"I know, Alan," Clifford said tenderly. "You are even as I have been all my life—a prisoner of silence. We will have a long talk when we get home."
It was a glorious day: with bright warm sunshine, cold, crisp air, and a sky of unbroken blue. And all around stretched the great and wonderful distances, less mysterious in the frankness of the morning, but always possessed of mystic influence and eloquent bidding. But the harmony of the day was gone for Clifford, Katharine, and Alan; the gladness of the expedition was over for them. Still, they took their part with the others, and did their best to hide their own sad feelings. The returning pilgrims passed over the wild heathland, through the low and luxuriant growth of brush, juniper, and stunted willow, through the birch-woods and pine-forests, and so downwards, downwards, their faces set towards the Rondane mountains and their backs to the great Jutenheim range. Gerda sang, Ejnar was rescued from swamps, the French artist sketched, and the little Swedish lady flirted with him, for a "changeling," so she told Katharine! The Mathematiker sulked, Katharine comforted him, and Alan kept close to her, whilst Clifford strolled along, sometimes with them, sometimes alone, and sometimes with Gerda, who loved to get him to herself. The Sorenskriver had left his geniality behind at the Saeter. He became quieter and quieter, until he reached his normal condition of surliness. Jens, however, remained in a state of mountain-exhilaration all the way home, and, encouraged by sympathetic listeners, told stories of frightful Trolds living in the mountains, and of the occasions when he himself had seen apparitions of men, women, and horses fading into nothing on near approach.
"Ja, vel," he said, "at this very water-trough where Svarten is now drinking, I have seen half a dozen horses standing and barring the road; but when I came near, they have disappeared. Ja, ja, I've even heard them being whipped, and heard the noise of their hoofs striking the ground."
He told a story of a man he knew who had once seen several men, all black and all wearing top-hats, "just like church-people," standing on a stone-heap down in the valley. He shouted to them, but they did not answer, and then he was foolish enough to ask them to show him their backs.
"Now," said Jens, "you know they have not any backs, and he had scarcely pronounced the words when he fell in a dead faint. This was about six o'clock in the evening; and two hours later he regained consciousness and found himself lying near his own home. As it was in the valley that he met these people, they must have carried him up home. He is very grave and quiet now, and you will never hear him making fun of the Huldre-folk."
It was late in the afternoon when the travellers reached the Gaard. The flag had been hoisted and was flying at half-mast. Knutty came out to meet them, and said, "Velkommen tilbage" (Welcome back).
And then she added:
"Jens, Bedstefar is dead."
[CHAPTER XI.]
The silence of death rested on the Gaard, and every one went about softly in courtyard and house. The visitors had asked Mor Inga whether or not she wished them to leave; but her message was that they might stay if they pleased. Nevertheless, two or three of them, who resented the presence of death, took themselves off at once; but their places were filled up by a party of mountaineers who had come down from the Dovrefjelde. One of them, so Knutty told her dear ones, was a Finnish botanist, and he had found some rare flowers which had much excited him. Knutty had a great deal of news to give; and it was obvious that she had not been having a dull time.