The marsk grew paler and paler, and, as he gazed on the door by which the priest had departed, it seemed to him an avenue of heaven, from which he expected an angel to bring him redemption. But it opened not. He endeavoured to rise, but sank back powerless. He would have shouted; but his voice was weak, and no one seemed to hear it.
At length his henchman, Mat Jute, entered. "A stranger of rank is here, stern sir marsk," he said, as he remained erect by the door, with his hand at his steel cap; "and he seems determined on entering, by fair means or foul, and that immediately."
The marsk beckoned for a cup of wine, which somewhat revived him; and "The clerk--the chaplain!" he anxiously cried, as his voice returned.
The trusty Mat now perceived with terror the condition of his master, and rushed out to bring the priest and a physician.
Scarcely had he left the door, when the stranger he had announced appeared. He was tall, and wore a lofty feathered hat, whilst the ample folds of a purple mantle, in which he was enveloped, concealed his face. They now fell aside, however, and revealed a countenance, pale and restless indeed, but on which the stamp of a daring cunning was ineffaceably imprinted.
"Duke Waldemar!" exclaimed the marsk, as he endeavoured to rise, but again sank back on his seat. "Come you hither to see how the man dies whom you have doomed an outlaw?"
"Do I come at an hour so solemn?" asked the duke. "Since, then, the angel of retribution has found you first, my design is frustrated. Know, however, that I came to defy you to mortal combat."
"You may still have your wish," replied the marsk, erecting himself. "But wherefore seek you this? Tell me quickly!"
"Like a perjured traitor, you have broken your knightly word, and have promised to the Norwegian king the crown which is mine."
"Ay, but not until you had broken our paction, and declared me an outlaw."