Then, turning to Ordener: “Sir, this is our brother, the famous hunter Kennybol, from the mountains of Kiölen.”
“A hearty greeting to you all,” said the mountaineer, taking off his bearskin cap. “Brother, I’ve had as bad luck in hunting upon your coast as you would probably have had if you had gone fishing in our mountains. I think I could sooner fill my game-bag if I chased elves and goblins in the misty forests of Queen Mab. Sister Maase, you are the first sea-mew whom I have caught sight of to-day. Here, friends, God keep you! but this wretched grouse is all that the best hunter in the province of Throndhjem has got in a whole day’s tramp through the heather in this weather.”
With these words he drew from his pouch and laid on the table a white ptarmigan, declaring that it was not worth a shot.
“But,” he muttered between his teeth, “my faithful arquebuse, you shall soon hunt far bigger game. If you can bring down no more chamois or elk skins, you shall make holes in green jackets and red jerkins.”
These words, but half heard, struck the curious Maase.
“Eh!” asked she; “what did you say, brother?”
“I said that there was always a goblin dancing under a woman’s tongue.”
“You are right, brother Kennybol,” cried the fisherman. “Eve’s daughters are all curious, like their mother. Weren’t you talking of green jackets?”
“Brother Braal,” replied the hunter, with some spirit, “I trust my secrets to no one but my musket, because I am sure that then they will never be repeated.”
“There’s talk in the village,” boldly continued the fisherman, “of a revolt among the miners. Do you know anything about it, brother?”