"Peace, accursed one!" exclaimed the enraged marsk, and his sword flashed in the direction of Henner's head; but at the same instant it was struck violently from his hand, while a sword of flame, as it were, gleamed before him in the air. Seized with terror, he spurred his steed forward, and galloped away, followed by the ecclesiastic, who, pale and frightened, continued to cross himself, as he disappeared along the dark road.
Shortly after the marsk's troop of horsemen rode past the pilgrim, who, leading Aasé by the hand, strode leisurely along the highway, whilst Skirmen still remained silently and gravely by the boat, leaning upon the long flame-shaped sword.
Four weeks had elapsed since the night on which the inflexible marsk encountered Henner Friser by Viborg Lake, and heard the tones of the vigils ascend from the tomb of the murdered king. It was evening, and the last golden rays of the sun rested on the turrets of Hielm Castle, when the stern marsk, accompanied by his troopers, rode across the little island in the direction of his stronghold. He had been attending the meeting between the Danish and Norwegian kings at Varberg, at which his unyielding pride and imperious demands had entirely frustrated the conclusion of the treaty; and although he now returned to Hielm with the proud consciousness of his formidable power and influence, his haughty features were pale, and his lofty figure seemed to rock in the saddle.
In presence of Archbishop Grand, he had concealed the strong impression made upon him by the occurrence which we have related, and, indeed, laughed at himself and the whole adventure, which he characterised as a mere accident, or a piece of trickery, got up by the half-crazed Henner. But during his homeward journey, when no longer sustained by the archbishop's presence, he had not spoken a word; nor could he shake off the conviction that the sword had been shivered in his hand by lightning. He still imagined that, while the vaadesang from the royal tomb rang in his ears, he had heard death and perdition announced to him by a spectre, and that a mighty cherub-sword had struck him with its lightning, while the accusing chorus swelled to heaven over his guilty head. With heavy soul he rode through the dark gate of Hielm Castle, and, dismounting from his steed, entered the arched hall of the keep, where sat his daughters.
The quiet Margarethé advanced affectionately to meet him, and proceeded to unbuckle his armour; while the impatient little Ulrica overwhelmed him with inquisitive questions, as to where he had been, and whether he had brought home booty and jewels.
"Hast thou not gold and jewels enough to fill thy young raven's maw?" asked the gloomy warrior, without looking at the child. "I have brought thee more than ever king's daughter in Denmark possessed. But the time may come," he added, in an under tone, "when thou must be contented with less. Go to the chamberlain, Rikké," he continued, in a sterner tone: "he will open the treasure-closet, and give thee the rosary on which King Erik Christopherson told his last prayer. Keep that as thy patrimony."
"Thanks, father--thanks!" exclaimed the innocent, rosy-cheeked child. "But, why dost thou always seem so angry when thou art kind to me? I may, then, now take the handsome string of pearls and diamonds to deck myself? Thanks, father--thanks!" she again cried, as she skipped away, clapping her hands with delight.
"And thou, my pious Margarethé," continued the marsk to his eldest daughter, as with emotion he gazed on her pale and quiet features--"thou carest not for my treasures; therefore to thee I give my blessing--if haply it carry not with it the weight of a curse!" he added, mentally, while he laid his hand upon her head. "Go, my child," he said, aloud, as he felt himself becoming giddy--"go, and send hither the chaplain."
"Art thou sick, dear father?" inquired the daughter, with deep concern: "thy hand is cold, and thou art quite pale."