—Je ne connais pas de reine de ce nom-là.
—Même parmi les zingaris?
—C’est vrai, dit Fernand, j’oubliais les Bohémiens ont des rois.
—Et des reines, dit Ginesta.
Le Saltéador, par Alexandre Dumas.
“I do not know any queen of that name.”
“Even among the gipsies?”
“It is true,” said Fernand, “I had forgotten the gipsies have kings.”
“And queens,” said Grinesta.
BOTANISING—ESMERALDA LOST—FOUND AGAIN—THE EAGLE—MOUNTAIN DIFFICULTIES—MOUNTAIN BIVOUAC—ESMERALDA ILL—OLE’S BED—HOTEL BILLS—ROUGH ROUTE—DONKEYS IN SNOW—THE PURU RAWNEE DOWN—THE NY SŒTER—GIPSY DISCUSSION—THE ENGLISHMAN’S HOUSE—HOSPITALITY—NORWEGIAN NAMES—FILLINGSHÖ—LARGE LAKE.
No one was at the sœter. After a middags-mad of tea, bacon, potatoes, fladbröd and butter, and a rest, we continued our journey. After pursuing our rough mountain track for a short time, we left the forest of the steep mountain side, and commenced a toilsome ascent, in a warm sun, across a wild rocky ravine, bare of trees, with a stream running down it. It was not very deep. Our party slowly ascended one side of the ravine towards the higher slopes of the mountain.
Gradually Esmeralda and ourself, who were collecting wild flowers, and Alpine Flora, were left behind. Patches of snow rested here and there as we ascended the sides of the “Hyrjon Fjeld.” The open mountain was rocky and bare of vegetation. Gradually and slowly we ascended higher and higher, when we suddenly missed our party. Track there was none distinguishable. We ascended to some higher ridges; but could see nothing of our guide, gipsies, or donkeys. A white handkerchief was fastened to the end of our Alpenstock. We used the shrill cry of the Australian signal and cooed loudly, but could hear no signal in return. Not a vestige of human life was to be seen on the rugged mountain slopes around us. It was quite clear that somehow we were lost. We had our compass; but then, we had no idea as to the course across the mountains Ole Rödsheim proposed to take.
Esmeralda did not appear much disconcerted by the incident. It was a scene for the artist’s pencil, as the gipsy-girl ascended a hillock strewn with loose grey rocks, covered with lichen. There she stood in the evening sun, in a distant land across the sea, the blue feathers of her small straw hat, waving in the light warm breeze. One could not help feeling, that there was something more than common in this mystic race. The lone figure of the gipsy-girl, whose home was nature, seemed the queen of the wide expanse of barren “Fjeld” which she then surveyed. She gave a whistle—that peculiar shrill whistle which is known among themselves; a whistle, which, if not heard quite at Christiania, certainly must have disturbed the wild rein-deer of the surrounding fjelds from their slumbers.
We had almost come to the conclusion that we might have to spend the night as best we could on the “Hyrjon Fjeld;” just then we heard a return signal across some ravines beyond us to our right. Zachariah had come back in search. They had turned sharply across the mountain slope to the right, and were hidden from view by the intervening ravines. We raced across the mountain side, and crossing some snow slopes of a ravine, getting well ahead, we kept up a sharp and rapid fire of snowballs at Esmeralda, prudently retreating immediately afterwards in pursuit of our party.[81]
Noah and Ole Rödsheim were waiting. The donkeys were soon in motion.
“Ah!” said Noah, who had a great contempt for botanical research; “That’s the way with Mr. Smith; he plucks a flower, and then calls daughter to look at it. She says it’s very pretty; and there they stand till nobody can tell what has become of them.”
Poor Noah! botany was not his forte. But all was sunshine again, and we quietly pursued our rough uneven way.