flower-pots with blooming plants in them.

Martha was stooping at the hearth, blowing and puffing at the fire
under her coffee-pot, when the Sons of the Vikings knocked at the door.
Wolf-in-the-Temple was the man who took the lead; and when Witch-Martha
opened the upper half of the door (she never opened both at the same
time) she was not a little astonished to see the Captain's son, Frithjof
Ronning, staring up at her with an anxious face.

"What cost thou want, lad?" she asked, gruffly; "thou hast gone astray
surely, and I'll show thee the way home."

"I am Wolf-in-the-Temple," began Frithjof, thrusting out his chest, and
raising his head proudly.

"Dear me, you don't say so!" exclaimed Martha.

"My comrade and foster-brother Skull-Splitter has been wounded; and I
want thee, old crone, to stanch his blood before he bleeds to death."

"Dear, dear me, how very strange!" ejaculated the Witch, and shook her
aged head.

She had been accustomed to extraordinary requests; but the language
of this boy struck her as being something of the queerest she had yet
heard.

"Where is thy Skull-Splitter, lad?" she asked, looking at him dubiously.

"Right here in the underbrush," Wolf-in-the-Temple retorted, gallantly;
"stir thy aged stumps now, and thou shalt be right royally rewarded."

He had learned from Walter Scott's romances that this was the proper way
to address inferiors, and he prided himself not a little on his jaunty
condescension. Imagine then his surprise when the "old crone" suddenly
turned on him with an angry scowl and said:

"If thou canst not keep a civil tongue in thy head, I'll bring a
thousand plagues upon thee, thou umnannerly boy."

By this threat Wolf-in-the-Temple's courage was sadly shaken. He knew
Martha's reputation as a witch, and had no desire to test in his own
person whether rumor belied her.

"Please, mum, I beg of you," he said, with a sudden change of tone; "my
friend Hakon Vang is bleeding to death; won't you please help him?"

"Thy friend Hakon Vang!" cried Martha, to whom that name was very
familiar; "bring him in, as quick as thou canst, and I'll do what I can
for him."

Wolf-in-the-Temple put two fingers into his mouth and gave a loud
shrill whistle, which was answered from the woods, and presently the
small procession moved up to the door, carrying their wounded comrade
between them. The poor Skull-Splitter was now as white as a sheet, and
the drowsiness of his eyes and the laxness of his features showed that
help came none too early. Martha, in hot haste, grabbed a bag of herbs,
thrust it into a pot of warm water, and clapped it on the wound. Then
she began to wag her head slowly to and fro, and crooned, to a soft and
plaintive tune, words which sounded to the ears of the boys shudderingly
strange:

     "I conjure in water, I conjure in lead,
     I conjure with herbs that grew o'er the dead;
     I conjure with flowers that I plucked, without shoon,
     When the ghosts were abroad, in the wane of the moon.
     I conjure with spirits of earth and air
     That make the wind sigh and cry in despair;
     I conjure by him within sevenfold rings
     That sits and broods at the roots of things.
     I conjure by him who healeth strife,
     Who plants and waters the germs of life.
     I conjure, I conjure, I bid thee be still,
     Thou ruddy stream, thou hast flowed thy fill!
     Return to thy channel and nurture his life
     Till his destined measure of years be rife."

She sang the last two lines with sudden energy; and when she removed
her hand from the wound, the blood had ceased to flow. The poor
Skull-Splitter was sleeping soundly; and his friends, shivering a little
with mysterious fears, marched up and down whispering to one another.
They set a guard of honor at the leafy couch of their wounded comrade;
intercepted the green worms and other insects that kept dropping down
upon him from the alder branches overhead, and brushed away the flies
that would fain disturb his slumbers. They were all steeped to the core
in old Norse heroism; and they enjoyed the situation hugely. All the
life about them was half blotted out; they saw it but dimly. That light
of youthful romance, which never was on sea or land, transformed all
the common things that met their vision into something strange and
wonderful. They strained their ears to catch the meaning of the song of
the birds, so that they might learn from them the secrets of the future,
as Sigurd the Volsung did, after he had slain the dragon, Fafnir. The
woods round about them were filled with dragons and fabulous beasts,
whose tracks they detected with the eyes of faith; and they started
out every morning, during the all too brief vacation, on imaginary
expeditions against imaginary monsters.

When at the end of an hour the Skull-Splitter woke from his slumber,
much refreshed, Witch-Martha bandaged his arm carefully, and Wolf-in-the
Temple (having no golden arm-rings) tossed her, with magnificent
superciliousness, his purse, which contained six cents. But she flung
it back at him with such force that he had to dodge with more adroitness
than dignity.

"I'll get my claws into thee some day, thou foolish lad," she said,
lifting her lean vulture-like hand with a threatening gesture.

"No, please don't, Martha, I didn't mean anything," cried the boy, in
great alarm; "you'll forgive me, won't you, Martha?"

"I'll bid thee begone, and take thy foolish tongue along with thee," she
answered, in a mollified tone.

And the Sons of the Vikings, taking the hint, shouldered the litter once
more, and reached Skull-Splitter's home in time for supper.

III.

The Sons of the Vikings were much troubled. Every heroic deed which they
plotted had this little disadvantage, that they were in danger of going
to jail for it. They could not steal cattle and horses, because they
did not know what to do with them when they had got them; they could
not sail away over the briny deep in search of fortune or glory, because
they had no ships; and sail-boats were scarcely big enough for daring
voyages to the blooming South which their ancestors had ravaged. The
precious vacation was slipping away, and as yet they had accomplished
nothing that could at all be called heroic. It was while the brotherhood
was lamenting this fact that Wolf-in-the-Temple had a brilliant idea.
He procured his father's permission to invite his eleven companions to
spend a day and a night at the Ronning saeter, or mountain dairy, far up
in the highlands. The only condition Mr. Ronning made was that they were
to be accompanied by his man, Brumle-Knute, who was to be responsible
for their safety. But the boys determined privately to make Brumle-Knute
their prisoner, in case he showed any disposition to spoil their sport.
To spend a day and a night in the woods, to imagine themselves Vikings,
and behave as they imagined Vikings would behave, was a prospect which
no one could contemplate without the most delightful excitement. There,
far away from sheriffs and pastors and maternal supervision, they might
perhaps find the long-desired chance of performing their heroic deed.

It was a beautiful morning early in August that the boys started from
Strandholm, Mr. Ronning's estate, accompanied by Brumle-Knute. The
latter was a middle-aged, round-shouldered peasant, who had the habit of
always talking to himself. To look at him you would have supposed that
he was a rough and stupid fellow who would have quite enough to do in
looking after himself. But the fact was, that Brumle-Knute was the best
shot, the best climber--and altogether the most keen-eyed hunter in the
whole valley. It was a saying that he could scent game so well that he
never needed a dog; and that he could imitate to perfection the call of
every game bird that inhabited the mountain glens. Sweet-tempered he was
not; but so reliable, skilful, and vigilant, and moreover so thorough
a woodsman, that the boys could well afford to put up with his gruff
temper.

The Sons of the Vikings were all mounted on ponies; and
Wolf-in-the-Temple, who had been elected chieftain, led the troop.
At his side rode Skull-Splitter, who was yet a trifle pale after his
blood-letting, but brimming over with ambition to distinguish himself.
They had all tied their trousers to their legs with leather thongs, in
order to be perfectly "Old Norse;" and some of them had turned their
plaids and summer overcoats inside out, displaying the gorgeous colors
of the lining. Loosely attached about their necks and flying in the
wind, these could easily serve for scarlet or purple cloaks wrought on
Syrian looms. Most of the boys carried also wooden swords and shields,
and the chief had a long loor or Alpine horn. Only the valiant
Ironbeard, whose father was a military man, had a real sword and a real
scabbard into the bargain. Wolf-in-the-Temple, and Erling the
Lop-Sided, had each an old fowling-piece; and Brumle-Knute carried a
double-barrelled rifle. This, to be sure, was not; quite historically
correct; but firearms are so useful in the woods, even if they are not
correct, that it was resolved not to notice the irregularity; for there
were boars in the mountains, besides wolves and foxes and no end of
smaller game.

For an hour or more the procession rode, single file, up the steep and
rugged mountain-paths; but the boys were all in high spirits and enjoyed
themselves hugely. The mere fact that they were Vikings, on a daring
foraging expedition into a neighboring kingdom, imparted a wonderful
zest to everything they did and said. It might be foolish, but it was on
that account none the less delightful. They sent out scouts to watch
for the approach of an imaginary enemy; they had secret pass-words and
signs; they swore (Viking style) by Thor's hammer and by Odin's eye.
They talked appalling nonsense to each other with a delicious sentiment
of its awful blood-curdling character. It was about noon when they
reached the Strandholm saeter, which consisted of three turf-thatched
log-cabins or chalets, surrounded by a green inclosure of half a dozen
acres. The wide highland plain, eight or ten miles long, was bounded on
the north and west by throngs of snow-hooded mountain peaks, which rose,
one behind another, in glittering grandeur; and in the middle of the
plain there were two lakes or tarns, connected by a river which was
milky white where it entered the lakes and clear as crystal where it
escaped.

"Now, Vikings," cried Wolf-in-the-Temple, when the boys had done justice
to their dinner, "it behooves us to do valiant deeds, and to prove
ourselves worthy of our fathers."

"Hear, hear," shouted Ironbeard, who was fourteen years old and had a
shadow of a moustache, "I am in for great deeds, hip, hip, hurrah!"

"Hold your tongue when you hear me speak," commanded the chieftain,
loftily; "we will lie in wait at the ford, between the two tarns, and
capture the travellers who pass that way. If perchance a princess from
the neighboring kingdom pass, on the way to her dominions, we will hold
her captive until her father, the king, comes to ransom her with heaps
of gold in rings and fine garments and precious weapons."

"But what are we to do with her when we have caught her?" asked the
Skull-Splitter, innocently.

"We will keep her imprisoned in the empty saeter hut,"
Wolf-in-the-Temple responded. "Now, are you ready? We'll leave the
horses here on the croft, until our return."

The question now was to elude Brumle-Knute's vigilance; for the Sons of
the Vikings had good reasons for fearing that he might interfere with
their enterprise. They therefore waited until Brumle-knute was invited
by the dairymaid to sit down to dinner. No sooner had the door closed
upon his stooping figure, than they stole out through a hole in the
fence, crept on all-fours among the tangled dwarf-birches and the big
gray boulders, and following close in the track of their leader, reached
the ford between the lakes. There they observed two enormous heaps of
stones known as the Parson and the Deacon; for it had been the custom
from immemorial times for every traveller to fling a big stone as a
"sacrifice" for good luck upon the Parson's heap and a small stone
upon the Deacon's. Behind these piles of stone the boys hid themselves,
keeping a watchful eye on the road and waiting for their chief's signal
to pounce upon unwary travellers. They lay for about fifteen minutes in
expectant silence, and were on the point of losing their patience.

"Look here, Wolf-in-the-Temple," cried Erling the Lop-Sided, "you
may think this is fun, but I don't. Let us take the raft there and go
fishing. The tarn is simply crowded with perch and bass."

"Hold your disrespectful tongue," whispered the chief, warningly, "or
I'll discipline you so you'll remember it till your dying day."

"Ho, ho!" laughed the rebel, jeeringly; "big words and fat pork don't
stick in the throat. Wait till I get you alone and we shall see who'll
be disciplined."

Erling had risen and was about to emerge from his hiding-place, when
suddenly hoof-beats were heard, and a horse was seen approaching,
carrying on its back a stalwart peasant lass, in whose lap a pretty
little girl of twelve or thirteen was sitting.

The former was clad in scarlet bodice, a black embroidered skirt, and
a snowy-white kerchief was tied about her head. Her blonde hair hung in
golden profusion down over her back and shoulders. The little girl
was city-clad, and had a sweet and appealing face. She was chattering
guilelessly with her companion, asking more questions than she could
possibly expect to have answered. Nearer and nearer they came to the
great stone heaps, dreaming of no harm.

"And, Gunbjor," the Skull-Splitter heard the little girl say, "you don't
really believe that there are trolds and fairies in the mountains, do
you?"

"Them as are wiser than I am have believed that," was Gunbjor's answer;
"but we don't hear so much about the trolds nowadays as they did when my
granny was young. Then they took young girls into the mountain and----"

Here came a wild, piercing yell, as the Sons of the Vikings rushed
forward from behind the rocks, and with a terrible war-whoop swooped
down upon the road. Wolf-in-the-Temple, who led the band, seized the
horse by the bridle, and flourishing his sword threateningly, addressed
the frightened peasant lass.

"Is this, perchance, the Princess Kunigunde, the heir to the throne of
my good friend, King Bjorn the Victorious?" he asked, with a magnificent
air, seizing the trembling little girl by the wrist.

"Nay," Gunbjor answered, as soon as she could find her voice, "this is
the Deacon's Maggie, as is going to the saeter with me to spend Sunday."

"She cannot proceed on her way," said the chieftain, decisively, "she is
my prisoner."

Gunbjor, who had been frightened out of her wits by the small red- and
blue-cloaked men, swarming among the stones, taking them to be trolds
or fairies, now gradually recovered her senses. She recognized in Erling
the Lop-Sided the well-known features of the parson's son; and as
soon as she had made this discovery she had no great difficulty in
identifying the rest. "Never you fear, pet," she said to the child in
her lap, "these be bad boys as want to frighten us. I'll give them a
switching if they don't look out."

"The Princess Kunigunde is my prisoner until it please her noble father
to ransom her for ten pounds of silver," repeated Wolf-in-the-Temple,
putting his arm about little Maggie's waist and trying to lift her from
the saddle.

