Just then he picked up something on the snow, which set him running on a new tack.
“What is that piece of red stone doing here?” he cried; “a fragment of porphyry, in a region of gneiss and basalt? You must have brought it from up yonder,” he added, pointing to the peaks rising to the west. “It was in your pocket. Ah! you see it is not very easy to deceive me! I know the character and form of all the rocks at ten leagues distance!”
The baron’s sleigh finally returned, and a few moments afterwards, as he began to seem a little better again, they were able to close the vein, and place the sick man in his equipage, which proceeded slowly to the chateau, while Christian started, in advance, with the son of the danneman.
“Well,” said the young lad, when they had left the gloomy vehicle behind them, “what was I telling you when it happened? What did my aunt Karine say?”
“I did not understand the song very well,” said Christian, absorbed in his thoughts; “it was not very cheerful, I remember.”
“‘He left his soul at the house,’” repeated Olof; “‘and when he shall come to rejoin it, he will no longer find it.’ Is not that perfectly plain, Herr Christian? The iarl was ill; he wanted to shake off his malady; but his soul did not want to go to the hunt, and with good reason, perhaps, for it is bound now on a villanous journey!”
“You hate the iarl!” said Christian. “You think his soul is going to hell!”
“As to that, God knows! But as to hating him, I don’t hate him any more than every one does. You don’t love him yourself, do you?”
“I—I do not know,” replied Christian, shuddering inwardly at the consciousness of the hate which filled his heart, more intense, perhaps, than was felt by any other person.
“Well, if he gets well,” resumed the lad, “you will hear about it! He will soon find out who upset him, and, if you are wise, you will quit the country.”