Bertel's aroused suspicions were not so easily dispelled. His eyes searched every part of the room, and soon discovered a little object which had fallen under a bench. It was a fine and soft lady's glove, lined with flannel.
"Will you now confess, old wretch?" burst out the excited young man.
The old man seemed dismayed, but only for a moment. He suddenly changed his manner, nodded slyly, and pointed to the corner nearest the oven. Bertel followed the hint ... took a few steps ... and suddenly felt himself precipitated downwards. He had fallen into the open hole of a cellar, whose entrance had been hidden by the heavy shadow of the fire-place. Instantly a trap-door was closed over the opening, and he heard the rattling of an iron hook, which secured the trap and deprived him of all chance of opening the door from below.
Bertel had fallen into one of those places under the floor in which poor people keep roots and home-brewed beer. The cellar was not deep, nor his fall dangerous, but, nevertheless, Bertel's anger was quite natural. The little glove had betrayed the whole story. She must be here; she, the beautiful, proud, unfortunate princess, whom he had so long adored in secret. Perhaps she had fallen into the hands of cruel robbers. And just now, when he was near to her after years of longing, and when, perhaps, she most needed his help and protection, he had been caught in a miserable trap; imprisoned in a rat-hole, more miserable than the hut itself, of which the floor this moment served him for a ceiling. In vain did he try to lift up the planks of the floor by the strength of his shoulders; they were as inexorable as the fate which had so long mocked his dearest hopes.
Then he heard the footsteps of several persons passing over the floor overhead. Then all was silent.
Pekka was now Bertel's only hope, but the former had not dared to enter the hut. Nothing was heard of him, however, and three or four hours passed in torturing suspense, increased by the prospect of perishing from hunger and cold. Then steps again sounded overhead; the iron hook was unfastened, and the trap-door raised. Half-frozen, Bertel crawled up from the damp hole, in the firm belief that Pekka had at last spied out his prison. He was met instead by the old man with the snow-white hair, who, humble and submissive as before, offered his hand to help him up.
The enraged young warrior seized him by his bony shoulders, and proceeded to catechise him in a thorough manner.
"Wretch," he exclaimed, "are you tired of life, or do you not know what you are doing, dotard? What hinders me from crushing your miserable carcase against the walls of your own hut?"
The old man looked at him with an unchanging countenance.
"Do so, Bertila's son," he replied; "kill your mother's old faithful servant if you wish; why should he live any longer?"