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                      ELSKET, AND OTHER STORIES




                        BY THOMAS NELSON PAGE.


          ELSKET AND OTHER STORIES.  12mo,                $1.00
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                                ELSKET
                          _AND OTHER STORIES_

                                  BY
                          THOMAS NELSON PAGE



                               NEW YORK
                        CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
                                 1893




                          COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY
                       CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.




                            TO HER MEMORY




                               CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE
  ELSKET                                                               1

  "GEORGE WASHINGTON'S" LAST DUEL                                     52

  P'LASKI'S TUNAMENT                                                 118

  "RUN TO SEED"                                                      147

  "A SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE"                                          180




                                ELSKET.

                "The knife hangs loose in the sheath."
                                          --OLD NORSK PROVERB.


I spent a month of the summer of 188- in Norway--"Old Norway"--and a
friend of mine, Dr. John Robson, who is as great a fisherman as he is
a physician, and knows that I love a stream where the trout and I can
meet each other alone, and have it out face to face, uninterrupted
by any interlopers, did me a favor to which I was indebted for the
experience related below. He had been to Norway two years before, and
he let me into the secret of an unexplored region between the Nord
Fiord and the Romsdal. I cannot give the name of the place, because
even now it has not been fully explored, and he bound me by a solemn
promise that I would not divulge it to a single soul, actually going to
the length of insisting on my adding a formal oath to my affirmation.
This I consented to because I knew that my friend was a humorous man,
and also because otherwise he positively refused to inform me where
the streams were about which he had been telling such fabulous fish
stories. "No," he said, "some of those ---- cattle who think they
own the earth and have a right to fool women at will and know how to
fish, will be poking in there, worrying Olaf and Elsket, and ruining
the fishing, and I'll be ---- if I tell you unless you make oath." My
friend is a swearing man, though he says he swears for emphasis, not
blasphemy, and on this occasion he swore with extreme solemnity. I saw
that he was in earnest, so made affidavit and was rewarded.

"Now," he said, after inquiring about my climbing capacity in a way
which piqued me, and giving me the routes with a particularity which
somewhat mystified me, "Now I will write a letter to Olaf of the
Mountain and to Elsket. I once was enabled to do them a slight service,
and they will receive you. It will take him two or three weeks to get
it, so you may have to wait a little. You must wait at L---- until Olaf
comes down to take you over the mountain. You may be there when he
gets the letter, or you may have to wait for a couple of weeks, as he
does not come over the mountain often. However, you can amuse yourself
around L----; only you must always be on hand every night in case Olaf
comes."

Although this appeared natural enough to the doctor, it sounded rather
curious to me, and it seemed yet more so when he added, "By the way,
one piece of advice: don't talk about England to Elsket, and don't ask
any questions."

"Who is Elsket?" I asked.

"A daughter of the Vikings, poor thing," he said.

My curiosity was aroused, but I could get nothing further out of him,
and set it down to his unreasonable dislike of travelling Englishmen,
against whom, for some reason, he had a violent antipathy, declaring
that they did not know how to treat women nor how to fish. My friend
has a custom of speaking very strongly, and I used to wonder at
the violence of his language, which contrasted strangely with his
character; for he was the kindest-hearted man I ever knew, being a true
follower of his patron saint, old Isaac giving his sympathy to all the
unfortunate, and even handling his frogs as if he loved them.

Thus it was that on the afternoon of the seventh day of July, 188-,
having, for purposes of identification, a letter in my pocket to
"Olaf of the Mountain from his friend Dr. Robson," I stood, in the
rain in the so-called "street" of L----, on the ---- Fiord, looking
over the bronzed faces of the stolid but kindly peasants who lounged
silently around, trying to see if I could detect in one a resemblance
to the picture I had formed in my mind of "Olaf of the Mountain," or
could discern in any eye a gleam of special interest to show that its
possessor was on the watch for an expected guest.