"You keep yer hands off the child, or I'll give you ten pounds of
thrashing," cried Gunbjor, angrily.

"She shall be treated with the respect due to her rank,"
Wolf-in-the-Temple proceeded, loftily. "I give King Bjorn the Victorious
three moons in which to bring me the ransom."

"And I'll give you three boxes on the ear, and a cut with my whip, into
the bargain, if you don't let the horse alone, and take yer hands off
the child."

"Vikings!" cried the chief, "lay hands on her! Tear her from the saddle!
She has defied us! She deserves no mercy."

With a tremendous yell the boys rushed forward, brandishing their swords
above their heads, and pulled Gunbjor from the saddle. But she held on
to her charge with a vigorous clutch, and as soon as her feet touched
the ground she began with her disengaged hand to lay about her, with
her whip, in a way that proved extremely unpleasant. Wolf-in-the-Temple,
against whom her assault was especially directed, received some bad cuts
across his face, and Ironbeard was driven backward into the ford, where
he fell, full length, and rose dripping wet and mortified. Thore the
Hound got a thump in his head from Gunbjor's stalwart elbows, and
Skull-Splitter, who had more courage than discretion, was pitched
into the water with no more ceremony than if he had been a superfluous
kitten. The fact was--I cannot disguise it--within five minutes the
whole valiant band of the Sons of the Vikings were routed by that
terrible switch, wielded by the intrepid Gunbjor. When the last of her
foes had bitten the dust, she calmly remounted her pony, and with the
Deacon's Maggie in her lap rode, at a leisurely pace, across the ford.

"Good-by, lads," she said, nodding her head at them over her shoulder;
"ye needn't be afraid. I won't tell on you."

IV.

To have been routed by a woman was a terrible humiliation to the valiant
Sons of the Vikings. They were silent and moody during the evening,
and sat staring into the big bonfire on the saeter green with stern and
melancholy features. They had suffered defeat in battle, and it behooved
them to avenge it. About nine o'clock they retired into their bunks
in the log cabin, but no sooner was Brumle-Knute's rhythmic snoring
perceived than Wolf-in-the-Temple put his head out and called to
his comrades to meet him in front of the house for a council of war.
Instantly they scrambled out of their alcoves, pulled on their coats
and trousers; and noiselessly stole out into the night. The sun was yet
visible, but a red veil of fiery mist was drawn across his face; and
a magic air of fairy-tales and strange unreality was diffused over
mountains, plains and lakes. The river wound like a huge, blood-red
serpent through the mountain pastures, and the snow-hooded peaks blazed
with fiery splendor.

The boys were quite stunned at the sight of such magnificence, and stood
for some minutes gazing at the landscape, before giving heed to the
summons of the chief.

"Comrades," said Wolf-in-the-Temple, solemnly, "what is life without
honor?"

There was not a soul present who could answer that conundrum, and after
a fitting pause the chief was forced to answer it himself.

"Life without honor, comrades," he said, severely, "life--without honor
is--nothing."

"Hear, hear!" cried Ironbeard; "good for you, old man!"

"Silence!" thundered Wolf-in-the-Temple, "I must beg the gentlemen to
observe the proprieties."

This tremendous phrase rarely failed to restore order, and the flippant
Ironbeard was duly rebuked by the glances of displeasure which met him
on all sides. But in the meanwhile the chief had lost the thread of his
speech and could not recover it. "Vikings," he resumed, clearing his
throat vehemently, "we have been--that is to say--we have sustained----"

"A thrashing," supplied the innocent Skull-Splitter.

But the awful stare which was fixed upon him convinced him that he
had made a mistake; and he shrunk into an abashed silence. "We must do
something to retrieve our honor," continued the chief, earnestly; "we
must--take steps--to to get upon our legs again," he finished, blushing
with embarrassment.

"I would suggest that we get upon our legs first, and take the steps
afterward," remarked the flippant Ironbeard, with a sly wink at Thore
the Hound.

The chief held it to be beneath his dignity to notice this interruption,
and after having gazed for a while in silence at the blood-red mountain
peaks, he continued, more at his ease:

"I propose, comrades, that we go on a bear hunt. Then, when we return
with a bear-skin or two, our honor will be all right; no one will dare
laugh at us. The brave boy-hunters will be the admiration and pride of
the whole valley."

"But Brummle-Knute," observed the Skull-Splitter; "do you think he will
allow us to go bear-hunting?"

"What do we care whether he allows us or not?" cried Wolf-in-the-Temple,
scornfully; "he sleeps like a log; and I propose that we tie his hands
and feet before we start."

This suggestion met with enthusiastic approval, and all the boys laughed
heartily at the idea of Brumle-Knute waking up and finding himself tied
with ropes, like a calf that is carried to market.

"Now, comrades," commanded the chief, with a flourish of his sword, "get
to bed quickly. I'll call you at four o'clock; we'll then start to chase
the monarch of the mountains."

The Sons of the Vikings scrambled into their bunks with great despatch;
and though their beds consisted of pine twigs, covered with a coarse
sheet, and a bat of straw for a pillow, they fell asleep without
rocking, and slept more soundly than if they had rested on silken
bolsters filled with eiderdown. Wolf-in-the-Temple was as good as his
word, and waked them promptly at four o'clock; and their first task,
after having filled their knapsacks with provisions, was to tie
Brumle-Knute's hands and feet with the most cunning slip-knots, which
would tighten more, the more he struggled to unloose them. Ironbeard,
who had served a year before the mast, was the contriver of this daring
enterprise; and he did it so cleverly that Brumle-Knute never suspected
that his liberty was being interfered with. He snorted a little and
rubbed imaginary cobwebs from his face; but soon lapsed again into a
deep, snoring unconsciousness.

The faces of the Sons of the Vikings grew very serious as they started
out on this dangerous expedition. There was more than one of them who
would not have objected to remaining at home, but who feared to
incur the charge of cowardice if he opposed the wishes of the rest.
Wolf-in-the-Temple walked at the head of the column, as they hastened
with stealthy tread out of the saeter inclosure, and steered their
course toward the dense pine forest, the tops of which were visible
toward the east, where the mountain sloped toward the valley. He
carried his fowling-piece, loaded with shot, in his right hand, and a
powder-horn and other equipments for the chase were flung across his
shoulder. Erling the Lop-Sided was similarly armed, and Ironbeard,
glorying in a real sword, unsheathed it every minute and let it flash
in the sun. It was a great consolation to the rest of the Vikings to
see these formidable weapons; for they were not wise enough to know that
grown-up bears are not killed with shot, and that a fowling-piece is
a good deal more dangerous than no weapon at all, in the hands of an
inexperienced hunter.

The sun, who had exchanged his flaming robe de nuit for the rosy colors
of morning, was now shooting his bright shafts of light across the
mountain plain, and cheering the hearts of the Sons of the Vikings. The
air was fresh and cool; and it seemed a luxury to breathe it. It entered
the lungs in a pure, vivifying stream like an elixir of life, and sent
the blood dancing through the veins. It was impossible to mope in such
air; and Ironbeard interpreted the general mood when he struck up the
tune:

     "We wander with joy on the far mountain path,
     We follow the star that will guide us;"

but before he had finished the third verse, it occurred to the chief
that they were bear-hunters, and that it was very unsportsmanlike
behavior to sing on the chase. For all that they were all very jolly,
throbbing with excitement at the thought of the adventures which they
were about to encounter; and concealing a latent spark of fear under an
excess of bravado. At the end of an hour's march they had reached the
pine forest; and as they were all ravenously hungry they sat down
upon the stones, where a clear mountain brook ran down the slope, and
unpacked their provisions. Wolf-in-the-Temple had just helped himself,
in old Norse fashion, to a slice of smoked ham, having slashed a piece
off at random with his knife, when Erling the Lop-Sided observed that
that ham had a very curious odor. Everyone had to test its smell; and
they all agreed that it did have a singular flavor, though its taste was
irreproachable.

"It smells like a menagerie," said the Skull-Splitter, as he handed it
to Thore the Hound.

"But the bread and the biscuit smell just the same," said Thore the
Hound; "in fact, it is the air that smells like a menagerie."

"Boys," cried Wolf-in-the-Temple, "do you see that track in the mud?"

"Yes; it is the track of a barefooted man," suggested the innocent
Skull-Splitter.

Ironbeard and Erling the Lop-Sided flung themselves down among the
stones and investigated the tracks; and they were no longer in doubt as
to where the pungent wild odor came from, which they had attributed to
the ham.

"Boys," said Erling, looking up with an excited face, "a she-bear with
one or two cubs has been here within a few minutes."

"This is her drinking-place," said Ironbeard: "the tracks are many and
well-worn; if she hasn't been here this morning, she is sure to come
before long."

"We are in luck indeed," Wolf-in-the-Temple observed, coolly; "we
needn't go far for our bear. He will be coming for us."

At that moment the note of an Alpine horn was heard; but it was
impossible to determine how far it was away; for the echo took up the
note and flung it back and forth with clear and strong reverberations
from mountain to mountain.

"It is Brumle-Knute who is calling us," said Thore the Hound. "The
dairymaid must have released him. Shall we answer?"

"Never," cried the chief, proudly; "I forbid you to answer. Here we have
our heroic deed in sight, and I want no one to spoil it. If there is a
coward among us, let him take to his heels; no one shall detain him."

There were perhaps several who would have liked to accept the
invitation; but no one did. Skull-Splitter, by way of diversion, plumped
backward into the brook, and sat down in the cool pool up to his waist.
But nobody laughed at his mishap; because they had their minds full of
more serious thoughts. Wolf-in-the-Temple, who had climbed up on a big
moss-grown boulder, stood, gun in hand, and peered in among the bushes.

"Boys," he whispered, "drop down on your bellies--quick."

All, crowding behind a rock, obeyed, pushing themselves into position
with hands and feet. With wildly beating hearts the Vikings gazed up
among the gray wilderness of stone and underbrush, and first one, then
another, caught sight of something brown and hairy that came toddling
down toward them, now rolling like a ball of yarn, now turning a
somersault, and now again pegging industriously along on four clumsy
paws. It was the prettiest little bear cub that ever woke on its mossy
lair in the woods. Now it came shuffling down in a boozy way to take its
morning bath. It seemed but half awake; and Skull-Splitter imagined
that it was a trifle cross, because its mother had waked it too early.
Evidently it had made no toilet as yet, for bits of moss were
sticking in its hair; and it yawned once or twice, and shook its
head disgustedly. Skull-Splitter knew so well that feeling and could
sympathize with the poor young cub. But Wolf-in-the-Temple, who watched
it no less intently, was filled with quite different emotions. Here
was his heroic deed, for which he had hungered so long. To shoot a
bear--that was a deed worthy of a Norseman. One step more--then two--and
then--up rose the bear cub on its hind legs and rubbed its eyes with
its paws. Now he had a clean shot--now or never; and pulling the trigger
Wolf-in-the-Temple blazed away and sent a handful of shot into the
carcass of the poor little bear. Up jumped all the Sons of the Vikings
from behind their stones, and, with a shout of triumph, ran up the path
to where the cub was lying. It had rolled itself up into a brown ball,
and whimpered like a child in pain. But at that very moment there came
an ominous growl out of the underbrush, and a crackling and creaking of
branches was heard which made the hearts of the boys stand still.

"Erling," cried Wolf-in-the-Temple, "hand me your gun, and load mine for
me as quick as you can."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the head of a big brown
she-bear became visible among the bushes. She paused in the path,
where her cub was lying, turned him over with her paw, licked his face,
grumbled with a low soothing tone, snuffed him all over and rubbed her
nose against his snout. But unwarily she must have touched some sore
spot; for the cub gave a sharp yelp of pain and writhed and whimpered
as he looked up into his mother's eyes, clumsily returning her caresses.
The boys, half emerged from their hiding-places, stood watching this
demonstration of affection not without sympathy; and Skull-Splitter,
for one, heartily wished that the chief had not wounded the little
bear. Quite ignorant as he was of the nature of bears, he allowed his
compassion to get the better of his judgment. It seemed such a pity that
the poor little beast should lie there and suffer with one eye put out
and forty or fifty bits of lead distributed through its body. It would
be much more merciful to put it out of its misery altogether. And
accordingly when Erling the Lop-Sided handed him his gun to pass on to
the chief, Skull-Splitter started forward, flung the gun to his cheek,
and blazed away at the little bear once more, entirely heedless of
consequences. It was a random, unskilful shot, which was about equally
shared by the cub and its mother. And the latter was not in a mood to be
trifled with. With an angry roar she rose on her hind legs and advanced
against the unhappy Skull-Splitter with two uplifted paws. In another
moment she would give him one of her vigorous "left-handers," which
would probably pacify him forever. Ironbeard gave a scream of terror
and Thore the Hound broke down an alder-sapling in his excitement. But
Wolf-in-the-Temple, remembering that he had sworn foster-brotherhood
with this brave and foolish little lad, thought that now was the time to
show his heroism. Here it was no longer play, but dead earnest. Down he
leaped from his rock, and just as the she-bear was within a foot of the
Skull-Splitter, he dealt her a blow in the head with the butt end of
his gun which made the sparks dance before her eyes. She turned suddenly
toward her new assailant, growling savagely, and scratched her ear with
her paw. And Skull-Splitter, who had slipped on the pine needles and
fallen, scrambled to his feet again, leaving his gun on the ground, and
with a few aimless steps tumbled once more into the brook. Ironbeard,
seeing that he was being outdone by his chief, was quick to seize the
gun, and rushing forward dealt the she-bear another blow, which, instead
of disabling her, only exasperated her further. She glared with her
small bloodshot eyes now at the one, now at the other boy, as if in
doubt which she would tackle first. It was an awful moment; one or the
other might have saved himself by flight, but each was determined to
stand his ground. Vikings could die, but never flee. With a furious
growl the she-bear started toward her last assailant, lifting her
terrible paw. Ironbeard backed a few steps, pointing his gun before him;
and with benumbing force the paw descended upon the gun-barrel, striking
it out of his hands.

