The king's ring

by Zacharias Topelius

II.—THE SWORD AND THE PLOUGH.

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."

CHAPTER I.
A MAN FROM THE PEASANTS' WAR.

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."

CHAPTER II.
ASHAMED OF A PEASANT'S NAME.

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."

CHAPTER III.
THE SOUTHERN FLOWER COMES TO THE NORTH.

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.

CHAPTER IV.
THE PEASANT—THE BURGHERS—AND THE SOLDIER.

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.

CHAPTER V.
LADY REGINA ARRIVES AT 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.

CHAPTER VI.

THE LOVE OF THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH.

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.

CHAPTER VII.
THE SIEGE OF KORSHOLM.

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.