I have leave to go by the margin of the lake.”
“Then if you put off time talking with me you will not find it easy to overtake them; but I forgot: I suppose you count it an easy matter to overtake ordinary men?”
“I shall not find it difficult,” replied the youth briefly; and then, perceiving that Bertha felt uneasy—apparently at the tenor of the conversation—he quietly changed it by remarking that he preferred to walk by the lake for several reasons, one of which was that it reminded him of Scotland.
“Ah, you profess to love Scotland very much,” said Bertha archly, “but your brother evidently loves it more than you do.”
“With good reason, too,” replied Hake, “for it has given him a bride, and it had no such favours for me.”
“Indeed! what is her name?” asked the maiden, with much interest.
“Emma.”
“Poor Emma,” sighed Bertha; “but I hope that Heika will be freed one day and return to his native land to wed Emma. Perchance by that time Scotland may smile upon you too, and give you cause to love it better.”
“I love it well already,” said Hake, with enthusiasm, “yet am I content to stay here.”
“For shame, Hake! you do not deserve to be a Scot if you mean what you say.”
“I mean what I say, yet do I deserve to be a Scot.”
“Come, tell me, then, what this Scotland of yours is like. I suppose you deem it more beautiful than Iceland?”
The youth smiled. “It is not more wonderful than Iceland. I can say that with truth—but it is passing fair to look upon. It is a land of mountain and flood, of heath-clad braes and grassy knowes. Its mountain peaks rise bare and rugged to the skies, where lordly eagles soar. Its brawling burns in their infancy dash down these rugged steeps, but as they grow older flow on through many a hazel dell, where thrush and blackbird fill the woods with melody—through many flowering pastures, where cattle browse and lambkins skip on the sunny braes. Wild-fowl breed on its reedy lochs, and moor-fowl dwell on its heather hills. Its waters teem with the spotted trout and the royal salmon. Temperate breezes fan its cheeks, and beauty, in form and colour, revels everywhere. Its sons are lovers of their native land, and its daughters are wondrous fair.”
“And yet it would seem,” said Bertha, “that not one is fair enough for you?”
“Nay, Bertha, thy speech is hardly fair. The heart cannot command its affection,” said Hake, with a smile, “but I regret it not.”
“And where does Emma dwell?” asked Bertha.
“Beside my father, near the shores of Forth, not far from a noted town and castle that stand on the summit of a rocky ridge. It is named after Edwin, a Northumbrian king. A sweet romantic spot—my own dear native town. Beside it stands a mountain, which, those who have travelled in far southern lands tell us, bears some resemblance to a couching lion. But I never saw a lion, and know not what truth there is in that.”
“You almost make me wish to see that land,” said Bertha, with a sigh.
“I would you might see it and that it were my fortune to show it to you.”
“That is not likely,” said Bertha, with a little laugh.
“I know not. The most unlikely things happen, and often those that seem most likely do not come to pass. What more unlikely than that Karlsefin should forsake the religion of his fathers? Yet Karlsefin is now a Christian.”
“Do you know, Hake, much about the nature of this new religion that has come amongst us, and made so many people change?” asked Bertha, with sudden earnestness.
“To say truth I don’t know much about it. Only this do I know, that Karlsefin says the foundation of it is God and man united in Jesus Christ, and that the guiding principle of it is love. If so, it must be a sweet religion, and, as far as Karlsefin is concerned, it seems both good and true; but there are some of its professors whom I know whose guiding star is self—not love—which goes rather against it, methinks.”
“You do not reason well, Hake; that is against the professors, not against the religion.”
“True; but this religion is said to change those who profess it—what if they are not changed?”
“Why, then, they are false professors,” said Bertha, with a smile.
“It may be so; I know not. But if you would have further light on the point, Karlsefin will gladly give it you.”
“Well, I will go find him and inquire,” said Bertha, rising; “I have kept you too long already from your comrades.—Farewell.”
“Farewell, Bertha,” replied the youth, gazing after her as she tripped lightly away and disappeared behind a thicket. Then, turning into the woods, he went off at his utmost speed in the direction of the Willow Glen.
“Just in time, Hake,” said Biarne, as the Scot approached; “we are about to start off westward to-day, and go as far inland as we can before dark. I have long had a desire to search out the land in that direction. From the distance of these blue ridges, the size of our lake and river, and other signs, I am of opinion that this is a great land—not an island.”
“It may be so,” replied Hake, looking round on the vast and beautiful landscape; “I should like well to traverse it. If a thrall may be permitted to remark, I would say that a spirited chief would explore somewhat farther than a day’s march from home.”
“Perchance a spirited chief might see fit to have his homestead put well in order before undertaking explorations for his amusement,” replied Biarne, who was not much pleased with Hake’s speech.
The Scot made no answer, and after that the party advanced to the westward, sometimes clearing their way through dense thickets, sometimes walking under the branching canopy of large trees, and frequently coming to more open places, in many of which there were little ponds swarming with wild-fowl.
Towards the afternoon they came to a rocky ridge which was crowned with trees. On the other side of it was a deep gorge, near the end of which some large animal was observed sitting on its haunches.
“Hist! a brown bear!” whispered Biarne.
The bear looked up and growled, for it had heard the approach of the party. Nevertheless it appeared to be in a sluggish as well as a sulky humour, for it gave no indication of any intention either to attack or run away, but sat still on its haunches swaying its huge head and shoulders to and fro, and glowering—as Krake said—horribly.
“A fierce monster truly!” observed Hake, fitting an arrow to his bow.
Biarne laid his hand on Hake’s arm.
“Hast seen such a brute before?” he inquired.
“Not I,” replied Hake.
“Wouldst like to see how the Skraelingers of Greenland treat the white bears of their land, when so few as only two men chance to meet one in this fashion?”
“I