It seemed all of a sudden to the boy as if his arms were asleep up to
the shoulders; he had a stinging sensation in his flesh and a humming in
his ears, which made him fear that his last hour had come. If the bear
renewed the attack now, he was utterly defenceless. He was not exactly
afraid, but he was numb all over. It seemed to matter little what became
of him.

But now a strange thing happened. To his unutterable astonishment he saw
the she-bear drop down on all fours and vent her rage on the gun, which,
in a trice, was bent and broken into a dozen fragments. But in this
diversion she was interrupted by Wolf-in-the-Temple, who hammered away
again at her head with the heavy end of his weapon. Again she rose,
and presented two rows of white teeth which looked as if they meant
business. It was the chief's turn now to meet his fate; and it was
the more serious because his helper was disarmed and could give him no
assistance. With a wildly thumping heart he raised the butt end of his
gun and dashed forward, when as by a miracle a shot was heard--a sharp,
loud shot that rumbled away with manifold reverberations among the
mountains. In the same instant the huge brown bear tumbled forward,
rolled over, with a gasping growl, and was dead.

"O Brumle-Knute! Brumle-Knute!" yelled the boys in joyous chorus, as
they saw their rescuer coming forward from behind the rocks, "how did you
find us?"

"I heard yer shots and I saw yer tracks," said Brumle-Knute, dryly; "but
when ye go bear-hunting another time ye had better load with bullets
instead of bird-shot."

"But Brumle-Knute, we only wanted to shoot the little bear," protested
Wolf-in-the-Temple.

"That may be," Brumle-Knute replied; "but the big bears, they are a
curiously unreasonable lot--they are apt to get mad when you fire at
their little ones. Next time you must recollect to take the big bear
into account."

I need not tell you that the Sons of the Vikings became great heroes
when the rumor of their bear hunt was noised abroad through the valley.
But, for all that, they determined to disband their brotherhood.
Wolf-in-the-Temple expressed the sentiment of all when, at their last
meeting, he made a speech, in which these words occurred:

"Brothers, the world isn't quite the same now as it was in the days
when our Viking forefathers spread the terror of their name through the
South. We are not so strong as they were, nor so hardy. When we mingle
blood, we have to send for a surgeon. If we steal princesses we may go
to jail for it--or--or--well--never mind--what else may happen. Heroism
isn't appreciated as once it was in this country; and I, for one, won't
try to be a hero any more. I resign my chieftainship now, when I can do
it with credit. Let us all make our bows of adieu as bear hunters; and
if we don't do anything more in the heroic line it is not because we
can't, but because we won't."

PAUL JESPERSEN'S MASQUERADE

There was great excitement in the little Norse town, Bumlebro, because
there was going to be a masquerade. Everybody was busy inventing the
character which he was to represent, and the costume in which he was to
represent it.

Miss Amelia Norbeck, the apothecary's daughter, had intended to be Marie
Antoinette, but had to give it up because the silk stockings were too
dear, although she had already procured the beauty-patches and the
powdered wig.

Miss Arctander, the judge's daughter, was to be Night, in black tulle,
spangled with silver stars, and Miss Hanna Broby was to be Morning, in
white tulle and pink roses.

There had never BEEN a masquerade in Bumlebro, and there would not have
been one now, if it had not been for the enterprise of young Arctander
and young Norbeck, who had just returned from the military academy in
the capital, and were anxious to exhibit themselves to the young girls
in their glory.

Of course, they could not afford to be exclusive, for there were but
twenty or thirty families in the town that laid any claims to gentility,
and they had all to be invited in order to fill the hall and pay the
bills. Thus it came to pass that Paul Jespersen, the book-keeper in the
fish-exporting firm of Broby & Larsen, received a card, although, to be
sure, there had been a long debate in the committee as to where the line
should be drawn.

Paul Jespersen was uncommonly elated when he read the invitation,
which was written on a gilt-edged card, requesting the pleasure of
Mr. Jespersen's company at a bal masque Tuesday, January 3d, in the
Association Hall.

"The pleasure of his company!"

Think of it! He felt so flattered that he blushed to the tips of his
ears. It must have been Miss Clara Broby who had induced them to be so
polite to him, for those insolent cadets, who only nodded patronizingly
to him in response to his deferential greeting, would never have asked
for "the pleasure of his company."

Having satisfied himself on this point, Paul went to call upon Miss
Clara in the evening, in order to pay her some compliment and consult
her in regard to his costume; but Miss Clara, as it happened, was much
more interested in her own costume than in that of Mr. Jespersen, and
offered no useful suggestions.

"What character would you advise me to select, Mr. Jespersen?" she
inquired, sweetly. "My sister Hanna, you know, is going to be Morning,
so I can't be that, and it seems to me Morning would have suited me just
lovely."

"Go as Beauty," suggested Mr. Jespersen, blushing at the thought of his
audacity.

"So I will, Mr. Jespersen," she answered, laughing, "if you will go as
the Beast."

Paul, being a simple-hearted fellow, failed to see any sarcasm in this,
but interpreted it rather as a hint that Miss Clara desired his escort,
as Beauty, of course, only would be recognizable in her proper character
by the presence of the Beast.

"I shall be delighted, Miss Clara," he said, beaming with pleasure. "If
you will be my Beauty, I'll be your Beast."

Miss Clara did not know exactly how to take this, and was rather
absent-minded during the rest of the interview. She had been chaffing
Mr. Jespersen, of course, but she did not wish to be absolutely rude to
him, because he was her father's employee, and, as she often heard her
father say, a very valuable and trustworthy young man.

When Paul got home he began at once to ponder upon his character as
Beast, and particularly as Miss Clara's Beast. It occurred to him that
his uncle, the furrier, had an enormous bear-skin, with head, eyes,
claws, and all that was necessary, and without delay he went to try it
on.

His uncle, feeling that this event was somehow to redound to the credit
of the family, agreed to make the necessary alterations at a trifling
cost, and when the night of the masquerade arrived, Paul was so startled
at his appearance that he would have run away from himself if such a
thing had been possible. He had never imagined that he would make such a
successful Beast.

By an ingenious contrivance with a string, which he pulled with his
hand, he was able to move his lower jaw, which, with its red tongue and
terrible teeth, presented an awful appearance. By patching the skin
a little behind, his head was made to fit comfortably into the bear's
head, and his mild blue eyes looked out of the holes from which the
bear's eyes had been removed. The skin was laced with thin leather
thongs from the neck down, but the long, shaggy fur made the lacing
invisible.

Paul Jespersen practiced ursine behavior before the looking-glass
for about half an hour. Then, being uncomfortably warm, he started
down-stairs, and determined to walk to the Association Hall. He chuckled
to himself at the thought of the sensation he would make, if he should
happen to meet anybody on the road.

Having never attended a masquerade before, he did not know that
dressing-rooms were provided for the maskers, and, being averse to
needless expenditure, he would as soon have thought of flying as of
taking a carriage. There was, in fact, but one carriage on runners in
the town, and that was already engaged by half a dozen parties.

The moon was shining faintly upon the snow, and there was a sharp frost
in the air when Paul Jespersen put his hairy head out of the street-door
and reconnoitred the territory.

There was not a soul to be seen, except an old beggar woman who was
hobbling along, supporting herself with two sticks. Paul darted, as
quickly as his unwieldly bulk would allow, into the middle of the
street. He enjoyed intensely the fun of walking abroad in such a
monstrous guise. He contemplated with boyish satisfaction his shadow
which stretched, long and black and horrible, across the snow.

It was a bit slippery, and he had to manoeuvre carefully in order to
keep right side up. Presently he caught up with the beggar woman.

"Good-evening!" he said.

The old woman turned about, stared at him horror-stricken; then, as soon
as she had collected her senses, took to her heels, yelling at the top
of her voice. A big mastiff, who had just been let loose for the night,
began to bark angrily in a back yard, and a dozen comrades responded
from other yards, and came bounding into the street.

"Hello!" thought Paul Jespersen. "Now look out for trouble."

He felt anything but hilarious when he saw the pack of angry dogs
dancing and leaping about him, barking in a wildly discordant chorus.

"Why, Hector, you fool, don't you know me?" he said, coaxingly, to the
judge's mastiff. "And you, Sultan, old man! You ought to be ashamed
of yourself! Here, Caro, that's a good fellow! Come, now, don't excite
yourself!"

But Hector, Sultan, and Caro were all proof against such blandishments,
and as for Bismarck, the apothecary's collie, he grew every moment more
furious, and showed his teeth in a very uncomfortable fashion.

To defend one's self was not to be thought of, for what defence is
possible to a sham bear against a dozen genuine dogs? Paul could use
neither his teeth nor his claws to any purpose, while the dogs could use
theirs, as he presently discovered, with excellent effect.

He had just concluded to seek safety in flight, when suddenly he felt a
bite in his left calf, and saw the brute Bismarck tug away at his leg
as if it had been a mutton-chop. He had scarcely recovered from this
surprise when he heard a sharp report, and a bullet whizzed away over
his head, after having neatly put a hole through the right ear. Paul
concluded, with reason, that things were getting serious.

If he could only get hold of that blockhead, the judge's groom, who was
violating the law about fire-arms, he would give him an exhibition in
athletics which he would not soon forget; but, being for the moment
deprived of this pleasure, he knew of nothing better to do than to dodge
through the nearest street-door, and implore the protection of the very
first individual he might meet.

It so happened that Paul selected the house of two middle-aged milliners
for this experiment.

Jemina and Malla Hansen were just seated at the table drinking tea with
their one constant visitor, the post-office clerk, Mathias, when, all
of a sudden, they heard a tremendous racket in the hall, and the furious
barking of dogs.

With a scream of fright, the two old maids jumyed up, dropping their
precious tea-cups, and old Mathias, who had tipped his chair a little
backward, lost his balance, and pointed his heels toward the ceiling.
Before he had time to pick himself up the door was burst open and a
great hairy monster sprang into the room.

"Mercy upon us!" cried Jemina. "It is the devil!"

But now came the worst of it all. The bear put his paw on his heart, and
with the politest bow in the world, remarked:

"Pardon me, ladies, if I intrude."

He had meant to say more, but his audience had vanished; only the flying
tails of Mathias's coat were seen, as he slammed the door on them, in
his precipitate flight.

"Police! police!" someone shouted out of the window of the adjoining
room.

Police! Now, with all due respect for the officers of the law, Paul
Jespersen had no desire to meet them at the present moment. To be hauled
up at the station-house and fined for street disorder--nay, perhaps be
locked up for the night, if, as was more than likely, the captain of
police was at the masquerade, was not at all to Paul's taste. Anything
rather than that! He would be the laughing stock of the whole town
if, after his elaborate efforts, he were to pass the night in a cell,
instead of dancing with Miss Clara Broby.

Hearing the cry for police repeated, Paul looked about him for some
means of escape. It occurred to him that he had seen a ladder in the
hall leading up to the loft. There he could easily hide himself until
the crowd had dispersed.

Without further reflection, he rushed out through the door by which he
had entered, climbed the ladder, thrust open a trap-door, and, to his
astonishment, found himself under the wintry sky.

The roof sloped steeply, and he had to balance carefully in order
to avoid sliding down into the midst of the noisy mob of dogs and
street-boys who were laying siege to the door.

With the utmost caution he crawled along the roof-tree, trembling lest
he should be discovered by some lynx-eyed villain in the throng of his
pursuers. Happily, the broad brick chimney afforded him some shelter,
of which he was quick to take advantage. Rolling himself up into the
smallest possible compass, he sat for a long time crouching behind
the chimney; while the police were rummaging under the beds and in the
closets of the house, in the hope of finding him.

He had, of course, carefully closed the trap-door by which he had
reached the comparative safety of his present position; and he could
not help chuckling to himself at the thought of having outwitted the
officers of the law.

The crowd outside, after having made night hideous by their whoops and
yells, began, at the end of an hour, to grow weary; and the dogs
being denied entrance to the house, concluded that they had no further
business there, and slunk off to their respective kennels.

The people, too, scattered, and only a few patient loiterers hung about
the street door, hoping for fresh developments. It seemed useless to
Paul to wait until these provoking fellows should take themselves away.
They were obviously prepared to make a night of it, and time was no
object to them.

It was then that Paul, in his despair, resolved upon a daring stratagem.
Mr. Broby's house was in the same block as that of the Misses Hansen,
only it was at the other end of the block. By creeping along the
roof-trees of the houses, which, happily, differed but slightly in
height, he could reach the Broby house, where, no doubt, Miss Clara was
now waiting for him, full of impatience.

He did not deliberate long before testing the practicability of this
plan. The tanner Thoresen's house was reached without accident, although
he barely escaped being detected by a small boy who was amusing himself
throwing snow-balls at the chimney. It was a slow and wearisome mode of
locomotion--pushing himself forward on his belly; but, as long as the
streets were deserted, it was a pretty safe one.

He gave a start whenever he heard a dog bark; for the echoes of the
ear-splitting concert they had given him were yet ringing in his brain.

It was no joke being a bear, he thought, and if he had suspected that it
was such a serious business, he would not so rashly have undertaken it.
But now there was no way of getting out of it; for he had nothing on but
his underclothes under the bear-skin.

At last he reached the Broby house, and drew a sigh of relief at the
thought that he was now at the end of his journey.

