördlingen, he says. By no means. But in revels and sprees with jolly fellows like himself. Now he meant to be as regular and steady as a gate-post; to succeed his father as inspector of Bertila's large farms; to plough, sow, harvest, and pro modulo virium prolen copiosam in lucem proferre, as those in olden times so truly said.

Old Bertila treats him with apparent favour. Significant words have escaped the old man, and he has just given his will into the hands of the judge.

As for Meri, she has withered like a flower without roots, and clings to life only by one heart-thread: the banished, rejected Gustaf Bertel, now ennobled to Bertelskold.

This domestic circle, composed of such differing elements, both light and shadows, are now gathered in the large "stuga," surrounded by the numerous field hands, and old Larsson now tries, in secret alliance with Meri, to bring the stern peasant king to a better state of mind towards Bertel. But all their prayers and reasons break against the old man's unyielding firmness ... Larsson turns angrily away, and Meri conceals her tears in the darkest corner of the room.

Then sleigh-bells are again heard outside, as on Twelfth-day evening; a large sleigh stops in the yard, and two persons alight from it, an officer in his ample cloak, and a young and classically beautiful woman in a magnificent mantle of black velvet, lined with precious fur. Meri and old Larsson turn pale at this sight; Larsson tries to hasten out, but it is too late. Bertel and Regina enter the "stuga."

Both the Larssons and Meri surround Bertel with warm and apparently embarrassed greetings. Ketchen flies and throws herself, without thinking of the difference between her burgher dress and the costly velvet cloak, into Regina's arms, who, with emotion, clasps her faithful friend to her heart.

Bertel gently frees himself from Meri's embrace, and goes straight up to old Bertila with a firm step, who, cold and silent in his high chair at the end of the table, does not honour him with a word or glance.

All present await with dismayed looks the result of this decisive meeting. The young officer has taken off his cloak and hat, his long fair hair falls in beautiful waves around his open brow, his cheeks are very pale, but the expressive blue eyes regard the grey-haired man's iron face with a firm and steadfast look.

Bertel now, as before, bends a knee, and says in a voice at once humble and confident:

"My father!"

"Who are you? I know you not; I have no son!" said the old man in chilling tones.

"My father!" continued Bertel, without allowing himself to be checked, "I come here once more, and for the last time, to ask your forgiveness and blessing. Thrust me not from you! I am going to leave my Fatherland, to fight and perhaps die on German soil. It depends upon you whether I ever return. Remember, my father, that your blessing gives you back a son; that your curse drives him into exile for ever."

The features of the old man did not change their expression, but the tones of his voice indicated an internal struggle.

"My answer is short," he said. "I had a son; he became unworthy of me and all the principles which have governed my life. He abandoned the cause of the people to pay homage to the pernicious power which I hate and detest. I have no longer a son. I have to-day disinherited him."

The faces of all the hearers turn pale at these words. But Bertel colours slightly, and says:

"My father, I do not ask for your property. Give it to the one you consider more worthy than I. I only ask your forgiveness ... your blessing, my father."

All around the old man, except Regina, fell on their knees and exclaimed:

"Grace for Bertel! Grace for your son!"

"And if I had a son, do you believe he would for my sake give up his desire for the false distinctions of nobility? Do you think he would become a peasant like me, a man of the people, ready to live and die for their cause? Do you fancy that he would plough the earth with his fine-gloved hands and choose a wife from my station, a simple plain woman, befitting the spouse of a husbandman?"

"My father," replied Bertel, in a voice more tremulous than before, "what you ask is impossible on account of the education you have yourself bestowed on me. I honour and respect your station, but I have grown accustomed to the career of a soldier, which I neither can nor will abandon. To choose a wife to your mind is equally impossible. Here is my wife; she is a prince's daughter, but she has chosen a peasant's son for her husband; this is a proof that she will not blush to call you father."

