“Hang that fellow, he will sleep for ever,” said the Parson; “come, rouse out Torkel, ‘show a leg,’ as Tom says, it is broad daylight now, and high time for us to be moving.”
Torkel stretched himself and rubbed his eyes, and looked stupid; his thoughts had not returned from his native Tellemark, and his prospects of a “home and pleasing wife,” on the banks of the Torjedahl, of which, in all probability, he had been dreaming.
“Come, Torkel, rouse up my boy,” said the Parson, kicking him; “here is the tail end of the brandy-flask for you, and when that is gone, we must find our way to where more is to be had.” The hint of brandy had the desired effect of waking up the old hunter; for even his iron frame was none the better for the night’s soaking. The brandy, however, put them both in good-humour, and having extracted from their havresacs that which had once been excellent kahyt scorpor, but which now were black soppy lumps of dough, they made an extempore breakfast, seasoned by some chips of Fortnum and Mason’s portable soup, a piece of which the Parson invariably carried with him, but which, as there was now no possibility of lighting a fire, they were obliged to suck or eat as they could.
“Now Mister Torkel, en route! hvar er väga til hållet? we must get there before we taste brandy again, that is certain; pray Heaven they have not broken up the skal, and left us alone in our glory. That is our direction,” continued he, looking at his pocket-compass, “but the thing is to keep it, in this thick wood and thick weather, when no one can see a dozen yards before his nose.”
Every one who has been out in a fog knows the propensity the traveller invariably has to work round in a circle, and to return to the spot from which he started. True, in the present case, the compass was a safeguard against this, but to consult the compass when walking or riding requires time, the needle does not settle itself to the north without a good deal of vacillation; and here the lie of the country gave no assistance whatever; it was not a plain, certainly, for it was very uneven, and occasionally rocky, but there was nothing like hill, or any continuous direction of declivities, which could form a guide. Here and there were dense brakes, every leaf and twig of which, overcharged with moisture, showered down its stores upon them, and there was no possibility of picking the ground, where the only chance of finding the track lay in keeping the compass course. No brook had been met with of sufficient volume to render it probable that it had come from behind the hills; and besides, it was more than probable that the watercourses, which formed the only communications with the pickets above, were much too full now to be practicable.
As hour after hour wore on, and the forest seemed always like that through which they had started in the morning, the Parson was more than once tempted to follow the course of the running water, and to make his way down to the river, upon the chance of at least a shelter and a meal at one of the farm-houses; but the hopes of effecting a junction with his friends, and still more with his baggage, kept him to his course, though the hållet—as Virgil’s Italy served poor Æneas—seemed to be continually going backwards as he approached it.
“Hallo!” said Torkel at last, who was then a little in advance, “what have we got to now, a svedgefall, or a sœter? the fjeld is much clearer here. Oho, I see! this will do; look here, this juniper was cut only lately, and here is another stump, and the branches all carried away, too, and there is a tree that has got its lower boughs trimmed; we have got to the shooting line at last.”
“Upon my word, I think we have,” said the Parson; “and if so, we must turn short up to the left, and the Captain’s post cannot be far from us.”
“Unless they have broken up the skal,” said Torkel.
“If they have, I am sure we shall find some one here, left to guide us; Lieutenant Birger knows that we are to make for this spot. Here is something, at all events,” as they came in sight of a line of peeled saplings, right across the path, which had for some time begun to ascend rather rapidly. “This will do, I am sure;” for now a peasant, who had been sitting cowering under the rock, with a soldier’s musket in his hand, the lock of which he had covered with a sack that had evidently done duty with the carioles, came forward to meet them.