“And the royal protectorate; and my mother dying of cold and hunger?”
“The devil, the royal protectorate!” said the miner Jonas, with a shudder.
Jonas took Kennybol by the hand, saying: “Old fellow, you have not the honor to be a ward of our glorious sovereign, Christian IV. May the blessed king Olaf, in heaven, deliver us from the protectorate!”
“You had better trust to your sword for that benefit!” said Norbith, in a fierce tone.
“Bold words are easy to a young man, friend Norbith,” answered Kennybol; “but consider that if we advance, all these green jackets—”
“I think that it would be useless for us to return to our mountains, like foxes running from wolves, for our names and our revolt are known; and if we needs must die, I prefer a musket-ball to the hangman’s rope.”
Jonas nodded assent.
“The devil! the protectorate for our brothers, the gallows for us! Norbith may be right, after all.”
“Give me your hand, good Norbith,” said Kennybol; “there is danger in either course. We may as well march straight to the edge of the precipice as fall over it backwards.”