"Not exactly so," answered the knight, rising. "An easterly wind--hem!--and it was north-westerly only an hour ago. With this wind no one can cross the Sound to-night. I must go and speak with the ferrymen. I expect some strange gentlemen, child--people of distinction, and my good friends. Should they arrive in my absence, receive them in a friendly manner, and set before them the best there is in the house. Entertain them as I know thou canst; but ask them neither their names, nor whither they journey: that would not beseem thee. Above all things, say not a word on state affairs, or of what thou thinkest or dost not think on such matters. This is something that thou must not have an opinion about. Now, now! redden not thus, my child! Thou canst not surely be angry with thy father? Understand me rightly. Thou mayest, in God's name, think what thou wilt--that nobody can forbid thee: but these are not the times to say aloud what thou dost think; and thou art never cautious, little Ingé: thou often talkest, loudly and boldly, things that I dare scarcely repeat to myself in my closet. Forget not, therefore, what I have been saying. I shall ride, perhaps, to meet the strangers, and be back again in an hour. If they come by another road than I expect, and arrive here before me, see to their wants, like a good housekeeper. The porter and steward know discretion; and, to-night, the castle stands open for every traveller, without any one being required to announce himself. Thou art not afraid to be alone, my child? Thou hast thy waiting-maids at hand, and the castle is full of servants."
"Afraid?" repeated proud Ingé, colouring still more deeply; "nay, father, of what should I be afraid? Thy friends cannot be thy daughter's foes. But thou art so strange, my father--so mysterious--and not glad, and at ease. Art thou unwell?"
"No, my child; but I have some unpleasant matters to think about, which thou canst not understand. But take no heed of this. Do not sit here alone, in the twilight. Get a light, and let thy maidens come in, and sing ballads with thee. Thou mayest sing ballads, my child: it is suiting to thine years. What I said about ballads I did not mean to refer to thee. Only, be cheerful now, and be not uneasy on my account. Nothing shall happen." With these words, he patted her kindly on the cheek, and departed.
It began to grow dark. Her father's mysterious inquietude and ill-disguised anxiety had made a singular impression on the young girl, who otherwise had never known fear; and, as she now sat alone, in the great gloomy hall, various alarming thoughts took possession of her mind. She had heard many, in part unfounded, rumours of pirates and robbers: these she cared little about. But that the land was full of secret traitors, who threatened the destruction of the king, and all his more trusty and attached friends, was a general, and, to the Lady Ingé, a far more distressing rumour. This important fortress had usually been kept strongly barred against every stranger who did not, in the first place, give his name and errand with much preciseness. Why an exception was to be made this evening, she could not comprehend; and why her father had been induced to leave the castle at a time when he expected important and distinguished guests, was equally inconceivable. From his uneasy attention to the direction of the wind, and his disappointment when he found it easterly, as well as from his command not to ask the strangers their names, or whither they were journeying, she supposed that he might be expecting some friends, who were eluding pursuit, and intended passing over to Sweden that night. Notwithstanding her father's reserve and cautiousness, she had observed that he took a zealous part in the quarrel Stig Andersen and his kinsmen were fomenting against the king. She was, however, only imperfectly acquainted with the reasons for this quarrel. That the king had outraged Stig Andersen's wife, and had been denounced by the powerful marsk, she had heard; but of the particular circumstances she knew nothing. According to her notions of a king, and the idea she had formed in her childhood, from her mother's descriptions of the great Waldemars, she entertained such a deep reverence for the name of royalty, that she could not conceive how a subject should be offended with his king, or that he should, in anywise, have a right to oppose himself to his sovereign. That her father should be induced, either from friendship, or on account of family ties, to forget his allegiance to the king, was a thought she dreaded to dwell distinctly upon; but now she secretly began to fear such a disaster, which, of all others, she considered the greatest; and, for the first time in her life, she felt herself in a state of anxiety. She looked round the gloomy apartment, and fancied she beheld a lurking regicide, with a gleaming dagger, in every corner. She hastily arose to call for lights; but scarcely had she risen, before the door was gently opened, and a rough, heavy male figure, closely wrapt in a coarse wadmel cloak, slipped cautiously and stealthily across the threshold. The last faint traces of expiring day revealed to her glance a wild, shaggy, filthy countenance, more like that of a savage animal than of a human being. She stepped back, and was on the point of uttering a cry of alarm; but, blushing at her fears, she controlled herself, and recalled to mind her father's instructions, that she should receive all his guests with a dignity becoming the mistress of the house.
"Welcome, stranger," she said, as boldly as she could, though her voice trembled, as she advanced a step or two. "My father will be here immediately," she added; "allow me to procure a light."
"Nay, no light, fair maiden. Are you alone, here, in the castle?"
This question, in a deep, gruff voice, which struck her with its subdued and mysterious tone, increased her alarm; and the tall, clumsy, gigantic form advanced a few steps farther into the hall. She stepped hastily back, and laid her hand on the latch of the kitchen-door, but again took courage, and remained.
"Alone?" she repeated. "Nay: I am, it is true, a knight's daughter, but I do not take upon myself to defend a royal fortress alone. If you wish to see the garrison of the castle, you may do so in one moment."
"Let me not frighten you away, fair madden," said the stranger, stepping back; "I have just come off the sea, and am not in train to appear before fine women-folks. I am only an humble groom, sent hither an my master's errand, to inquire whether Sir Lavé Little can shelter his friends to-night; and whether a couple of royal hounds have not arrived here this evening."
"My father's friends are welcome," replied the knight's daughter: "he has gone out to meet them, and will be here forthwith. Of the hounds I have heard nothing. If you are the strange gentleman's servant, you shall immediately be provided for in the servants' hall."