"The judgment of the saints on the perjurer!" exclaimed Regina, awe-struck.
"The judgment of the saints, which confirms our happiness!" rejoined Bertel, and he placed on Regina's finger the King's Ring.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE KING'S RING—THE SWORD AND THE
PLOUGH—FIRE AND WATER.
Again we return to Storkyro, to Bertila's farm, and the old peasant king.
It is a March day, in the year 1635. The spring sun is already melting the snow, and the roofs drip on the sunny side; the icy crust bears one's weight on the north side of the hill, but breaks on the south. Aron Bertila has just come home from church with all his folks, his grey head is bent, and he leans on Meri's arm. At his side walk two sturdy, thick-set figures—old Larsson, and his newly arrived son, the brave and learned captain, the faithful image of his father, except in age. On the captain's arm is his young, light-hearted, and pretty little wife, whose features we recognise. It is no other than Ketchen, the courageous and merry girl, whose soft hand once made the gallant captain lose his wits. Since that day he has sworn by all the Greek and Roman authors, whom he formerly read in Abo Cathedral School, that the soft-handed novice among the Würzburg sisters of charity should some day become his. And when the vicissitudes of war again brought them together, when Ketchen was without protection, and besides, had nothing against an honest, jovial soldier, this cheerful pair were formally wedded in the autumn at Stralsund, and then went to visit their kind-hearted father in Storkyro, where they were warmly welcomed, and received like children in the house.
It must be added that Larsson had obtained his discharge from the service after much trouble, and without having a rise in rank. It is to be regretted that he had not gathered a farthing from the booty in Germany, like many of his comrades. All that he had earned—and if we can believe him, it must have amounted to millions—had taken wings; but where? At Nördlingen, he says. By no means. But in revels and sprees with jolly fellows like himself. Now he meant to be as regular and steady as a gate-post; to succeed his father as inspector of Bertila's large farms; to plough, sow, harvest, and pro modulo virium prolen copiosam in lucem proferre, as those in olden times so truly said.
Old Bertila treats him with apparent favour. Significant words have escaped the old man, and he has just given his will into the hands of the judge.
As for Meri, she has withered like a flower without roots, and clings to life only by one heart-thread: the banished, rejected Gustaf Bertel, now ennobled to Bertelskold.
This domestic circle, composed of such differing elements, both light and shadows, are now gathered in the large "stuga," surrounded by the numerous field hands, and old Larsson now tries, in secret alliance with Meri, to bring the stern peasant king to a better state of mind towards Bertel. But all their prayers and reasons break against the old man's unyielding firmness ... Larsson turns angrily away, and Meri conceals her tears in the darkest corner of the room.