Stralsund was now in a desperate state, and no time was to be lost in hastening to its rescue. Thus, in one hour after we entered Elsineur, we embarked on board the fleet, and sailed for the beleaguered city.
Ernestine and her two attendants were the only females on board the king's ship, where, by the judicious management of my friend, the Baron Karl—then acting as quartermaster-general—I had the good fortune to be embarked with my company. For the first time since we left Hesinge, I perceived a smile on the face of Ernestine; this was when the vessels were got fairly under weigh, and, squaring their yards to the northern gale, stood down the Sound with all their sails set, just as the sun sank behind the spires of Elsineur.
"I am now fairly on my way to my father," said she.
"And to leave me?"
The smile died away, and she gave me a pleading glance.
She sat long beside me on the deck, wrapped up in a well-furred mantle, nor did she bid me adieu for the night until we were far past the isle of Hueen, the residence of Tycho Brahe (and then famous for four castles, said by the Danish legends to have been built by the children of Huenella the giantess), and had reached that part of the straits where they widen to twenty-five and thirty miles in breadth, and the distant spires of Landscrona faded from our view.
After she retired I paced the deck alone (being captain of the military watch), rolled in my plaid, and smoking a German pipe. I was thoughtful, and looked forward, with no pleasant anticipations, to our arrival at the great city of Stralsund; for there I would be separated from Ernestine for a long and indefinite period. Her father and I were the servants of hostile kings; and, though near kinsmen (but, as yet, the count knew not that), were the leaders of soldiers who were the enemies of each other; and all that I could hope for now, was to be favoured with bearing the flag of truce by which Ernestine would be finally guided to the Imperial tents.
Near me a number of our soldiers of the watch were telling stories, and sat in a circle on the main deck, with their plaids and bonnets drawn over their ears. I drew near to listen, and thus wiled away the hours of the night.
Morning came again: another part of the coast and a wider sea were in view. The grey clouds which had veiled the sky, and shed a cold hue on the waters, were rent asunder, as if by the broad wave of some mighty hand—by Odin himself, the king of spells; and through the gap a blaze of saffron light was shed upon the fertile isle of Amack and Zealand's level shores—level save where a little chalky cliff, a venerable tower, or a clump of trees rose against the sky—part of that long succession of wood-bordered lawns which spread, with villas, cottages, and gardens, along the beautiful but monotonous coast from Elsineur to Copenhagen.
Opposite, bleak Scania reared up her iron and precipitous front, above which, and amid a pile of purple clouds, the sun was rising; and when these clouds were rolled away towards the north, the sky appeared in all its cold and Swedish purity of blue. At sea one's spirit naturally becomes exhilarated on a fine morning, when with a beautiful sunrise the wind is fair, and all the fleet are rolling before it, until their yard-arms almost dip, and we have our friends exchanging signals from the sides of the vessels; but I felt—I know not why—none of that ardour with which I should have hailed our entrance upon such an arena of war and glory as Stralsund: a foreboding of approaching sorrow—conduced probably by the certainty that, within a week at least, I would be separated from Ernestine—oppressed me, and I looked forward with no emotion of pleasure to the day we should drop our anchors on the Pomeranian shores.