"The black-eyed young Regina now sits and knits stockings at Korsholm. Yes, yes, Fru Marta is not one of the folks who sit and weep in the moonlight. Since we last met I have had news from Vasa through the jolly sergeant, Bengt Kristerson. He said he had fought with your father. You had better believe that the old man is a trump; he carried Bengt out at arm's-length and threw him down the steps there at your home in Storkyro. Bengt cursed and swore, declaring that he would put the old man and twelve of his hands into the windmill at once, and grind them to groats; but Meri begged for them. Smart fellow, Bengt Kristerson! fights like a dragon, and lies like a skipper. Your health!"
"What else did you hear from East Bothnia?" inquired Bertel, who with the bashfulness of youth, blushed at the thought of revealing to his prosaic friend the secret of his heart—his love for the dark-eyed and unhappy Lady Regina von Emmeritz.
"Not much, except the bad harvests, immense drain caused by the war, and heavy conscriptions. The old men on the farm, your father and mine, quarrel as usual, and make it up again. Meri pines for you and sings doleful songs. Do you remember that splendid girl, Katri? round as a turnip, red as mountain-ash berries, and soft about the chin as a lump of butter. She has run away with a soldier. Your health, my boy!"
"Nothing more?" said Bertel abstractedly.
"Nothing more! What the devil do you want to know, when you don't care for the prettiest girl in the whole of Storkyro. 'Yes, noch etivas,' says the German. There has been a great affray at Korsholm. The conscripts got it into their heads that Lady Regina had tried to kill the king with 'witch-shots,' and then they stormed Korsholm, and burned the girl alive. Cursedly jolly! here's to the heretics! We also know the art of holding autos-da-fé."
Bertel started up, forgetting his wounds; but pain mastered him. Without a cry he sank fainting into Larsson's arms.
The honest captain was both troubled and angry. While he bathed Bertel's temples with the remainder of the noble fluid in the tankard, and presently brought him to life once more, he gave vent to his feelings in the following manner, crescendo from piano to forte.
"There, there, Bertel ... what next? What the deuce, boy? Are you in love with the girl? Faint like a lady's maid! Courage! did I say that they had burned her? No, my lad, she was only a little scorched, according to what Bengt Kristerson says, and afterwards she tore Fru Marta's eyes out, and climbed like a squirrel to the top of the castle. Such things happen every day in war ... Well, I declare, you have got both your eyes open at last. You are still alive, you milk-baked wheat loaf ... are you not ashamed to behave like a poltroon? You are a pretty soldier! blitz-donnerwetter-kreutz-Pappenheim, you are a pomade pot! D—n it, now the tankard is empty also!"
The stout little warrior would perhaps have continued to vent his bad humour for some time longer, especially as there was no consolation now left in the cup, had not the door opened, and a female figure then stepped over the threshold. At this sight the captain's pale and fluffy face brightened up. Bertel was laid aside, and Larsson leaned eagerly forward, in order to see better, for the light of the single lamp was very faint. But the result of his observation did not seem very satisfactory.
"A nun! Ah, by Heaven ... to convert us!"