“I do not know anything better than to keep along this edge, till we put a mile or so of ground between us and her, and then to cross; and the sooner we start the better, for she will not stay long after she has disposed of her young one.”
“Good!” said the Parson, “and now for finding the place again;”—and he took out his compass and placed it on the fallen trunk. “That forked tree bears to us exactly E. by N.; when we come down the other side and bring it W. by S., we shall not be very far from the place; and then the northern edge of that large clump of epilobium will give us the exact mark. And now to get there as quick as we may.”
They had not proceeded a couple of hundred yards when they met with a brook which intersected the opening nearly at right angles.
“This will do,” said Torkel, jumping into it, for it was not much more than knee deep, and clear as crystal. “The fall of the ground, the bed of the stream, and the stuff that always grows on the banks, will be quite sufficient cover for us.”
On they went, stooping, sometimes splashing through the water itself, sometimes creeping on hands and knees under the bank, resting for a while behind some friendly rock or stump, then creeping on again, till at last they neared the opposite side; and then, seeking the shelter of the trees, they took a few minutes’ rest—for going on all-fours is anything but a comfortable mode of progression. Slowly and warily they advanced, peering about, moving from tree to tree, and looking closely into every bush before they showed themselves. There was the place evidently enough; the north corner of the epilobium was near enough to the forked tree to make a capital mark—there could be no mistake as to the locality; besides, the bear’s tracks were evident enough on some soft ground; but no living creature was to be seen. The bear had either heard them, or smelt them, or, having provided for her young one, and being restless and anxious on account of the noises that had roused her at first, had gone on to some thicker cover.
“That comes of calling the beast by his name,” said Torkel, half sulkily; “never do that again, at least not in the fjeld. Well, never mind, we will have young Innocence, at all events; the reward is half as much for a cub as it is for an old one.”
“That is all you think about,” said the Parson.
“No it is not,” said Torkel; “I like the sport itself as well as any man living—I love it for its own sake; but I should not mind a few of their yellow notes, either, to be turned into honest, hard Norwegian specie-dalers, and laid up for the winter,—at least, just now, for Lota’s sake. Fancy what a set of scoundrels these Swedes must be, when they have to print on all their notes, ‘Whoso forges this shall be hanged’—we do not do that in Norway.”