He looked about him for a trap-door by which he could descend into the
interior, but could find none. There was an inch of snow on the roof,
glazed with frost: and if there was a trap-door, it was securely hidden.

To jump or slide down was out of the question, for he would, in that
case, risk breaking his neck. If he cried for help, the groom, who was
always ready with his gun, might take a fancy to shoot at him; and that
would be still more unpleasant. It was a most embarrassing situation.

Paul's eyes fell upon a chimney; and the thought flashed through his
head that there was the solution of the difficulty. He observed that
no smoke was coming out of it, so that he would run no risk of being
converted into smoked ham during the descent.

He looked down through the long, black tunnel. It was a great, spacious,
old-fashioned chimney, and abundantly wide enough for his purpose.

A pleasant sound of laughter and merry voices came to him from the
kitchen below. It was evident the girls were having a frolic. So,
without further ado, Paul Jespersen stuffed his great hairy bulk into
the chimney and proceeded to let himself down.

There were notches and iron rings in the brick wall, evidently put there
for the convenience of the chimney-sweeps; and he found his task easier
than he had anticipated. The soot, to be sure, blinded his eyes, but
where there was nothing to be seen, that was no serious disadvantage.

In fact, everything was going as smoothly as possible, when suddenly he
heard a girl's voice cry out:

"Gracious goodness! what is that in the chimney?"

"Probably the chimney-sweep," a man's voice answered.

"Chimney-sweep at this time of night!"

Paul, bracing himself against the walls, looked down and saw a cluster
of anxious faces all gazing up toward him. A candle which one of the
girls held in her hand showed him that the distance down to the hearth
was but short; so, to make an end of their uncertainty, he dropped
himself down--quietly, as he thought, but by the force of his fall
blowing the ashes about in all directions.

A chorus of terrified screams greeted him. One girl fainted, one leaped
up on a table, and the rest made for the door.

And there sat poor Paul, in the ashes on the hearth, utterly bewildered
by the consternation he had occasioned. He picked himself up by and by,
rubbed the soot out of his eyes with the backs of his paws, and crawled
out upon the floor.

He had just managed to raise himself upon his hind-legs, when an awful
apparition became visible in the door, holding a candle. It was now
Paul's turn to be frightened. The person who stood before him bore a
close resemblance to the devil.

"What is all this racket about?" he cried, in a tone of authority.

Paul felt instantly relieved, for the voice was that of his revered
chief, Mr. Broby, who, he now recollected, was to figure at the
masquerade as Mephistopheles. Behind him peeped forth the faces of his
two daughters, one as Morning and the other as Spring.

"May I ask what is the cause of this unseemly noise?" repeated Mr.
Broby, advancing to the middle of the room. The light of his candle now
fell upon the huge bear whom, after a slight start, he recognized as a
masker.

"Excuse me, Mr. Broby," said Paul, "but Miss Clara did me the honor----"

"Oh yes, papa," Miss Clara interrupted him, stepping forth in all her
glory of tulle and flowers; "it is Paul Jespersen, who was going to be
my Beast."

"And it is you who have frightened my servants half out of their wits,
Jespersen?" said Mr. Broby, laughing.

"He tumbled down through the chimney, sir," declared the cook, who had
half-recovered from her fright.

"Well," said Mr. Broby, with another laugh, "I admit that was a trifle
unconventional. Next time you call, Jespersen, you must come through the
door."

He thought Jespersen had chosen to play a practical joke on the
servants, and, though he did not exactly like it, he was in no mood for
scolding. After having been carefully brushed and rolled in the snow,
Paul offered his escort to Miss Clara; and she had not the heart to tell
him that she was not at all Beauty, but Spring. And Paul was not enough
of an expert to know the difference.

LADY CLARE THE STORY OF A HORSE

The king was dead, and among the many things he left behind him which
his successor had no use for were a lot of fancy horses. There were
long-barrelled English hunters, all legs and neck; there were Kentucky
racers, graceful, swift, and strong; and two Arabian steeds, which had
been presented to his late majesty by the Sultan of Turkey. To see the
beautiful beasts prancing and plunging, as they were being led through
the streets by grooms in the royal livery, was enough to make the blood
dance in the veins of any lover of horse-flesh. And to think that they
were being led ignominiously to the auction mart to be sold under the
hammer--knocked down to the highest bidder! It was a sin and a shame
surely! And they seemed to feel it themselves; and that was the reason
they acted so obstreperously, sometimes lifting the grooms off their
feet as they reared and snorted and struck sparks with their steel-shod
hoofs from the stone pavement.

Among the crowd of schoolboys who followed the equine procession,
shrieking and yelling with glee and exciting the horses by their wanton
screams, was a handsome lad of fourteen, named Erik Carstens. He had
fixed his eyes admiringly on a coal-black, four-year-old mare, a mere
colt, which brought up the rear of the procession. How exquisitely she
was fashioned! How she danced over the ground with a light mazurka step,
as if she were shod with gutta-percha and not with iron! And then she
had a head so daintily shaped, small and spirited, that it was a joy to
look at her. Erik, who, in spite of his youth, was not a bad judge of
a horse, felt his heart beat like a trip-hammer, and a mighty yearning
took possession of him to become the owner of that mare.

Though he knew it was time for dinner he could not tear himself away,
but followed the procession up one street and down another, until it
stopped at the horse market. There a lot of jockeys and coarse-looking
dealers were on hand; and an opportunity was afforded them to try the
horses before the auction began. They forced open the mouths of the
beautiful animals, examined their teeth, prodded them with whips to see
if they were gentle, and poked them with their fingers or canes. But
when a loutish fellow, in a brown corduroy suit, indulged in that
kind of behavior toward the black mare she gave a resentful whinny
and without further ado grabbed him with her teeth by the coat collar,
lifted him up and shook him as if he had been a bag of straw. Then she
dropped him in the mud, and raised her dainty head with an air as if to
say that she held him to be beneath contempt. The fellow, however, was
not inclined to put up with that kind of treatment. With a volley of
oaths he sprang up and would have struck the mare in the mouth with his
clinched fist, if Erik had not darted forward and warded off the blow.

"How dare you strike that beautiful creature?" he cried, indignantly.

"Hold your jaw, you gosling, or I'll hit you instead," retorted the man.

But by that time one of the royal grooms had made his appearance and the
brute did not dare carry out his threat. While the groom strove to quiet
the mare, a great tumult arose in some other part of the market-place.
There was a whinnying, plunging, rearing, and screaming, as if the whole
field had gone mad. The black mare joined in the concert, and stood
with her ears pricked up and her head raised in an attitude of panicky
expectation. Quite fearlessly Erik walked up to her, patted her on the
neck and spoke soothingly to her.

"Look out," yelled the groom, "or she'll trample you to jelly!"

But instead of that, the mare rubbed her soft nose against the boy's
cheek, with a low, friendly neighing, as if she wished to thank him for
his gallant conduct. And at that moment Erik's heart went out to that
dumb creature with an affection which he had never felt toward any
living thing before. He determined, whatever might happen, to bid on her
and to buy her, whatever she might prove to be worth. He knew he had a
few thousand dollars in the bank--his inheritance from his mother, who
had died when he was a baby--and he might, perhaps, be able to persuade
his father to sanction the purchase. At any rate, he would have some
time to invent ways and means; for his father, Captain Carstens, was now
away on the great annual drill, and would not return for some weeks.

As a mere matter of form, he resolved to try the mare before bidding on
her; and slipping a coin into the groom's hand he asked for a saddle. It
turned out, however, that all the saddles were in use, and Erik had no
choice but to mount bareback.

"Ride her on the snaffle. She won't stand the curb," shouted the groom,
as the mare, after plunging to the right and to the left, darted through
the gate to the track, and, after kicking up a vast deal of tan-bark,
sped like a bullet down the race-course.

"Good gracious, how recklessly that boy rides!" one jockey observed to
another; "but he has got a good grip with his knees all the same."

"Yes, he sits like a daisy," the second replied, critically; "but mind
my word, Lady Clare will throw him yet. She never could stand anybody
but the princess on her back: and that was the reason her Royal Highness
was so fond of her. Mother of Moses, won't there be a grand rumpus when
she comes back again and finds Lady Clare gone! I should not like to be
in the shoes of the man who has ordered Lady Clare under the hammer."

"But look at the lad! I told you Lady Clare wouldn't stand no manner of
nonsense from boys."

"She is kicking like a Trojan! She'll make hash of him if he loses his
seat."

"Yes, but he sticks like a burr. That's a jewel of a lad, I tell ye. He
ought to have been a jockey."

Up the track came Lady Clare, black as the ace of spades, acting like
the Old Harry. Something had displeased her, obviously, and she held
Erik responsible for it. Possibly she had just waked up to the fact
that she, who had been the pet of a princess, was now being ridden by an
ordinary commoner. At all events, she had made up her mind to get rid
of the commoner without further ceremony. Putting her fine ears back and
dilating her nostrils, she suddenly gave a snort and a whisk with her
tail, and up went her heels toward the eternal stars--that is, if there
had been any stars visible just then. Everybody's heart stuck in his
throat; for fleet-footed racers were speeding round and round, and the
fellow who got thrown in the midst of all these trampling hoofs would
have small chance of looking upon the sun again. People instinctively
tossed their heads up to see how high he would go before coming down
again; but, for a wonder, they saw nothing, except a cloud of dust mixed
with tan-bark, and when that had cleared away they discovered the black
mare and her rider, apparently on the best of terms, dashing up the
track at a breakneck pace.

Erik was dripping with perspiration when he dismounted, and Lady Clare's
glossy coat was flecked with foam. She was not aware, apparently, that
if she had any reputation to ruin she had damaged it most effectually.
Her behavior on the track and her treatment of the horse-dealer were by
this time common property, and every dealer and fancier made a mental
note that Lady Clare was the number in the catalogue which he would
not bid on. All her beauty and her distinguished ancestry counted for
nothing, as long as she had so uncertain a temper. Her sire, Potiphar,
it appeared, had also been subject to the same infirmities of temper,
and there was a strain of savagery in her blood which might crop out
when you least expected it.

Accordingly, when a dozen fine horses had been knocked down at good
prices, and Lady Clare's turn came, no one came forward to inspect her,
and no one could be found to make a bid.

"Well, well, gentlemen," cried the auctioneer, "here we have a beautiful
thoroughbred mare, the favorite mount of Her Royal Highness the
Princess, and not a bid do I hear. She's a beauty, gentlemen, sired
by the famous Potiphar who won the Epsom Handicap and no end of minor
stakes. Take a look at her, gentlemen! Did you ever see a horse before
that was raven black from nose to tail? I reckon you never did. But such
a horse is Lady Clare. The man who can find a single white hair on her
can have her for a gift. Come forward, gentlemen, come forward. Who will
start her--say at five hundred?"

A derisive laugh ran through the crowd, and a voice was heard to cry,
"Fifty."

"Fifty!" repeated the auctioneer, in a deeply grieved and injured tone;
"fifty did you say, sir? Fifty? Did I hear rightly? I hope, for the sake
of the honor of this fair city, that my ears deceived me."

Here came a long and impressive pause, during which the auctioneer,
suddenly abandoning his dramatic manner, chatted familiarly with a
gentleman who stood near him. The only one in the crowd whom he had
impressed with the fact that the honor of the city was at stake in
this sale was Erik Carstens. He had happily discovered a young and rich
lieutenant of his father's company, and was trying to persuade him to
bid in the mare for him.

"But, my dear boy," Lieutenant Thicker exclaimed, "what do you suppose
the captain will say to me if I aid and abet his son in defying the
paternal authority?"

"Oh, you needn't bother about that," Erik rejoined eagerly. "If father
was at home, I believe he would allow me to buy this mare. But I am a
minor yet, and the auctioneer would not accept my bid. Therefore I
thought you might be kind enough to bid for me."

The lieutenant made no answer, but looked at the earnest face of the boy
with unmistakable sympathy. The auctioneer assumed again an insulted,
affronted, pathetically entreating or scornfully repelling tone,
according as it suited his purpose; and the price of Lady Clare crawled
slowly and reluctantly up from fifty to seventy dollars. There it
stopped, and neither the auctioneer's tears nor his prayers could
apparently coax it higher.

"Seventy dollars!" he cried, as if he were really too shocked to speak
at all; "seven-ty dollars! Make it eighty! Oh, it is a sin and a shame,
gentlemen, and the fair fame of this beautiful city is eternally ruined.
It will become a wagging of the head and a byword among the
nations. Sev-en-ty dollars!"--then hotly and indignantly--"seventy
dollars!--fifth and last time, seventy dollars!"--here he raised his
hammer threateningly--"seventy dollars!"

"One hundred!" cried a high boyish voice, and in an instant every
neck was craned and every eye was turned toward the corner where Erik
Carstens was standing, half hidden behind the broad figure of Lieutenant
Thicker.

"Did I hear a hundred?" repeated the auctioneer, wonderingly. "May I ask
who was the gentleman who said a hundred?"

An embarrassing silence followed. Erik knew that if he acknowledged the
bid he would suffer the shame of having it refused. But his excitement
and his solicitude for the fair fame of his native city had carried him
away so completely that the words had escaped from his lips before he
was fully aware of their import.

"May I ask," repeated the wielder of the hammer, slowly and
emphatically, "may I ask the gentleman who offered one hundred dollars
for Lady Clare to come forward and give his name?"

He now looked straight at Erik, who blushed to the edge of his hair,
but did not stir from the spot. From sheer embarrassment he clutched the
lieutenant's arm, and almost pinched it.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," the officer exclaimed, addressing the
auctioneer, as if he had suddenly been aroused from a fit of
abstraction; "I made the bid of one hundred dollars, or--or--at any
rate, I make it now."

