“Kennybol, we are betrayed! Gormon Woëstrœm has just come from the South. The entire regiment of musketeers is marching against us. The Schleswig lancers are at Sparbo; three companies of Danish dragoons await the cavalry at Loevig. All along the road he saw as many green jackets as there were bushes. Let us hasten toward Skongen; let us not pause until we reach that point. There, at least, we can defend ourselves. One thing more; Gormon thinks that he saw the gleam of muskets among the briers as he came through the defiles of Black Pillar.”
The young leader was pale and agitated; but his face and voice still showed courage and resolution.
“Impossible!” cried Kennybol.
“It is certain! certain!” said Norbith.
“But Mr. Hacket—”
“Is a traitor or a coward. Depend on what I say, friend Kennybol. Where is this Hacket?”
At this moment old Jonas approached the two chiefs. By the deep discouragement stamped upon his features it was easily seen that he had learned the fatal news.
The eyes of the two elder men, Jonas and Kennybol, met, and they shook their heads with one accord.
“Well, Jonas! Well, Kennybol!” said Norbith.
But the aged leader of the Färöe miners slowly passed his hand across his wrinkled brow, and in a low voice answered the appealing look of the aged leader of the Kiölen mountaineers: “Yes, it is but too true; it is but too certain. Gormon Woëstrœm saw them.”