At these words Regina humbly approached the old man as if to kiss his hand, and all rose except Bertel and his father. But the peasant king's former fiery temper now burst forth.

"Did I not say so!" he shouted. "There stands the renegade who was born a peasant, and became the servant of lords. Ha! by God! I have in my day seen much strife and defiance between the sword and the plough, but a scene like this I have never beheld. The boy who calls himself my son dares to bring before my eyes his high-born harlot and call her his wife."

Bertel sprang up and supported Regina, who nearly sank to the floor at these words.

"Old man," he said in a voice full of anger, "thank your name of father and your grey head that you have been allowed to utter what no one else should have uttered and live an hour afterwards. Here is the ring I placed on the hand of my lawfully wedded wife"—with this he took the king's ring from Regina's finger—"and I swear that her hand is as pure and worthy as that of any other mortal to wear this ring, which has for so many years been worn by the greatest of kings."

Meri's eyes stared at the ring, her pale cheeks coloured with a deep flush, and she had a violent internal struggle. Finally she stepped nearer, took and pressed the ring with ecstasy to her lips, and said in a broken voice and with an emotion so strong that it dried her tears:

"My ring which he has worn ... my ring which has protected him ... you are innocent of his death; he gave you away, and then came the bullets and death. Do you know, Gustaf Bertel, and you, his wife, the power of this ring? In my youth I one day went into the wilderness, and there found a dying man, who was languishing from thirst. I gave him a drink from the spring, and cooled his tongue with the juice of berries. He thanked me and said: 'My friend, I die, and have no other recompense to give you than this ring. I found it in former days on an image of the Holy Virgin, which alone lay uninjured in the midst of the broken fragments of Popery in Storkyro Church; and when I took the ring from its finger the image fell to dust. The ring has both the power of the saints and that of magic, for with me the greatness of the ancient occult knowledge goes into the silence. He who wears this ring is secure against fire, water, steel, and all kinds of dangers, on the sole condition that he never swears a false oath, for that destroys the power of the ring; with this ring goes happiness in peace, and victory in war; love, honour, and wealth; and when it is worn by three successive generations, from father to son, then from that family shall come brilliant statesmen and generals...'"

Here Meri paused; all listened with intense expectation.

"But," she added, "if the ring is worn by six generations one after the other, then a mighty royal house will spring from that family. 'But,' said the old man to me, 'you ought to know that great dangers accompany great gifts. False oaths and family enmity will constantly tempt the owner of the ring, and thus endeavour to neutralise its power; pride and inordinate ambition will constantly work within him to prepare his fall, and a great steadfastness in the right path will be necessary, joined with a meek and humble heart, to vanquish these temptations. He who wears this ring will enjoy all the prosperity of the world, and only have to conquer himself; but he will also be the most formidable enemy of his own happiness. All this is signified: by the letters, R.R.R., which are engraved on the inside of the ring, and interpreted thus: Rex Regi Rebellis—the king rebellious against the king; the happiest, the mightiest among men, has to fear the greatest danger within himself.'"

"And this ring, O Regina, is ours!" exclaimed Bertel, with both fear and joy. "What a wealth and what a responsibility goes with this ring."

"Power! Honour! Immortality!" caed Regina with transport.

"Beware, my daughter!" said Meri sadly. "Behind these words lie the greatest dangers."

Old Bertila looked at the ring and the young people with a contemptuous smile.

"False gold!" he said. "Vanity! Useless ornament! False ambition! This is a worthy gift to go in inheritance from generation to generation among the nobility. Come, Larsson the younger, you, who are also of peasant origin, and who wish to return to your station, although you too have been a soldier. I will give you something which is neither gold or a useless ornament, but which will bring you more blessings than all the kings' rings in the world. Take my old axe with the oak handle from the wall there; yes, fear not, there is no magic in that; my father forged it with his own hand, in Gustaf Vasa's time. With it father and I have felled many a heavy tree in the forests, and cleared many a field. May it pass in inheritance within your family, and I promise you that he who possesses my axe shall be blessed with happiness and contentment of mind in his honest labour."

