No sooner had we unpacked, and our things were under our waterproof, than a gorgio was announced. As if by magic, a middle height, thick set man appeared through some birch-trees. He hesitated, and did not speak. Our silver-mounted flask was quickly drawn from its plaid bag, and we handed him some aquavët. Silently drinking, he nodded his head. Seeing the end of a pipe sticking out of his waistcoat pocket, we offered him some English tobacco, which he also took, and saying in a whisper, “tak,” vanished as silently as he came. A fire was lighted to boil the water, which Zachariah procured from a torrent in the rocks above the camp. Metramengry consisted of tea, fried bacon, two small trout caught at Vodvang, and bread. The rain suddenly commenced, and it poured in torrents. Dark clouds gathered thickly, as we sat at tea wrapped in our waterproof rugs. Not long afterwards the silent man returned with three others, who also had brandy. We pitched our tents in the rain, and, thanks to our waterproof covering, our things were kept tolerably dry.
The view was magnificent. The broad waters of the Logan flowed in the valley below us. Islands in its stream heightened the picturesque effect. A considerable quantity of well wooded and grassy land formed the bed of the valley. Pleasant bondegaards, or farms, extended to the base of hills, crowned with forest. Beyond rose the peaks of the wild Fjelds.
Esmeralda had quite recovered from her fatigue; Noah was now quite well. Tea is a grand restorer of failing energy. Esmeralda was at once active in our tent arrangements. All things must have their place.
“Now, Mr. Smith, look sharp, or I must give you a severe doing,” and Esmeralda’s dark eyes flashed fire, and sparkled with merriment and witchery. Sometimes, when we were a careless lounger about the tents, she would say, “Dableau! you are going in and out, in and out, and never doing anything.”
Then Noah might be heard, “What are you at, Zachariah; can’t you see where you are going to? I think you are making yourself too much of a man!” An observation which Zachariah would answer with “Dawdy, dawdy, fake your bosh;” and, making a succession of droll faces, would skip about in the rain, singing, “Fem de dura.” We will not answer for the correctness of Zachariah’s intended quotation from the Norwegian peasant girl’s song we heard at our camp near Holmen.
More people came wandering about, some looking at our donkeys and others staring at our tents. They were all of the peasant class, kind, homely-looking people. It was about a quarter to 7 o’clock when we encamped. Taking our places in our tents at about 9 o’clock we commenced our gipsy Norwegian song, with guitar and violin accompaniment. Then followed our song, “Farewell;” afterwards dance music, violin and tambourine. A tolerable number of peasants were seated on the bank opposite the entrance to the tent. They sat in the rain on the wet grass until we had finished. After much talking, in which the female voices certainly predominated, they shouted “Farvel.” The interest they seemed to take in our music was most amusing. They had such smiling countenances. One young peasant girl especially kept looking at each by turns, and then laughing, until we could hardly help relaxing our expression of insouciance. As they departed, a peasant kindly suggested a better spot for the donkeys to graze than where the gipsies had first put them. Music being over, we all retired to bed. Just as we were dozing away, Zachariah’s voice was heard: “Mr. Smith, sir!”
“What do you want, Zachariah?”
“I have got your key and pencil, sir.”
“Never mind, go to sleep!”
“But, sir, you can’t unlock your box without it. You must have it, sir. Otta clocken, more music, ha! ha!”