The same performance, intended to force up the price, was repeated once
more, but with no avail, and at the end of two minutes Lady Clare was
knocked down to Lieutenant Thicker.

"Now I have gone and done it like the blooming idiot that I am,"
observed the lieutenant, when Lady Clare was led into his stable by a
liveried groom. "What an overhauling the captain will give me when he
gets home."

"You need have no fear," Erik replied. "I'll sound father as soon as
he gets home; and if he makes any trouble I'll pay you that one hundred
dollars, with interest, the day I come of age."

Well, the captain came home, and having long had the intention to
present his son with a saddle-horse, he allowed himself to be cajoled
into approving of the bargain. The mare was an exquisite creature,
if ever there was one, and he could well understand how Erik had been
carried away; Lieutenant Thicker, instead of being hauled over the
coals, as he had expected, received thanks for his kind and generous
conduct toward the son of his superior officer. As for Erik himself, he
had never had any idea that a boy's life could be so glorious as his was
now. Mounted on that splendid, coal-black mare, he rode through the city
and far out into the country at his father's side; and never did it
seem to him that he had loved his father so well as he did during
these afternoon rides. The captain was far from suspecting that in that
episode of the purchase of Lady Clare his own relation to his son had
been at stake. Not that Erik would not have obeyed his father, even if
he had turned out his rough side and taken the lieutenant to task for
his kindness; but their relation would in that case have lacked the warm
intimacy (which in nowise excludes obedience and respect) and that last
touch of devoted admiration which now bound them together.

That fine touch of sympathy in the captain's disposition which had
enabled him to smile indulgently at his son's enthusiasm for the horse
made the son doubly anxious not to abuse such kindness, and to do
everything in his power to deserve the confidence which made his life
so rich and happy. Though, as I have said, Captain Carstens lacked the
acuteness to discover how much he owed to Lady Clare, he acknowledged
himself in quite a different way her debtor. He had never really been
aware what a splendid specimen of a boy his son was until he saw him
on the back of that spirited mare, which cut up with him like the Old
Harry, and yet never succeeded in flurrying, far less in unseating him.
The captain felt a glow of affection warming his breast at the sight of
this, and his pride in Erik's horsemanship proved a consolation to him
when the boy's less distinguished performances at school caused him fret
and worry.

"A boy so full of pluck must amount to something, even if he does not
take kindly to Latin," he reflected many a time. "I am afraid I have
made a mistake in having him prepared for college. In the army now,
and particularly in the cavalry, he would make a reputation in twenty
minutes."

And a cavalryman Erik might, perhaps, have become if his father had not
been transferred to another post, and compelled to take up his residence
in the country. It was nominally a promotion, but Captain Carstens was
ill pleased with it, and even had some thought of resigning rather than
give up his delightful city life, and move far northward into the region
of cod and herring. However, he was too young a man to retire on a
pension, as yet, and so he gradually reconciled himself to the thought,
and sailed northward in the month of April with his son and his entire
household. It had long been a question whether Lady Clare should make
the journey with them; for Captain Carstens maintained that so high-bred
an animal would be very sensitive to climatic changes and might even die
on the way. Again, he argued that it was an absurdity to bring so fine
a horse into a rough country, where the roads are poor and where nature,
in mercy, provides all beasts with rough, shaggy coats to protect them
from the cold. How would Lady Clare, with her glossy satin coat, her
slender legs that pirouetted so daintily over the ground, and her
exquisite head, which she carried so proudly--how would she look
and what kind of figure would she cut among the shaggy, stunted,
sedate-looking nags of the Sognefiord district? But the captain, though
what he said was irrefutable, had to suspend all argument when he saw
how utterly wretched Erik became at the mere thought of losing Lady
Clare. So he took his chances; and, after having ordered blankets
of three different thicknesses for three different kinds of weather,
shipped the mare with the rest of his family for his new northern home.

As the weather proved unusually mild during the northward voyage Lady
Clare arrived in Sogn without accident or adventure. And never in all
her life had she looked more beautiful than she did when she came off
the steamer, and half the population of the valley turned out to see
her. It is no use denying that she was as vain as any other professional
beauty, and the way she danced and pirouetted on the gangplank, when
Erik led her on to the pier, filled the rustics with amazement. They
had come to look at the new captain and his family; but when Lady Clare
appeared she eclipsed the rest of the company so completely that no one
had eyes for anybody but her. As the sun was shining and the wind was
mild, Erik had taken off her striped overcoat (which covered her from
nose to tail), for he felt in every fibre of his body the sensation she
was making, and blushed with pleasure as if the admiring exclamations
had been intended for himself.

"Look at that horse," cried young and old, with eyes as big as saucers,
pointing with their fingers at Lady Clare.

"Handsome carcass that mare has," remarked a stoutish man, who knew what
he was talking about; "and head and legs to match."

"She beats your Valders-Roan all hollow, John Garvestad," said a young
tease who stood next to him in the crowd.

"My Valders-Roan has never seen his match yet, and never will, according
to my reckoning," answered John Garvestad.

"Ho! ho!" shouted the young fellow, with a mocking laugh; "that
black mare is a hand taller at the very least, and I bet you she's a
high-flyer. She has got the prettiest legs I ever clapped eyes on."

"They'd snap like clay pipes in the mountains," replied Garvestad,
contemptuously.

Erik, as he blushingly ascended the slope to his new home, leading Lady
Clare by a halter, had no suspicion of the sentiments which she had
aroused in John Garvestad's breast. He was only blissfully conscious of
the admiration she had excited; and he promised himself a good deal of
fun in future in showing off his horsemanship. He took Lady Clare to
the stable, where a new box-stall had been made for her, examined the
premises carefully and nailed a board over a crevice in the wall where
he suspected a draught. He instructed Anders, the groom, with emphatic
and anxious repetitions regarding her care, showed him how to make Lady
Clare's bed, how to comb her mane, how to brush her (for she refused to
endure currying), how to blanket her, and how to read the thermometer
which he nailed to one of the posts of the stall. The latter proved to
be a more difficult task than he had anticipated; and the worst of it
was that he was not sure that Anders knew any more on the subject of his
instruction at the end of the lesson than he had at the beginning. To
make sure that he had understood him he asked him to enter the stall and
begin the process of grooming. But no sooner had the unhappy fellow put
his nose inside the door than Lady Clare laid back her ears in a very
ugly fashion, and with a vicious whisk of her tail waltzed around and
planted two hoof-marks in the door, just where the groom's nose had that
very instant vanished. A second and a third trial had similar results;
and as the box-stall was new and of hard wood, Erik had no wish to see
it further damaged.

"I won't have nothin' to do with that hoss, that's as certain as my name
is Anders," the groom declared; and Erik, knowing that persuasion would
be useless, had henceforth to be his own groom. The fact was he could
not help sympathizing with that fastidiousness of Lady Clare which made
her object to be handled by coarse fingers and roughly curried, combed,
and washed like a common plebeian nag. One does not commence life
associating with a princess for nothing. Lady Clare, feeling in every
nerve her high descent and breeding, had perhaps a sense of having come
down in the world, and, like many another irrational creature of her
sex, she kicked madly against fate and exhibited the unloveliest side
of her character. But with all her skittishness and caprice she was
steadfast in one thing, and that was her love for Erik. As the days went
by in country monotony, he began to feel it as a privilege rather than
a burden to have the exclusive care of her. The low, friendly neighing
with which she always greeted him, as soon as he opened the stable-door,
was as intelligible and dear to him as the warm welcome of a friend. And
when with dainty alertness she lifted her small, beautiful head, over
which the fine net-work of veins meandered, above the top of the stall,
and rubbed her nose caressingly against his cheek, before beginning to
snuff at his various pockets for the accustomed lump of sugar, he felt
a glow of affection spread from his heart and pervade his whole being.
Yes, he loved this beautiful animal with a devotion which, a year ago,
he would scarcely have thought it possible to bestow upon a horse.
No one could have persuaded him that Lady Clare had not a soul which
(whether it was immortal or not) was, at all events, as distinct and
clearly defined as that of any person with whom he was acquainted. She
was to him a personality--a dear, charming friend, with certain
defects of character (as who has not?) which were, however, more
than compensated for by her devotion to him. She was fastidious,
quick-tempered, utterly unreasonable where her feelings were involved;
full of aristocratic prejudice, which only her sex could excuse; and
whimsical, proud, and capricious. It was absurd, of course, to contend
that these qualities were in themselves admirable; but, on the other
hand, few of us would not consent to overlook them in a friend who loved
us as well as Lady Clare loved Erik.

The fame of Lady Clare spread through the parish like fire in withered
grass. People came from afar to look at her, and departed full of wonder
at her beauty. When the captain and his son rode together to church on
Sunday morning, men, women, and children stood in rows at the roadside
staring at the wonderful mare as if she had been a dromedary or a
rhinoceros. And when she was tied in the clergyman's stable a large
number of the men ignored the admonition of the church bells and missed
the sermon, being unable to tear themselves away from Lady Clare's
charms. But woe to him who attempted to take liberties with her; there
were two or three horsy young men who had narrow escapes from bearing
the imprint of her iron shoes for the rest of their days.

That taught the others a lesson, and now Lady Clare suffered from no
annoying familiarities, but was admired at a respectful distance, until
the pastor, vexed at her rivalry with his sermon, issued orders to have
the stable-door locked during service.

There was one person besides the pastor who was ill pleased at the
reputation Lady Clare was making. That was John Garvestad, the owner of
Valders-Roan. John was the richest man in the parish, and always made
a point of keeping fine horses. Valders-Roan, a heavily built, powerful
horse, with a tremendous neck and chest and long tassels on his
fetlocks, but rather squat in the legs, had hitherto held undisputed
rank as the finest horse in all Sogn. By the side of Lady Clare he
looked as a stout, good-looking peasant lad with coltish manners might
have looked by the side of the daughter of a hundred earls.

But John Garvestad, who was naturally prejudiced in favor of his
own horse, could scarcely be blamed for failing to recognize her
superiority. He knew that formerly, on Sundays, the men were wont to
gather with admiring comment about Valders-Roan; while now they stood
craning their necks, peering through the windows of the parson's stable,
in order to catch a glimpse of Lady Clare, and all the time Valders-Roan
was standing tied to the fence, in full view of all, utterly neglected.
This spectacle filled him with such ire that he hardly could control
himself. His first impulse was to pick a quarrel with Erik; but a second
and far brighter idea presently struck him. He would buy Lady Clare.
Accordingly, when the captain and his son had mounted their horses
and were about to start on their homeward way, Garvestad, putting
Valders-Roan to his trumps, dug his heels into his sides and rode up
with a great flourish in front of the churchyard gate.

"How much will you take for that mare of yours, captain?" he asked, as
he checked his charger with unnecessary vigor close to Lady Clare.

"She is not mine to sell," the captain replied. "Lady Clare belongs to
my son."

"Well, what will you take for her, then?" Garvestad repeated,
swaggeringly, turning to Erik.

"Not all the gold in the world could buy her," retorted Erik, warmly.

Valders-Roan, unable to resist the charms of Lady Clare, had in the
meanwhile been making some cautious overtures toward an acquaintance.
He arched his mighty neck, rose on his hind legs, while his tremendous
forehoofs were beating the air, and cut up generally--all for Lady
Clare's benefit.

She, however, having regarded his performances for awhile with a mild
and somewhat condescending interest, grew a little tired of them and
looked out over the fiord, as a belle might do, with a suppressed yawn,
when her cavalier fails to entertain her. Valders-Roan, perceiving the
slight, now concluded to make more decided advances. So he put forward
his nose until it nearly touched Lady Clare's, as if he meant to kiss
her. But that was more than her ladyship was prepared to put up with.
Quick as a flash she flung herself back on her haunches, down went her
ears, and hers was the angriest horse's head that ever had been seen in
that parish. With an indignant snort she wheeled around, kicking up a
cloud of dust by the suddenness of the manoeuvre. A less skilled rider
than Erik would inevitably have been thrown by two such unforeseen
jerks; and the fact was he had all he could do to keep his seat.

"Oho!" shouted Garvestad, "your mare shies; she'll break your neck some
day, as likely as not. You had better sell her before she gets you into
trouble."

"But I shouldn't like to have your broken neck on my conscience," Erik
replied; "if necks are to be broken by Lady Clare I should prefer to
have it be my own."

The peasant was not clever enough to make out whether this was jest or
earnest. With a puzzled frown he stared at the youth and finally broke
out:

"Then you won't sell her at no price? Anyway, the day you change your
mind don't forget to notify John Garvestad. If it's spondulix you are
after, then here's where there's plenty of 'em."

He slapped his left breast-pocket with a great swagger, looking around
to observe the impression he was making on his audience; then, jerking
the bridle violently, so as to make his horse rear, he rode off like
Alexander on Bucephalus, and swung down upon the highway.

It was but a few weeks after this occurrence that Captain Carstens and
his son were invited to honor John Garvestad by their presence at his
wedding. They were in doubt, at first, as to whether they ought to
accept the invitation; for some unpleasant rumors had reached them,
showing that Garvestad entertained unfriendly feelings toward them.
He was an intensely vain man; and the thought that Erik Carstens had a
finer horse than Valders-Roan left him no peace. He had been heard to
say repeatedly that, if that high-nosed youth persisted in his refusal
to sell the mare, he would discover his mistake when, perhaps, it would
be too late to have it remedied. Whatever that meant, it sufficed to
make both Erik and his father uneasy. But, on the other hand, it would
be the worst policy possible, under such circumstances, to refuse
the invitation. For that would be interpreted either as fear or as
aristocratic exclusiveness; and the captain, while he was new in the
district, was as anxious to avoid the appearance of the one as of the
other. Accordingly he accepted the invitation and on the appointed day
rode with his son into the wide yard of John Garvestad's farm, stopping
at the pump, where they watered their horses. It was early in
the afternoon, and both the house and the barn were thronged with
wedding-guests. From the sitting-room the strains of two fiddles were
heard, mingled with the scraping and stamping of heavy feet.