"Thanks, thanks, Father Bertila," answered the captain joyfully, and, with an air of importance, tried the edge of the old man's axe. "If we took a fancy to engrave any inscription on it, I should propose R.R.R., Ruris Rusticus Robustus, which is to say briefly: 'The deuce, what a big, bulky chopper! a very beautiful and intellectual saying among those in olden times."

Larsson the elder now considered the opportunity at hand to give the bitter contest a more amicable turn. He stepped up to old Bertila, leading by the hands the two newly married pairs, and said:

"Dear old friend, let us not meddle in the Lord's business. Your boy and mine are a couple of great rascals, that is granted; but are they to blame that our Lord created one of them of fire and the other of water? Bertel is like a flame—burning hot, ambitious, high-reaching, brilliant, ephemeral, and I will bet anything that his little wife is of the same sort. My boy, here, is of the purest water."

"Stop!" cried the captain. "Water has never been my weak side!"

"Hold your tongue! My boy is the clear water ... flowing and unstable, contentedly keeping itself to the ground, and created especially to put out the other youngster's poetical blaze with its prosaic philosophy. As for his wife, she is of the same stuff. Do you not see, Bertila, that our Lord has intended the boys for friends? ... the fire to warm the water, and the water to quench the fire ... and you would make them enemies by taking from one and giving to the other. No, Bertila, do not do it, this is my advice; give your son what belongs to him; my son will not starve for want of it."

Bertila remained silent for a moment. Then he said vehemently:

"Do not teach me the meaning of the Lord. Can you believe that he, the fresh-baked nobleman, whom you compare with the fire, could be induced to give away the ring and take the axe in its place?"

"Never!" excitedly exclaimed Bertel.

Meri seized his hand, and looked beseechingly at him.

"Give away the ring," she said. "You know some of its dangers, but there is still one which I, from anguish, have not mentioned. All who wear this ring will die a violent death."

"What then!" exclaimed Bertel. "The death of the soldier on the battlefield is grand, and full of honour. I do not ask a better one."

"Just listen to him," said Bertila bitterly. "I knew it; he runs after fame even to the grave. A peaceful death or a peaceful life is an abomination to him; but you, Larsson, tell me: have you a desire to give away the axe and take the ring?"

"H'm!" thoughtfully replied the captain; "if the ring were of gold, I might sell it in town and get a good cask of ale for the money. But as it is only of copper ... pshaw! I send it to the deuce, and keep the axe, which is at least useful for cutting wood."

"Well done!" said Bertila; "you are sprinkling water on fire, as your father said. It is not I who have made fire and water eternally hostile to each other. Come, Larsson, you, the sound, common-sense, practical man, be my son, and one day take my farms when I am no longer here. My blessing on you and your descendants. May they multiply, and work like ants on the land, and may there be eternal hostility between them and the nobility, the people with the fiery temperament. May there be war and not peace between them and you until the useless glitter disappears from humanity. May the axe and the ring live in open feud until both are melted in the same heat. When this happens after a century or more, then it will be time to say, class distinctions have seen their last days, and a man's merit is his only coat of arms."

"But, my father," exclaimed Bertel in an entreating voice, "have you then no blessing to give me, and my posterity, at the moment when we separate for ever?"

"You!" repeated the old man, in still angry tones. "Go, you lost, vain, worm-eaten branch of the people's great trunk; go in your pitiful parade to certain ruin. Until the day when, as I said, the axe and the ring, the false gold and the true steel melt together ... until then I give you my curse as an inheritance, even unto the tenth generation, and with it shall follow dissension, hatred, war, and finally a despicable fall."

"Hold there, Father Bertila," cried Larsson the younger. "Grace for Bertel!"

"No grace for nobility," replied the peasant king.

