“Husband, do not speak that name; it brings ill luck.”
“Whose abode?” asked Ordener.
“That of Beelzebub incarnate,” said Kennybol.
“Really, my kind hosts, I know not what you mean. I was surely told that Walderhog was the haunt of Hans of Iceland.”
A triple cry of terror arose.
“Well!—Then you do know!—He is the demon we mean!”
The woman drew her woollen kerchief over her face, and called on all the saints to witness that it was not she who uttered that name.
When the fisherman had somewhat recovered from his surprise, he looked steadily at Ordener, as if there were something about that young man which he could not comprehend.
“I did not expect, stranger, that even if I lived still longer than my father, who died at the age of one hundred and twenty, I should ever have to show the road to Walderhog to any human being possessed of his senses and believing in God.”
“Surely not,” cried Maase; “your worship will not go to that accursed cave; for if one only step foot inside, he must make a compact with the Devil!”