Another musical performance was in progress in the barn; and all over
the yard elderly men and youths were standing in smaller and larger
groups, smoking their pipes and tasting the beer-jugs, which were passed
from hand to hand. But the moment Lady Clare was seen all interest in
minor concerns ceased, and with one accord the crowd moved toward her,
completely encircling her, and viewing her with admiring glances that
appreciated all her perfections.

"Did you ever see cleaner-shaped legs on a horse?" someone was heard
to say, and instantly his neighbor in the crowd joined the chorus of
praise, and added: "What a snap and spring there is in every bend of her
knee and turn of her neck and flash of her eye!"

It was while this chorus of admiration was being sung in all keys and
tones of the whole gamut, that the bridegroom came out of the house, a
little bit tipsy, perhaps, from the many toasts he had been obliged to
drink, and bristling with pugnacity to the ends of his fingers and the
tips of his hair. Every word of praise that he heard sounded in his ears
like a jeer and an insult to himself. With ruthless thrusts he elbowed
his way through the throng of guests and soon stood in front of the
two horses, from which the captain and Erik had not yet had a chance
to dismount. He returned their greeting with scant courtesy and plunged
instantly into the matter which he had on his mind.

"I reckon you have thought better of my offer by this time," he said,
with a surly swagger, to Erik. "What do you hold your mare at to-day?"

"I thought we had settled that matter once for all," the boy replied,
quietly. "I have no more intention of selling Lady Clare now than I ever
had."

"Then will ye trade her off for Valders-Roan?" ejaculated Garvestad,
eagerly.

"No, I won't trade her for Valders-Roan or any other horse in creation."

"Don't be cantankerous, now, young fellow, or you might repent of it."

"I am not cantankerous. But I beg of you kindly to drop this matter. I
came here, at your invitation, as a guest at your wedding, not for the
purpose of trading horses."

It was an incautious speech, and was interpreted by everyone present
as a rebuke to the bridegroom for his violation of the rules of
hospitality. The captain, anxious to avoid a row, therefore broke in, in
a voice of friendly remonstrance: "My dear Mr. Garvestad, do let us drop
this matter. If you will permit us, we should like to dismount and drink
a toast to your health, wishing you a long life and much happiness."

"Ah, yes, I understand your smooth palaver," the bridegroom growled
between his teeth. "I have stood your insolence long enough, and, by
jingo, I won't stand it much longer. What will ye take for your mare,
I say, or how much do you want to boot, if you trade her for
Valders-Roan?"

He shouted the last words with furious emphasis, holding his clinched
fist up toward Erik, and glaring at him savagely.

But now Lady Clare, who became frightened perhaps by the loud talk and
violent gestures, began to rear and plunge, and by an unforeseen motion
knocked against the bridegroom, so that he fell backward into the
horse-trough under the pump, which was full of water. The wedding-guests
had hardly time to realize what was happening when a great splash sent
the water flying into their faces, and the burly form of John Garvestad
was seen sprawling helplessly in the horse-trough. But then--then they
realized it with a vengeance. And a laugh went up--a veritable storm
of laughter--which swept through the entire crowd and re-echoed with a
ghostly hilarity from the mountains. John Garvestad in the meanwhile
had managed to pick himself out of the horse-trough, and while he stood
snorting, spitting, and dripping, Captain Carstens and his son politely
lifted their hats to him and rode away. But as they trotted out of the
gate they saw their host stretch a big clinched fist toward them, and
heard him scream with hoarse fury: "I'll make ye smart for that some
day, so help me God!"

Lady Clare was not sent to the mountains in the summer, as are nearly
all horses in the Norwegian country districts. She was left untethered
in an enclosed home pasture about half a mile from the mansion. Here
she grazed, rolled, kicked up her heels, and gambolled to her heart's
content. During the long, bright summer nights, when the sun scarcely
dips beneath the horizon and reappears in an hour, clothed in the breezy
garments of morning, she was permitted to frolic, race, and play all
sorts of improvised games with a shaggy, little, plebeian three-year-old
colt whom she had condescended to honor with her acquaintance. This
colt must have had some fine feeling under his rough coat, for he never
presumed in the least upon the acquaintance, being perhaps aware of the
honor it conferred upon him. He allowed himself to be abused, ignored,
or petted, as it might suit the pleasure of her royal highness, with a
patient, even-tempered good-nature which was admirable. When Lady Clare
(perhaps for fear of making him conceited) took no notice of him, he
showed neither resentment nor surprise, but walked off with a sheepish
shake of his head. Thus he slowly learned the lesson to make no
exhibition of feeling at the sight of his superior; not to run up and
greet her with a disrespectfully joyous whinny; but calmly wait for her
to recognize him before appearing to be aware of her presence. It took
Lady Clare several months to accustom Shag (for that was the colt's
name) to her ways. She taught him unconsciously the rudiments of good
manners; but he proved himself docile, and when he once had been reduced
to his proper place he proved a fairly acceptable companion.

During the first and second week after John Garvestad's wedding Erik
had kept Lady Clare stabled, having a vague fear that the angry peasant
might intend to do her harm. But she whinnied so pitifully through the
long light nights that finally he allowed his compassion to get the
better of his anxiety, and once more she was seen racing madly about
the field with Shag, whom she always beat so ignominiously that she felt
half sorry for him, and as a consolation allowed him gently to claw her
mane with his teeth. This was a privilege which Shag could not fail to
appreciate, though she never offered to return the favor by clawing him.
At any rate, as soon as Lady Clare reappeared in the meadow Shag's cup
of bliss seemed to be full.

A week passed in this way, nothing happened, and Erik's vigilance was
relaxed. He went to bed on the evening of July 10th with an easy mind,
without the remotest apprehension of danger. The sun set about ten
o'clock, and Lady Clare and Shag greeted its last departing rays with a
whinny, accompanied by a wanton kickup from the rear--for whatever
Lady Clare did Shag felt in honor bound to do, and was conscious of no
disgrace in his abject and ape-like imitation. They had spent an hour,
perhaps, in such delightful performances, when all of a sudden they were
startled by a deep bass whinny, which rumbled and shook like distant
thunder. Then came the tramp, tramp, tramp of heavy hoof-beats, which
made the ground tremble. Lady Clare lifted her beautiful head and looked
with fearless curiosity in the direction whence the sound came. Shag, of
course, did as nearly as he could exactly the same. What they saw was
a big roan horse with an enormous arched neck, squat feet, and
long-tasselled fetlocks.

Lady Clare had no difficulty in recognizing Valders-Roan. But how big
and heavy and ominous he looked in the blood-red after-glow of the
blood-red sunset. For the first time in her life Lady Clare felt a cold
shiver of fear run through her. There was, happily, a fence between
them, and she devoutly hoped that Valders-Roan was not a jumper. At that
moment, however, two men appeared next to the huge horse, and Lady Clare
heard the sound of breaking fence-rails. The deep hoarse whinny once
more made the air shake, and it made poor Lady Clare shake too, for
now she saw Valders-Roan come like a whirlwind over the field, and so
powerful were his hoof-beats that a clod of earth which had stuck to one
of his shoes shot like a bullet through the air.

He looked so gigantic, so brimming with restrained strength, and somehow
Lady Clare, as she stood quaking at the sight of him, had never seemed
to herself so dainty, frail, and delicate as she seemed in this moment.
She felt herself so entirely at his mercy; she was no match for him
surely. Shag, anxious as ever to take his cue from her, had stationed
himself at her side, and shook his head and whisked his tail in a
non-committal manner. Now Valders-Roan had cleared the fence where the
men had broken it down; then on he came again, tramp, tramp, tramp,
until he was within half a dozen paces from Lady Clare. There he
stopped, for back went Lady Clare's pretty ears, while she threw herself
upon her haunches in an attitude of defence. She was dimly aware that
this was a foolish thing to do, but her inbred disdain and horror
of everything rough made her act on instinct instead of reason.
Valders-Roan, irritated by this uncalled-for action, now threw ceremony
to the winds, and without further ado trotted up and rubbed his nose
against hers. That was more than Lady Clare could stand. With an
hysterical snort she flung herself about, and up flew her heels straight
into the offending nose, inflicting considerable damage. Shag, being now
quite clear that the programme was fight, whisked about in exactly the
same manner, with as close an imitation of Lady Clare's snort as he
could produce, and a second pair of steel-shod heels came within a hair
of reducing the enemy's left nostril to the same condition as the right.
But alas for the generous folly of youth! Shag had to pay dearly for
that exhibition of devotion. Valders-Roan, enraged by this wanton
insult, made a dash at Shag, and by the mere impetus of his huge bulk
nearly knocked him senseless. The colt rolled over, flung all his four
legs into the air, and as soon as he could recover his footing reeled
sideways like a drunken man and made haste to retire to a safe distance.

Valders-Roan had now a clear field and could turn his undivided
attention to Lady Clare. I am not sure that he had not made an example
of Shag merely to frighten her. Bounding forward with his mighty chest
expanded and the blood dripping from his nostrils, he struck out with
a tremendous hind leg and would have returned Lady Clare's blow with
interest if she had not leaped high into the air. She had just managed
by her superior alertness to dodge that deadly hoof, and was perhaps not
prepared for an instant renewal of the attack. But she had barely gotten
her four feet in contact with the sod when two rows of terrific teeth
plunged into her withers. The pain was frightful, and with a long,
pitiful scream Lady Clare sank down upon the ground, and, writhing with
agony, beat the air with her hoofs. Shag, who had by this time recovered
his senses, heard the noise of the battle, and, plucking up his courage,
trotted bravely forward against the victorious Valders-Roan. He was so
frightened that his heart shot up into his throat. But there lay Lady
Clare mangled and bleeding. He could not leave her in the lurch, so
forward he came, trembling, just as Lady Clare was trying to scramble
to her feet. Led away by his sympathy Shag bent his head down toward
her and thereby prevented her from rising. And in the same instant
a stunning blow hit him straight in the forehead, a shower of sparks
danced before his eyes, and then Shag saw and heard no more. A
convulsive quiver ran through his body, then he stretched out his neck
on the bloody grass, heaved a sigh, and died.

Lady Clare, seeing Shag killed by the blow which had been intended for
herself, felt her blood run cold. She was strongly inclined to run, for
she could easily beat the heavy Valders-Roan at a race, and her fleet
legs might yet save her. I cannot say whether it was a generous wrath at
the killing of her humble champion or a mere blind fury which overcame
this inclination. But she knew now neither pain nor fear. With a shrill
scream she rushed at Valders-Roan, and for five minutes a whirling cloud
of earth and grass and lumps of sod moved irregularly over the field,
and tails, heads, and legs were seen flung and tossed madly about,
while an occasional shriek of rage or of pain startled the night, and
re-echoed with a weird resonance between the mountains.

It was about five o'clock in the morning of July 11th, that Erik awoke,
with a vague sense that something terrible had happened. His groom
was standing at his bedside with a terrified face, doubtful whether to
arouse his young master or allow him to sleep.

"What has happened, Anders?" cried Erik, tumbling out of bed.

"Lady Clare, sir----"

"Lady Clare!" shouted the boy. "What about her? Has she been stolen?"

"No, I reckon not," drawled Anders.

"Then she's dead! Quick, tell me what you know or I shall go crazy!"

"No; I can't say for sure she's dead either," the groom stammered,
helplessly.

Erik, being too stunned with grief and pain, tumbled in a dazed fashion
about the room, and scarcely knew how he managed to dress. He felt cold,
shivery, and benumbed; and the daylight had a cruel glare in it which
hurt his eyes. Accompanied by his groom, he hastened to the home
pasture, and saw there the evidence of the fierce battle which had raged
during the night. A long, black, serpentine track, where the sod had
been torn up by furious hoof-beats, started from the dead carcass of the
faithful Shag and moved with irregular breaks and curves up toward the
gate that connected the pasture with the underbrush of birch and alder.
Here the fence had been broken down, and the track of the fight suddenly
ceased. A pool of blood had soaked into the ground, showing that one of
the horses, and probably the victor, must have stood still for a while,
allowing the vanquished to escape.

Erik had no need of being told that the horse which had attacked Lady
Clare was Valders-Roan; and though he would scarcely have been able to
prove it, he felt positive that John Garvestad had arranged and probably
watched the fight. Having a wholesome dread of jail, he had not dared to
steal Lady Clare; but he had chosen this contemptible method to satisfy
his senseless jealousy. It was all so cunningly devised as to baffle
legal inquiry. Valders-Roan had gotten astray, and being a heavy beast,
had broken into a neighbor's field and fought with his filly, chasing
her away into the mountains. That was the story he would tell, of
course, and as there had been no witnesses present, there was no way of
disproving it.

Abandoning, however, for the time being all thought of revenge, Erik
determined to bend all his energies to the recovery of Lady Clare. He
felt confident that she had run away from her assailant, and was now
roaming about in the mountains. He therefore organized a search party
of all the male servants on the estate, besides a couple of volunteers,
making in all nine. On the evening of the first day's search they put up
at a saeter or mountain chalet. Here they met a young man named Tollef
Morud, who had once been a groom at John Garvestad's. This man had a bad
reputation; and as the idea occurred to some of them that he might know
something about Lady Clare's disappearance, they questioned him at great
length, without, however, eliciting a single crumb of information.

