“Hear then, children,” continued he, “they are just now riding along the bank on the opposite side of the rivulet; before they can arrive on this side, a good time must pass; and they cannot see what we are about. In the mean while we will set up a hedge for them that they will not so easily jump over.” Saying these words, he laid down his gun, drew forth his tinder-box and struck fire. He then rubbed two or three handfuls of dry moss together, placed the tinder-box among it, blew till he caused it to blaze, then cast it down into the midst of the heather, where, after crackling and smoking for a few seconds, the fire spread itself in all directions. While engaged in this occupation, the object of which was not immediately manifest to the fugitives, Black Mads did not cease giving vent to his thoughts in the following broken sentences:—“The wind is with us, the heather’s dry; now Niels keeper can soon get a light for his pipe—it is the second time he has had the benefit of my tinder-box; the man will, no doubt, curse and swagger about the heath-fowl, because I roast them without basting; but need knows no law, and a brave fellow takes care of himself. See now! it’s beginning to smoulder.” With these words he rose, and said to the Cornet, “Do now as you see I do, pull up a head of heather, set fire to it, run ten paces towards the north, and fire the heath; then pull up another, run, and again set fire, all towards the north, till you approach that little heath-hill yonder two or three gunshots distant. I will do the same towards the south, and then we will run as quickly back. The Fröken can in the mean time stay here with the horse. It will soon be done: now let us begin! Light before and dark behind.” With this formula the poacher commenced his operations. The Cornet followed his instructions, and soon a tract of heath, two miles in breadth, stood in a blaze, and both incendiaries immediately rejoined the trembling Fröken.
“We have now earned our breakfast!” cried Mads, “be so good as follow me, and put up with very humble accommodation—but what can we do with this?” he gave the mare a slap with his open hand, “Can you find your way home alone?”
“O,” said the Fröken, “she follows me wherever I go.”
“No, that she certainly must not, for she would betray us: the door of my house is too narrow for her to enter, and we dare not let her stand without. You are too good to suffer harm,” said he to the mare, while taking off the saddle and pillion, “but every one is nearest to himself.”
The Cornet, who saw his design, took his mistress by the hand and led her some stops aside, as if to place her beyond the range of the conflagration. The poacher took his piece, cocked it, went up to the side of the mare, held it behind her ear, and fired. The Fröken turned round with a shriek of horror, just in time to see her poor Dun, sinking down among the heather. Tears of pity flowed down the pale cheeks of the sorrowful girl.
“The jade is as dead as a herring,” cried Mads, by way of comforting her; “she did not even hear the report.”
He then took off the bridle, laid saddle and pillion on one shoulder, his gun on the other, and began to move onwards, at the same time encouraging the lovers to follow as fast as they could, with the grateful intelligence that his castle lay at no great distance.
“Only don’t look behind you,” added he, at the same time quickening his pace, “but think of Lot’s wife.”
The Fröken, though in a riding habit,[15] was unable to go so fast through the tall heather. She frequently stumbled and entangled herself in the branches. The Cornet, therefore, without waiting for permission, took her in his arms, and, notwithstanding her reluctance, bore her away.
“Now we are at home,” at length cried their conductor, at the same time flinging saddle and package at the foot of a little heath-grown hill.