Kennybol did not heed him.
“Hans of Iceland here!” he repeated.
“To be sure,” said Hacket, with ill-suppressed laughter; “are you afraid of him?”
“What!” for the third time interrupted the hunter; “do you really mean it,—is Hans of Iceland here, in this mine?”
Hacket turned to the bystanders: “Has our brave Kennybol lost his wits?”
Then, addressing Kennybol: “I see that it was your dread of Hans of Iceland which made you so late.”
Kennybol raised his hands to heaven.
“By Ethelreda, the holy Norwegian saint and martyr, it was not fear of Hans of Iceland, but Hans of Iceland himself, I swear, that delayed me so long.”
These words caused a murmur of surprise to run through the crowd of miners and mountaineers surrounding the two speakers, and clouded Hacket’s face as the sight and the rescue of Ordener had but a moment before.
“What! What do you mean?” he asked, dropping his voice.