It is true that the mere name of the much dreaded Ralph sufficed to give an alarming character to a region wild in itself. But after all, a memory is not so much to be feared as a spirit; and no fisher, belated in rough weather, and mooring his bark in Ralph’s creek, had ever seen the will-o’-the-wisp sport and dance upon the summit of a rock, or a fairy ride through the heather in her phosphorescent car drawn by glow-worms, or a saint ascend toward the moon, after his prayers were said.
And yet, if the angry waves and wind had allowed a wandering mariner to land in that hospitable harbor upon the night after the great storm, he might have been struck with superstitious fear at the sight of three men, who upon that same night sat around a huge fire, blazing in the middle of the meadow. Two of them wore the broad felt hat and loose trousers of royal miners. Their arms were bare to the shoulder, their feet were cased in fawn-colored leather boots; a red sash held their crooked swords and heavy pistols; each had a hunter’s horn slung about his neck. One was old, the other was young; the old man’s thick beard and the young man’s long hair lent a wild and barbarous look to their faces, which were naturally hard and stern.
By his bearskin cap, his tanned leather jacket, the musket slung across his back, his short, tight-fitting drawers, his bare knees, his bark shoes, and the glittering axe in his hand, it was easy to guess that the companion of the two miners was a mountaineer from the north of Norway.
Certainly, any one who saw from afar these three weird figures, upon which the flames, fanned by the salt breeze, cast a red, flickering light, might well have been frightened, even had he no faith in spectres and demons; it would have been enough that he believed in thieves and was somewhat richer than the ordinary poet.
The three men constantly turned their heads toward the winding path through the wood which fringes Ralph’s meadow, and judging by such of their words as were not carried off by the wind, they were expecting a fourth person.
“I say, Kennybol, do you know that we should not be allowed to wait so peacefully for this envoy from Count Griffenfeld, if we were in the neighboring meadow, Goblin Tulbytilbet’s meadow, or yonder in St. Cuthbert’s bay?”
“Don’t talk so loud, Jonas,” replied the mountaineer; “blessed be Ralph the Giant, who protects us! Heaven save me from setting foot in Tulbytilbet’s meadow! The other day I thought I was picking hawthorn there, and I gathered mandrake instead, which began to bleed and shriek, and nearly drove me mad.”
The young miner laughed.
“Nearly, Kennybol? For my part, I think that the mandrake’s shriek produced its full effect upon your feeble brains.”
“Feeble brains yourself!” said the vexed mountaineer; “just see, Jonas, he jests at mandrake. He laughs like a lunatic playing with a death’s-head.”