"Beware, unnatural father!" cried Larsson the elder. "The doom may fall on your own head."

"I no longer ask any grace," said Bertel, pale, but apparently calm. "Farewell, my former father! Farewell, my Fatherland! I go never to see you again!"

"One moment," interrupted Meri, who with a violent effort placed herself in his way. "You go! yes, go ... my heart's darling, my hope, my life, my all ... go, I shall no longer stand in your way. But before you leave me, you shall take with you the secret which has been both my life's highest joy and its greatest agony..."

"Hear her not!" cried old Bertila in a changed and alarmed tone. "Listen not to what she says; madness speaks through her! ... Think of your honour and mine," he sternly whispered in his pale daughter's ear.

"What do I care for your or my honour!" burst out Meri with an impetuosity never before witnessed. "Do you not see that he goes ... my life's joy leaves me, to return no more? He goes, and you, hard, in-human parent, wish me to let him depart with a curse to foreign lands. But it shall not be. For every curse you throw upon his head, I will give him a hundred blessings, and we shall see which will avail the most before the throne of the Supreme Being—your hatred or my love—the grandfather's curse or the mother's blessing..."

"My mother!" exclaimed Bertel beside himself with astonishment. Duke Bernhard's obscure hints now suddenly became clear.

"Believe her not; she knows not—she knows not what she says!" cried Bertila, with a vain attempt to appear calm.

Meri had sunk into Bertel's arms.

"It is now said," she whispered in a weak voice. "Gustaf ... my son. Ah! it is so new and so sweet to call you so. Now you know my life's secret ... and I have not long to blush over it. Do you love me? ... Yes, yes! Now I go from life rejoicing ... the veil is lifted ... light comes ... My father, ... I forgive you ... that you have hated and cursed your daughter's son ... Forgive me ... that I ... love ... bless ... my son!..."

"My mother!" exclaimed Bertel, "hear me, my mother! I thank you ... I love you! ... You shall go with me, and I will never desert you. But you do not hear me. You are so pale ... Great God ... she is dead!"

"My daughter! my only child!" exclaimed the old hard-hearted peasant king, completely crushed.

"Judge not, lest ye be judged!" said old Larsson with clasped hands. "And you, our children, go put into life with reconciled hearts. Curse and blessing struggle for your future, and not only for yours, but for that of your posterity, unto the tenth generation. Pray to Heaven that blessing may conquer."

"Amen!" said Larsson the younger and Ketchen.

"So be it!" said Bertel and Regina.

END OF THE FIRST CYCLE.

Jarrold and Sons, The Empire Press, Norwich and London.

SELECTIONS FROM
LIST OF FICTION

Maurus Jókai's Famous Novels.

Black Diamonds.

By MAURUS JÓKAI, Author of "The Green Book," "Poor Plutocrats," etc. Translated by Frances Gerard. With Special Preface by the Author.

The Green Book. (FREEDOM UNDER THE SNOW.)

By MAURUS JÓKAI. Translated by Mrs. Waugh. With a finely engraved Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

Pretty Michal.

By MAURUS JÖKAI. Translated by R. Nisbet Bain. With a specially engraved Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

A Hungarian Nabob.

By MAURUS JÖKAI. Translated by R. Nisbet Bain. With a fine Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

The Poor Plutocrats. (AS WE GROW OLD.)

By MAURUS JÖKAI. Translated by R. Nisbet Bain. With a fine Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

The Day of Wrath.

By MAURUS JÖKAI. Translated from the Hungarian by R. Nisbet Bain. With a Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

Dr. Dumany's Wife.

By MAURUS JÖKAI. Translated by F. Steinitz (under the author's personal supervision). With specially engraved Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

The Nameless Castle.

By MAURUS JÖKAI. Translated by S. E. Boggs (under the author's personal supervision). With a Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

Debts of Honor.

By MAURUS JÖKAI. Translated by A. B. Yolland. With a charming Photogravure Portrait of Dr. and Madame Jókai.

