The Prisoner.
While the incidents last narrated were transpiring on the one side of the lake, Magde's boat had reached the other, and the occupants of the boat were about landing, yes, Carl had even secured the boat to the stake, when one of the little ones in attempting to reach the landing, fell overboard with a loud cry.
The young and always self-possessed mother, answered the boy's cry, not by crying out herself, but by springing into the water after him, and when Carl turned to learn the cause of the confusion, she had already reached her little boy, and was holding him up at arm's length out of the water. It was all done in a moment, without the least unnecessary confusion.
"Carl," said she quietly, "take the boy."
But Carl had lost his self-possession entirely. After he had literally thrown the boy on the landing, he inquired with a trembling voice:—
"Could you not wait for me? The boy would not have sunk immediately."
"You must not scold me, Carl, I am only a little wet."
She then quietly drew herself to the shore.
"How will you dry yourself now?" inquired Carl in a tone of uneasiness and vexation.
"O, easily, I will call on Mother Larsson and borrow a dress to wear while we visit our father, and my clothing will be dry by the time we return."
Carl was silent. He was displeased because Magde had not called him to her assistance. Meanwhile he proceeded with the children to the prison, that he might prepare the old man for the visit. Magde did not tarry long at Mother Larsson's. As soon as she had obtained the necessary garments, she hurried on, clothed in a neat peasant's frock which fitted her fine form gracefully.
The prison at Harad was located in the ruins of an old castle. Its outward appearance presented a dark and forbidding aspect. The heart of the beholder would contract within him as he gazed upon those ruins of fallen greatness, as they reposed before him, dark and deserted, like an evil omen in his path.
But the interior of the prison, with its tottering weather beaten projections, apparently ready to fall from their resting places, presented an appearance still more gloomy and forbidding. Dampness, and mould of a hundred years growth had obliterated all traces of the fresco paintings that had formerly ornamented the ceiling, on which the moisture had gathered and fell at regular intervals with a hollow patter upon the stone pavement below.
The places once occupied by glittering chandeliers were now shrouded with immense spider webs, in which a whole colony of spiders lived subsisting on the noisome vapors of this gloomy charnel like abode.
Aside from these poisonous insects, an occasional rat, and a few unfortunate prisoners, there were no other inhabitants in this dark prison. A flock of jackdaws had built their nest beneath the eaves of the old castle, and as they received good treatment from the prisoners they would pay them a passing visit at their grated windows to look in upon them or to receive a few crumbs of bread. Old Mr. Lonner had already made their acquaintance and derived much pleasure from attending to their little wants, while he anxiously awaited the arrival of his children.
When Magde arrived she found Carl had prepared the way for her so that she, without hindrance, proceeded directly to the old man's cell. Mr. Lonner was deeply moved by the visit of his children; but he appeared perfectly resigned. Magde's two children were seated upon his knees, while Carl was standing before him relating all that had transpired during his imprisonment. The cloud which had rested upon the old man's brow changed instantly to an expression of joy when he beheld Magde the wife of his beloved son, enter the room. His arms trembled as he embraced her, and his heart throbbed painfully when she described her sorrows and troubles, and told him that Nanna had nearly fainted as they were about entering the boat, at the mere thought of the second parting.
"It was right to leave her behind," said Mr. Lonner, "and if we can only find some means whereby I may be released before the autumn, that the cold may not increase my feebleness, then—"
"Means must be found, father, I think, of immediately going to the city, to take our cow and the two sheep with me, aside from those I will also take the piece of linen which I have made for Ragnar's shirts. By adding all these together I—"
"But, dear daughter, if you sell the cow, how will these little ones prosper?" He clasped his hands upon the two little white heads of the children who were sitting in his lap.
"O, I can borrow some milk of our neighbors, and we can repay them in the fall, after Ragnar returns, for then we shall have another cow."
"That will never do, my child. We must discover some other method."
"I had an idea, also," said Carl, advancing from a corner into which he had withdrawn when Magde entered.
"What is it, my good boy?" inquired his father.
"I was thinking about that which Ragnar has so often told us, about the people in England who procured money by pawning themselves—what was it he called it?" continued he, scratching his head to arouse his memory.
"Life Insurance, was it not?" replied his father.
"That's it, father, and Ragnar also told me that even here in Sweden, gold might be obtained from England on such terms. Now, if we could find some one who understood this matter, and would undertake to draw up the proper writings, I would willingly give my life as security, and then you see, father, I should be just the same as so much ready money."
"My good son, your words are well intended; but it is not as you think in relation to Life Insurance."
"O, that is too bad, father, or you might have received a large sum of money when I am dead."
"My life, I hope, will be finished before yours," said his father, "I am old, and you are young."
"True, I am young in years; but lately, yes, last Friday, while I passed through the church yard, I heard a voice, and that voice I believed."
"What ideas you invent!" exclaimed Magde, frightened for the first time, as she observed Carl's hollow cheeks and sunken eye, "but what did the voice say?"
"'Carl, Carl, Carl,' it said, calling my name three times, 'you will not live long.'"
"Your brain is weak, my boy, because you have worked too hard. When your body has received rest, and rest it must have, you will feel much better. But tell me, Carl, what you thought when you imagined you heard the voice."
"I did not think, but merely replied, 'indeed.'"
"But, Carl, with this superstition you will make your father sorrowful."
"Sorrowful? I do not think so. Should he be sorrowful because our Saviour in his grace is willing to call me to his fold? Instead of being sorrowful, the day of my departure should be a festive day. How many troubles do we escape after we are placed in the earth!"
"But if you think in that manner, you will become mournful yourself, you will not be able to laugh any more."
"Not laugh," replied Carl, and without an effort he commenced laughing merrily. His face glowed with mirthfulness, and his melancholy humor seemed to have vanished as if by magic. It appeared so strange to him that Magde should desire him to laugh, that he forgot all about the life insurance or the warning voice, and once thus engaged, he took no farther part in the consultation.
An hour elapsed, and Magde, after having emptied the basket of its contents, experienced a return from the hope that had sustained her during the interview, to her former despondency, as the moment of parting approached. Carl proceeded in advance to prepare the boat.
"In four days, at the furtherest, I shall return," said Magde, pausing upon the threshold of her father's cell, "and then, as I hope for Ragnar's continued love, I shall bring you good tidings."
"Thank you, my dear Magde. Ragnar shall learn all that you have done for his old father. Kiss Nanna, poor little innocent, for me, and tell her that she must not come here, for it will only make her heart more heavy and sad."
A moment later, and the creaking doors resounded throughout the ruins, the prisoner was again alone.
But once more did he hear a dear voice, for when Magde arrived at the outside, she remembered with a feeling of uneasiness, that her youngest child had not been blessed by its grandfather. In the haste of departure, the little one had been entirely forgotten; but as it was impossible for her to leave the prison with the dear child unblessed, she stood beneath the grated window, and exclaimed:
"Father, dear father, please look through the window, and I will hold up the baby for you, that you may give it your blessing."
Immediately the old man's white head appeared at the window, and Magde held the child aloft in her hands towards him.
And now everything was performed rightly; the last farewell glances were exchanged, and then Magde and her children disappeared from the old man's sight.