For a week the search was continued, but had finally to be given up.
Weary, footsore, and heavy hearted, Erik returned home. His grief at the
loss of Lady Clare began to tell on his health; and his perpetual plans
for getting even with John Garvestad amounted almost to a mania, and
caused his father both trouble and anxiety. It was therefore determined
to send him to the military academy in the capital.

Four or five years passed and Erik became a lieutenant. It was during
the first year after his graduation from the military academy that he
was invited to spend the Christmas holidays with a friend, whose parents
lived on a fine estate about twenty miles from the city. Seated in their
narrow sleighs, which were drawn by brisk horses, they drove merrily
along, shouting to each other to make their voices heard above the
jingling of the bells. About eight o'clock in the evening, when the moon
was shining brightly and the snow sparkling, they turned in at a wayside
tavern to order their supper. Here a great crowd of lumbermen had
congregated, and all along the fences their overworked, half-broken-down
horses stood, shaking their nose-bags. The air in the public room was so
filled with the fumes of damp clothes and bad tobacco that Erik and his
friend, while waiting for their meal, preferred to spend the time under
the radiant sky. They were sauntering about, talking in a desultory
fashion, when all of a sudden a wild, joyous whinny rang out upon the
startled air.

It came from a rusty, black, decrepit-looking mare hitched to a lumber
sleigh which they had just passed. Erik, growing very serious, paused
abruptly.

A second whinny, lower than the first, but almost alluring and cajoling,
was so directly addressed to Erik that he could not help stepping up to
the mare and patting her on the nose.

"You once had a horse you cared a great deal for, didn't you?" his
friend remarked, casually.

"Oh, don't speak about it," answered Erik, in a voice that shook with
emotion; "I loved Lady Clare as I never loved any creature in this
world--except my father, of course," he added, reflectively.

But what was the matter with the old lumber nag? At the sound of the
name Lady Clare she pricked up her ears, and lifted her head with a
pathetic attempt at alertness. With a low, insinuating neighing she
rubbed her nose against the lieutenant's cheek. He had let his hand
glide over her long, thin neck, when quite suddenly his fingers slid
into a deep scar in the withers.

"My God!" he cried, while the tears started to his eyes, "am I awake, or
am I dreaming?"

"What in the world is the matter?" inquired his comrade, anxiously.

"It is Lady Clare! By the heavens, it is Lady Clare!"

"That old ramshackle of a lumber nag whose every rib you can count
through her skin is your beautiful thoroughbred?" ejaculated his friend,
incredulously. "Come now, don't be a goose."

"I'll tell you of it some other time," said Erik, quietly; "but there's
not a shadow of a doubt that this is Lady Clare."

Yes, strange as it may seem, it was indeed Lady Clare. But oh, who would
have recognized in this skeleton, covered with a rusty-black skin and
tousled mane and forelock in which chaff and dirt were entangled--who
would have recognized in this drooping and rickety creature the proud,
the dainty, the exquisite Lady Clare? Her beautiful tail, which had once
been her pride, was now a mere scanty wisp; and a sharp, gnarled ridge
running along the entire length of her back showed every vertebra of
her spine through the notched and scarred skin. Poor Lady Clare, she had
seen hard usage. But now the days of her tribulations are at an end.
It did not take Erik long to find the half-tipsy lumberman who was
Lady Clare's owner; nor to agree with him on the price for which he was
willing to part with her.

There is but little more to relate. By interviews and correspondence
with the different parties through whose hands the mare had passed,
Erik succeeded in tracing her to Tollef Morud, the ex-groom of John
Garvestad. On being promised immunity from prosecution, he was induced
to confess that he had been hired by his former master to arrange the
nocturnal fight between Lady Clare and Valders-Roan, and had been
paid ten dollars for stealing the mare when she had been sufficiently
damaged. John Garvestad had himself watched the fight from behind the
fence, and had laughed fit to split his sides, until Valders-Roan seemed
on the point of being worsted. Then he had interfered to separate them,
and Tollef had led Lady Clare away, bleeding from a dozen wounds, and
had hidden her in a deserted lumberman's shed near the saeter where the
searchers had overtaken him.

Having obtained these facts, Erik took pains to let John Garvestad know
that the chain of evidence against him was complete, and if he had had
his own way he would not have rested until his enemy had suffered the
full penalty of the law. But John Garvestad, suspecting what was in the
young man's mind, suddenly divested himself of his pride, and cringing
dike a whipped dog, came and asked Erik's pardon, entreating him not to
prosecute.

As for Lady Clare, she never recovered her lost beauty. A pretty
fair-looking mare she became, to be sure, when good feeding and careful
grooming had made her fat and glossy once more. A long and contented
old age is, no doubt, in store for her. Having known evil days, she
appreciates the blessings which the change in her fate has brought her.
The captain declares she is the best-tempered and steadiest horse in his
stable.

BONNYBOY

I.

"Oh, you never will amount to anything, Bonnyboy!" said Bonnyboy's
father, when he had vainly tried to show him how to use a gouge; for
Bonnyboy had just succeeded in gouging a piece out of his hand, and was
standing helplessly, letting his blood drop on an engraving of Napoleon
at Austerlitz, which had been sent to his father for framing. The
trouble with Bonnyboy was that he was not only awkward--left-handed
in everything he undertook, as his father put it--but he was so very
good-natured that it was impossible to get angry with him. His large
blue innocent eyes had a childlike wonder in them, when he had done
anything particularly stupid, and he was so willing and anxious to
learn, that his ill-success seemed a reason for pity rather than for
wrath. Grim Norvold, Bonnyboy's father, was by trade a carpenter, and
handy as he was at all kinds of tinkering, he found it particularly
exasperating to have a son who was so left-handed. There was scarcely
anything Grim could not do. He could take a watch apart and put it
together again; he could mend a harness if necessary; he could make a
wagon; nay, he could even doctor a horse when it got spavin or glanders.
He was a sort of jack-of-all-trades, and a very useful man in a valley
where mechanics were few and transportation difficult. He loved work for
its own sake, and was ill at ease when he had not a tool in his hand.
The exercise of his skill gave him a pleasure akin to that which the
fish feels in swimming, the eagle in soaring, and the lark in singing. A
finless fish, a wingless eagle, or a dumb lark could not have been more
miserable than Grim was when a succession of holidays, like Easter or
Christmas, compelled him to be idle.

When his son was born his chief delight was to think of the time when
he should be old enough to handle a tool, and learn the secrets of his
father's trade. Therefore, from the time the boy was old enough to sit
or to crawl in the shavings without getting his mouth and eyes full of
sawdust, he gave him a place under the turning bench, and talked or sang
to him while he worked. And Bonnyboy, in the meanwhile amused himself
by getting into all sorts of mischief. If it had not been for the belief
that a good workman must grow up in the atmosphere of the shop, Grim
would have lost patience with his son and sent him back to his mother,
who had better facilities for taking care of him. But the fact was he
was too fond of the boy to be able to dispense with him, and he would
rather bear the loss resulting from his mischief than miss his prattle
and his pretty dimpled face.

It was when the child was eighteen or nineteen months old that he
acquired the name Bonnyboy. A woman of the neighborhood, who had called
at the shop with some article of furniture which she wanted to have
mended, discovered the infant in the act of investigating a pot of blue
paint, with a part of which he had accidentally decorated his face.

"Good gracious! what is that ugly thing you have got under your turning
bench?" she cried, staring at the child in amazement.

"No, he is not an ugly thing," replied the father, with resentment; "he
is a bonny boy, that's what he is."

The woman, in order to mollify Grim, turned to the boy, and asked, with
her sweetest manner, "What is your name, child?"

"Bonny boy," murmured the child, with a vaguely offended air--"bonny
boy."

And from that day the name Bonnyboy clung to him.

II.

To teach Bonnyboy the trade of a carpenter was a task which would have
exhausted the patience of all the saints in the calendar. If there was
any possible way of doing a thing wrong, Bonnyboy would be sure to hit
upon that way. When he was eleven years old he chopped off the third
joint of the ring-finger on his right hand with a cutting tool while
working the turning-lathe; and by the time he was fourteen it seemed a
marvel to his father that he had any fingers left at all. But Bonnyboy
persevered in spite of all difficulties, was always cheerful and of good
courage, and when his father, in despair, exclaimed: "Well, you will
never amount to anything, Bonnyboy," he would look up with his slow,
winning smile and say:

"Don't worry, father. Better luck next time."

"But, my dear boy, how can I help worrying, when you don't learn
anything by which you can make your living?"

"Oh, well, father," said Bonnyboy, soothingly (for he was beginning to
feel sorry on his father's account rather than on his own), "I wouldn't
bother about that if I were you. I don't worry a bit. Something will
turn up for me to do, sooner or later."

"But you'll do it badly, Bonnyboy, and then you won't get a second
chance. And then, who knows but you may starve to death. You'll chop
off the fingers you have left; and when I am dead and can no longer look
after you, I am very much afraid you'll manage to chop off your head
too."

"Well," observed Bonnyboy, cheerfully, "in that case I shall not starve
to death."

Grim had to laugh in spite of himself at the paternal way in which his
son comforted him, as if he were the party to be pitied. Bonnyboy's
unfailing cheerfulness, which had its great charm, began to cause him
uneasiness, because he feared it was but another form of stupidity. A
cleverer boy would have been sorry for his mistakes and anxious about
his own future. But Bonnyboy looked into the future with the serene
confidence of a child, and nothing under the sun ever troubled him,
except his father's tendency to worry. For he was very fond of his
father, and praised him as a paragon of skill and excellence. He
lavished an abject admiration on everything he did and said. His
dexterity in the use of tools, and his varied accomplishments as
a watch-maker and a horse-doctor, filled Bonnyboy with ungrudging
amazement. He knew it was a hopeless thing for him to aspire to rival
such genius, and he took the thing philosophically, and did not aspire.

It occurred to Grim one day, when Bonnyboy had made a most discouraging
exhibition of his awkwardness, that it might be a good thing to ask the
pastor's advice in regard to him. The pastor had had a long experience
in educating children, and his own, though they were not all clever,
promised to turn out well. Accordingly Grim called at the parsonage, was
well received, and returned home charged to the muzzle with good advice.
The pastor lent him a book full of stories, and recommended him to read
them to his son, and afterward question him about every single fact
which each story contained. This the pastor had found to be a good way
to develop the intellect of a backward boy.

III.

When Bonnyboy had been confirmed, the question again rose what was
to become of him. He was now a tall young fellow, red-checked,
broad-shouldered, and strong, and rather nice-looking. A slow,
good-natured smile spread over his face when anyone spoke to him, and he
had a way of flinging his head back, when the tuft of yellow hair which
usually hung down over his forehead obscured his sight. Most people
liked him, even though they laughed at him behind his back; but to his
face nobody laughed, because his strength inspired respect. Nor did he
know what fear was when he was roused; but that was probably, as people
thought, because he did not know much of anything. At any rate, on a
certain occasion he showed that there was a limit to his good-nature,
and when that limit was reached, he was not as harmless a fellow as he
looked.

On the neighboring farm of Gimlehaug there was a wedding to which
Grim and his son were invited. On the afternoon of the second wedding
day--for peasant weddings in Norway are often celebrated for three
days--a notorious bully named Ola Klemmerud took it into his head to
have some sport with the big good-natured simpleton. So, by way of
pleasantry, he pulled the tuft of hair which hung down upon Bonnyboy's
forehead.

"Don't do that," said Bonnyboy.

Ola Klemmerud chuckled, and the next time he passed Bonnyboy, pinched
his ear.

"If you do that again I sha'n't like you," cried Bonnyboy.

The innocence of that remark made the people laugh, and the bully,
seeing that their sympathy was on his side, was encouraged to continue
his teasing. Taking a few dancing steps across the floor, he managed
to touch Bonnyboy's nose with the toe of his boot, which feat again was
rewarded with a burst of laughter. The poor lad quietly blew his nose,
wiped the perspiration off his brow with a red handkerchief, and said,
"Don't make me mad, Ola, or I might hurt you."

This speech struck the company as being immensely funny, and they
laughed till the tears ran down their cheeks. At this moment Grim
entered, and perceived at once that Ola Klemmerud was amusing the
company at his son's expense. He grew hot about his ears, clinched his
teeth, and stared challengingly at the bully. The latter began to feel
uncomfortable, but he could not stop at this point without turning the
laugh against himself, and that he had not the courage to do. So in
order to avoid rousing the father's wrath, and yet preserving his own
dignity, he went over to Bonnyboy, rumpled his hair with both his hands,
and tweaked his nose. This appeared such innocent sport, according to
his notion, that no rational creature could take offence at it. But
Grim, whose sense of humor was probably defective, failed to see it in
that light.

"Let the boy alone," he thundered.

"Well, don't bite my head off, old man," replied Ola. "I haven't hurt
your fool of a boy. I have only been joking with him."

"I don't think you are troubled with overmuch wit yourself, judging by
the style of your jokes," was Grim's cool retort.

The company, who plainly saw that Ola was trying to wriggle out of his
difficulty, but were anxious not to lose an exciting scene, screamed
with laughter again; but this time at the bully's expense. The blood
mounted to his head, and his anger got the better of his natural
cowardice. Instead of sneaking off, as he had intended, he wheeled about
on his heel and stood for a moment irresolute, clinching his fist in his
pocket.

"Why don't you take your lunkhead of a son home to his mother, if he
isn't bright enough to understand fun!" he shouted.

"Now let me see if you are bright enough to understand the same kind of
fun," cried Grim. Whereupon he knocked off Ola's cap, rumpled his hair,
and gave his nose such a pull that it was a wonder it did not come off.