'Midst the Wild Carpathians.

By MAURUS JÖKAI. Translated by R. Nisbet Bain. With a specially engraved Portrait of Dr. Jokai.

The Lion of Janina.

By MAURUS JÓKAI. Translated by R. Nisbet Bain. With a special Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

Eyes Like the Sea.

By MAURUS JÓKAI. Translated by R. Nisbet Bain. With a fine Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

Halil the Pedlar; THE WHITE ROSE.

By MAURUS JÓKAI. Translated by R. Nisbet Bain. With a Photogravure Portrait of Dr. Jókai.

Carpathia Knox.

By CURTIS YORKE, Author of "Hush," "That Little Girl," "A Romance of Modern London," etc. With a charming Photogravure Portrait of the Author.

Jocelyn Erroll.

By CURTIS YORKE, Author of "Once," "Dudley," "The Wild Ruthvens," etc. With a fine Photogravure Portrait of the Author.

Valentine: A STORY OF IDEALS.

By CURTIS YORKE, Author of "The Medlicotts," "His Heart to Win," "Because of the Child," etc.

In Tight Places.

By MAJOR ARTHUR GRIFFITHS, Author of "Forbidden by Law," etc.

St. Peter's Umbrella.

By KÁLMÁN MIKSZÁTH, Author of "The Good People of Palvez." Translated from the original Hungarian by W. B. Worswick. With Introduction by R. Nisbet Bain. A charming Photogravure Portrait of the Author and three illustrations.

The Adventures of Cyrano de Bergerac. Captain Satan.

From the French of Louis Gallet. With specially engraved Portrait of Cyrano de Bergerac.

A Woman's Burden,

By FERGUS HUME, Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Lone Inn," etc.

Vivian of Virginia.

Being the Memoirs of Our First Rebellion, by John Vivian, of Middle Plantation, Virginia. By Hulbert Fuller, Author of "God's Rebel." With ten charming Illustrations by Frank T. Merrill.

Anima Vilis.

A tale of the Great Siberian Steppe. By MARYA RODZIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by Count S. C. de Soissons. With a fine Photogravure Portrait of the Author.

The Tone King.

A Romance of the Life of Mozart. By Heribert Rau. Translated by J. E. S. Rae. With specially engraved Portrait of Mozart.

The Golden Dog (LE CHIEN D'OR).

A Romance of the days of Louis Quinze in Quebec. By WILLIAM KIRBY, F.R.S.C.

Memory Street.

By MARTHA BAKER DUNN, Author of "Sleeping Beauty," "Lias' Wife," etc.

God's Rebel.

By HULBERT FULLER, Author of "Vivian of Virginia."

The Rejuvenation of Miss Semaphore.

A Farcical Novel. By HAL GODFREY (Miss C. O'Conor Eccles).

The Man Who Forgot.

By JOHN MACKIE, Author of the "Prodigal's Brother," "Sinners Twain," etc. With a special Photogravure Portrait of the Author.

Jarrold & Sons'
New Six-Shilling Fiction

By MAURUS JOKAI.
Haiti the Pedlar.
(The White Rose).

By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI.
Tales Prom Tolstoi.
Translated from the Russian by R. NISBET-BAIN,
and with Biography of the Author.

By the Author of "ANIMA VILIS."
Distaff.
By MARYA RODZIEWICZ.
Translated from the Polish by COUNT STANISLAUS
C. DE SOISSONS.

By RENÉ BAZIM.
Autumn Glory.
Translated by MRS. ELLEN WAUGH.

By the Author of
"DUKE RODNEY'S SECRET."
Ivy Cardew.
By PERRINGTON PRIMM.

By HULBERT FULLER.
God's Rebel.

By MARTHA BAKER DUNN.
Memory Street.

London:
JARROLD & SONS,
Publishers,
10 & 11, Warwick Lane,
E.C.