“Afraid,” growled the fellow, proceeding to unharness his horse; “that was the word, I think.”
But other figures were now already upon the scene. Dashing past the
other horse and cart, which by this time had reached the bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingly tall woman, or rather girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen; she was dressed in a tight bodice and a blue stuff gown; hat, bonnet, or cap she had none, and her hair, which was flaxen, hung down on her shoulders unconfined; her complexion was fair, and her features handsome, with a determined but open expression—she was followed by another female, about forty, stout and vulgar-looking, at whom I scarcely glanced, my whole attention being absorbed by the tall girl.
“What’s the matter, Jack?” said the latter, looking at the man.
“Only afraid, that’s all,” said the man, still proceeding with his work.
“Afraid at what—at that lad? why, he looks like a ghost—I would engage to thrash him with one hand.”
“You might beat me with no hands at all,” said I, “fair damsel, only by looking at me—I never saw such a face and figure, both regal—why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway; she had twelve brothers, you know, and could lick them all, though they were heroes—
“‘On Dovrefeld in Norway,
Were once together seen,
The twelve heroic brothers
Of Ingeborg the queen.’”
“None of your chaffing, young fellow,” said the tall girl, “or I will give you what shall make you wipe your face; be civil, or you will rue it.”
“Well, perhaps I was a peg too high,” said I, “I ask your pardon—here’s something a bit lower—