The bully, taken by surprise, tumbled a step backward, but recovering
himself, struck Grim in the face with his clinched fist. At this
moment. Bonnyboy, who had scarcely taken in the situation; jumped up and
screamed, "Sit down, Ola Klemmerud, sit down!"

The effect of this abrupt exclamation was so comical, that people nearly
fell from their benches as they writhed and roared with laughter.

Bonnyboy, who had risen to go to his father's assistance, paused in
astonishment in the middle of the floor. He could not comprehend, poor
boy, why everything he said provoked such uncontrollable mirth. He
surely had no intention of being funny.

So, taken aback a little, he repeated to himself, half wonderingly, with
an abrupt pause after each word, "Sit--down--Ola--Klemmerud--sit--down!"

But Ola Klemmerud, instead of sitting down, hit Grim repeatedly about
the face and head, and it was evident that the elder man, in spite
of his strength, was not a match for him in alertness. This dawned
presently upon Bonnyboy's slow comprehension, and his good-natured smile
gave way to a flush of excitement. He took two long strides across the
floor, pushed his father gently aside, and stood facing his antagonist.
He repeated once more his invitation to sit down; to which the latter
responded with a slap which made the sparks dance before Bonnyboy's
eyes. Now Bonnyboy became really angry. Instead of returning the slap,
he seized his enemy with a sudden and mighty grab by both his shoulders,
lifted him up as if he were a bag of hay, and put him down on a chair
with such force that it broke into splinters under him.

"Will you now sit down?" said Bonnyboy.

Nobody laughed this time, and the bully, not daring to rise, remained
seated on the floor among the ruins of the chair. Thereupon, with
imperturbable composure, Bonnyboy turned to his father, brushed off his
coat with his hands and smoothed his disordered hair. "Now let us go
home, father," he said, and taking the old man's arm he walked out of
the room. But hardly had he crossed the threshold before the astonished
company broke into cheering.

"Good for you, Bonnyboy!" "Well done, Bonnyboy!" "You are a bully boy,
Bonnyboy!" they cried after him.

But Bonnyboy strode calmly along, quite unconscious of his triumph, and
only happy to have gotten his father out of the room safe and sound.
For a good while they walked on in silence. Then, when the effect of
the excitement had begun to wear away, Grim stopped in the path, gazed
admiringly at his son, and said, "Well, Bonnyboy, you are a queer
fellow."

"Oh, yes," answered Bonnyboy, blushing with embarrassment (for though he
did not comprehend the remark, he felt the approving gaze); "but then,
you know, I asked him to sit down, and he wouldn't."

"Bless your innocent heart!" murmured his father, as he gazed at
Bonnyboy's honest face with a mingling of affection and pity.

IV.

When Bonnyboy was twenty years old his father gave up, once for all, his
attempt to make a carpenter of him. A number of saw-mills had been built
during the last years along the river down in the valley, and the old
rapids had been broken up into a succession of mill-dams, one above the
other. At one of these saw-mills Bonnyboy sought work, and was engaged
with many others as a mill hand. His business was to roll the logs on
to the little trucks that ran on rails, and to push them up to the saws,
where they were taken in charge by another set of men, who fastened and
watched them while they were cut up into planks. Very little art was,
indeed, required for this simple task; but strength was required, and of
this Bonnyboy had enough and to spare. He worked with a will from early
morn till dewy eve, and was happy in the thought that he had at last
found something that he could do. It made the simple-hearted fellow
proud to observe that he was actually gaining his father's regard; or,
at all events, softening the disappointment which, in a vague way, he
knew that his dulness must have caused him. If, occasionally, he was
hurt by a rolling log, he never let any one know it; but even though
his foot was a mass of agony every time he stepped on it, he would march
along as stiffly as a soldier. It was as if he felt his father's eye
upon him long before he saw him.

There was a curious kind of sympathy between them which expressed
itself, on the father's part, in a need to be near his son. But he
feared to avow any such weakness, knowing that Bonnyboy would interpret
it as distrust of his ability to take care of himself, and a desire to
help him if he got into trouble. Grim, therefore, invented all kinds of
transparent pretexts for paying visits to the saw-mills. And when he saw
Bonnyboy, conscious that his eye was resting upon him, swinging his axe
so that the chips flew about his ears, and the perspiration rained from
his brow, a dim anxiety often took possession of him, though he could
give no reason for it. That big brawny fellow, with the frame of a man
and the brain of a child, with his guileless face and his guileless
heart, strangely moved his compassion. There was something almost
beautiful about him, his father thought; but he could not have told what
it was; nor would he probably have found any one else that shared his
opinion. That frank and genial gaze of Bonnyboy's, which expressed
goodness of heart but nothing else, seemed to Grim an "open sesame"
to all hearts; and that unawakened something which goes so well with
childhood, but not with adult age, filled him with tenderness and a
vague anxiety. "My poor lad," he would murmur to himself, as he caught
sight of Bonnyboy's big perspiring face, with the yellow tuft of hair
hanging down over his forehead, "clever you are not; but you have that
which the cleverest of us often lack."

V.

There were sixteen saw-mills in all, and the one at which Bonnyboy was
employed was the last of the series. They were built on little terraces
on both banks of the river, and every four of them were supplied with
power from an artificial dam, in which the water was stored in time of
drought, and from which it escaped in a mill-race when required for use.
These four dams were built of big stones, earthwork, and lumber,
faced with smooth planks, over which a small quantity of water usually
drizzled into the shallow river-bed. Formerly, before the power was
utilized, this slope had been covered with seething and swirling
rapids--a favorite resort of the salmon, which leaped high in the
spring, and were caught in the box-traps that hung on long beams over
the water. Now the salmon had small chance of shedding their spawn in
the cool, bright mountain pools, for they could not leap the dams, and
if by chance one got into the mill-race, it had a hopeless struggle
against a current that would have carried an elephant off his feet.
Bonnyboy, who more than once had seen the beautiful silvery fish spring
right on to the millwheel, and be flung upon the rocks, had wished that
he had understood the language of the fishes, so that he might tell them
how foolish such proceedings were. But merciful though he was, he had
been much discouraged when, after having put them back into the river,
they had promptly repeated the experiment.

There were about twenty-five or thirty men employed at the mill where
Bonnyboy earned his bread in the sweat of his brow, and he was, on the
whole, on good terms with all of them. They did, to be sure, make fun of
him occasionally; but sometimes he failed to understand it, and at other
times he made clumsy but good-humored attempts to repay their gibes
in kind. They took good care, however, not to rouse his wrath, for the
reputation he had acquired by his treatment of Ola Klemmerud made them
afraid to risk a collision.

This was the situation when the great floods of 188- came, and
introduced a spice of danger into Bonnyboy's monotonous life. The
mill-races were now kept open night and day, and yet the water burst
like a roaring cascade over the tops of dams, and the river-bed was
filled to overflowing with a swiftly-hurrying tawny torrent, which
filled the air with its rush and swash, and sent hissing showers of
spray flying through the tree-tops. Bonnyboy and a gang of twenty men
were working as they had never worked before in their lives, under the
direction of an engineer, who had been summoned by the mill-owner to
strengthen the dams; for if but one of them burst, the whole tremendous
volume of water would be precipitated upon the valley, and the village
by the lower falls and every farm within half a mile of the river-banks
would be swept out of existence. Guards were stationed all the way up
the river to intercept any stray lumber that might be afloat. For if
a log jam were added to the terrific strain of the flood, there would
surely be no salvation possible. Yet in spite of all precautions, big
logs now and then came bumping against the dams, and shot with wild
gyrations and somersaults down into the brown eddies below.

The engineer, who was standing on the top of a log pile, had shouted
until he was hoarse, and gesticulated with his cane until his arms were
lame, but yet there was a great deal to do before he could go to bed
with an easy conscience. Bonnyboy and his comrades, who had had by far
the harder part of the task, were ready to drop with fatigue. It was
now eight o'clock in the evening, and they had worked since six in the
morning, and had scarcely had time to swallow their scant rations. Some
of them began to grumble, and the engineer had to coax and threaten them
to induce them to persevere for another hour. The moon was just rising
behind the mountain ridges, and the beautiful valley lay, with its green
fields, sprouting forests, and red-painted farm-houses, at Bonnyboy's
feet. It was terrible to think that perhaps destruction was to overtake
those happy and peaceful homes, where men had lived and died for many
hundred years. Bonnyboy could scarcely keep back the tears when this
fear suddenly came over him. Was it not strange that, though they knew
that danger was threatening, they made not the slightest effort to save
themselves? In the village below men were still working in their
forges, whose chimneys belched forth fiery smoke, and the sound of their
hammer-blows could be heard above the roar of the river. Women were
busy with their household tasks; some boys were playing in the streets,
damming up the gutters and shrieking with joy when their dams broke. A
few provident souls had driven their cattle to the neighboring hills;
but neither themselves nor their children had they thought it necessary
to remove. The fact was, nobody believed that the dams would break, as
they had not imagination enough to foresee what would happen if the dams
did break.

Bonnyboy was wet to the skin, and his knees were a trifle shaky from
exhaustion. He had been cutting down an enormous mast-tree, which was
needed for a prop to the dam, and had hauled it down with two horses,
one of which was a half-broken gray colt, unused to pulling in a team.
To restrain this frisky animal had required all Bonnyboy's strength,
and he stood wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. Just at that
moment a terrified yell sounded from above: "Run for your lives! The
upper dam is breaking!"

The engineer from the top of the log-pile cast a swift glance up the
valley, and saw at once from the increasing volume of water that the
report was true.

"Save yourselves, lads!" he screamed. "Run to the woods!"

And suiting his action to his words, he tumbled down from the log pile,
and darted up the hill-side toward the forest. The other men, hearing
the wild rush and roar above them, lost no time in following his
example. Only Bonnyboy, slow of comprehension as always, did not obey.
Suddenly there flared up a wild resolution in his face. He pulled out
his knife, cut the traces, and leaped upon the colt's back. Lashing
the beast, and shouting at the top of his voice, he dashed down the
hill-side at a break-neck pace.

"The dam is breaking!" he roared. "Run for the woods!"

He glanced anxiously behind him to see if the flood was overtaking him.
A great cloud of spray was rising against the sky, and he heard the
yells of men and the frenzied neighing of horses through the thunderous
roar. But happily there was time. The dam was giving way gradually,
and had not yet let loose the tremendous volume of death and desolation
which it held enclosed within its frail timbers. The colt, catching the
spirit of excitement in the air, flew like the wind, leaving farm after
farm behind it, until it reached the village.

"The dam is breaking! Run for your lives!" cried Bonnyboy, with a
rousing clarion yell which rose above all other poises; and up and down
the valley the dread tidings spread like wildfire. In an instant all was
in wildest commotion. Terrified mothers, with babes in their arms, came
bursting out of the houses, and little girls, hugging kittens or
cages with canary-birds, clung weeping to their skirts; shouting men,
shrieking women, crying children, barking dogs, gusty showers sweeping
from nowhere down upon the distracted fugitives, and above all the
ominous, throbbing, pulsating roar as of a mighty chorus of cataracts.
It came nearer and nearer. It filled the great vault of the sky with a
rush as of colossal wing-beats. Then there came a deafening creaking
and crashing; then a huge brownish-white rolling wall, upon which the
moonlight gleamed for an instant, and then the very trump of doom--a
writhing, brawling, weltering chaos of cattle, dogs, men, lumber,
houses, barns, whirling and struggling upon the destroying flood.

VI.

It was the morning after the disaster. The sun rose red and threatening,
circled with a ring of fiery mist. People encamped upon the hill-side
greeted each other as on the morn of resurrection. For many were found
among the living who were being mourned as dead. Mothers hugged their
children with tearful joy, thanking God that they had been spared; and
husbands who had heard through the night the agonized cries of their
drowning wives, finding them at dawn safe and sound, felt as if they had
recovered them from the very gates of death. When all were counted, it
was ascertained that but very few of the villagers had been overtaken by
the flood. The timely warning had enabled all to save themselves, except
some who in their eagerness to rescue their goods had lingered too long.
Impoverished most of them were by the loss of their houses and cattle.
The calamity was indeed overwhelming. But when they considered how much
greater the disaster would have been if the flood had come upon them
unheralded, they felt that they had cause for gratitude in the midst of
their sorrow. And who was it that brought the tidings that snatched them
from the jaws of death? Well, nobody knew. He rode too fast. And each
was too much startled by the message to take note of the messenger. But
who could he possibly have been? An angel from Heaven, perhaps sent by
God in His mercy. That was indeed more than likely. The belief was at
once accepted that the rescuer was an angel from heaven. But just then
a lumberman stepped forward who had worked at the mill and said: "It was
Bonnyboy, Grim Carpenter's son. I saw him jump on his gray colt."

Bonnyboy, Grim Carpenter's son. It couldn't be possible. But the
lumberman insisted that it was, and they had to believe him, though,
of course, it was a disappointment. But where was Bonnyboy? He deserved
thanks, surely. And, moreover, that gray colt was a valuable animal. It
was to be hoped that it was not drowned.

The water had now subsided, though it yet overflowed the banks; so that
trees, bent and splintered by the terrific force of the flood, grew far
out in the river. The foul dams had all been swept away, and the tawny
torrent ran again with tumultuous rapids in its old channel. Of the
mills scarcely a vestige was left except slight cavities in the banks,
and a few twisted beams clinging to the rocks where they had stood. The
ruins of the village, with jagged chimneys and broken walls, loomed
out of a half-inundated meadow, through which erratic currents were
sweeping. Here and there lay a dead cow or dog, and in the branches of
a maple-tree the carcasses of two sheep were entangled. In this marshy
field a stooping figure was seen wading about, as if in search of