There was none in whom I could discover any indication that he was
not a resident of the straggling little settlement. They all stood
quietly about gazing at me and talking in low tones among themselves,
chewing tobacco or smoking their pipes, as naturally as if they were in
Virginia or Kentucky, only, if possible, in a somewhat more ruminant
manner. It gave me the single bit of home feeling I could muster, for
it was, I must confess, rather desolate standing alone in a strange
land, under those beetling crags, with the clouds almost resting on our
heads, and the rain coming down in a steady, wet, monotonous fashion.
The half-dozen little dark log or frame-houses, with their double
windows and turf roofs, standing about at all sorts of angles to the
road, as if they had rolled down the mountain like the great bowlders
beyond them, looked dark and cheerless. I was weak enough to wish for
a second that I had waited a few days for the rainy spell to be over,
but two little bare-headed children, coming down the road laughing and
chattering, recalled me to myself. They had no wrapping whatever, and
nothing on their heads but their soft flaxen hair, yet they minded
the rain no more than if they had been ducklings. I saw that these
people were used to rain. It was the inheritance of a thousand years.
Something, however, had to be done, and I recognized the fact that I
was out of the beaten track of tourists, and that if I had to stay here
a week, on the prudence of my first step depended the consideration
I should receive. It would not do to be hasty. I had a friend with
me which had stood me in good stead before, and I applied to it now.
Walking slowly up to the largest, and one of the oldest men in the
group, I drew out my pipe and a bag of old Virginia tobacco, free from
any flavor than its own, and filling the pipe, I asked him for a light
in the best phrase-book Norsk I could command. He gave it, and I placed
the bag in his hand and motioned him to fill his pipe. When that was
done I handed the pouch to another, and motioned him to fill and pass
the tobacco around. One by one they took it, and I saw that I had
friends. No man can fill his pipe from another's bag and not wish him
well.

"Does any of you know Olaf of the Mountain?" I asked. I saw at once
that I had made an impression. The mention of that name was evidently a
claim to consideration. There was a general murmur of surprise, and the
group gathered around me. A half-dozen spoke at once.

"He was at L---- last week," they said, as if that fact was an item of
extensive interest.

"I want to go there," I said, and then was, somehow, immediately
conscious that I had made a mistake. Looks were exchanged and some
words were spoken among my friends, as if they were oblivious of my
presence.

"You cannot go there. None goes there but at night," said one,
suggestively.

"Who goes over the mountain comes no more," said another, as if he
quoted a proverb, at which there was a faint intimation of laughter on
the part of several.

My first adviser undertook a long explanation, but though he labored
faithfully I could make out no more than that it was something about
"Elsket" and "the Devil's Ledge," and men who had disappeared. This
was a new revelation. What object had my friend? He had never said a
word of this. Indeed, he had, I now remembered, said very little at
all about the people. He had exhausted his eloquence on the fish. I
recalled his words when I asked him about Elsket: "She is a daughter of
the Vikings, poor thing." That was all. Had he been up to a practical
joke? If so, it seemed rather a sorry one to me just then. But anyhow I
could not draw back now. I could never face him again if I did not go
on, and what was more serious, I could never face myself. I was weak
enough to have a thought that, after all, the mysterious Olaf might not
come; but the recollection of the fish of which my friend had spoken
as if they had been the golden fish of the "Arabian Nights," banished
that. I asked about the streams around L----. "Yes, there was good
fishing." But they were all too anxious to tell me about the danger
of going over the mountain to give much thought to the fishing. "No
one without Olaf's blood could cross the Devil's Ledge." "Two men had
disappeared three years ago." "A man had disappeared there last year.
He had gone, and had never been heard of afterward. The Devil's Ledge
was a bad pass."

"Why don't they look into the matter?" I asked.

The reply was as near a shrug of the shoulders as a Norseman can
accomplish.

"It was not easy to get the proof; the mountain was very dangerous,
the glacier very slippery; there were no witnesses," etc. "Olaf of the
Mountain was not a man to trouble."

"He hates Englishmen," said one, significantly.

"I am not an Englishman, I am an American," I explained.

This had a sensible effect. Several began to talk at once. One had a
brother in Idaho, another had cousins in Nebraska, and so on.

The group had by this time been augmented by the addition of almost the
entire population of the settlement; one or two rosy-cheeked women,
having babies in their arms, standing in the rain utterly regardless of
the steady downpour.

It was a propitious time. "Can I get a place to stay here?" I inquired
of the group generally.

"Yes,--oh, yes." There was a consultation in which the name of
"Hendrik" was heard frequently, and then a man stepped forward and
taking up my bag and rod-case, walked off, I following, escorted by a
number of my new friends.

I had been installed in Hendrik's little house about an hour, and we
had just finished supper, when there was a murmur outside, and then the
door opened, and a young man stepping in, said something so rapidly
that I understood only that it concerned Olaf of the Mountain, and in
some way myself.

"Olaf of the Mountain is here and wants to speak to you," said my host.
"Will you go?"

"Yes," I said. "Why does he not come in?"

"He will not come in," said my host; "he never does come in."

"He is at the church-yard," said the messenger; "he always stops
there." They both spoke broken English.

I arose and went out, taking the direction indicated. A number of my
friends stood in the road or street as I passed along, and touched
their caps to me, looking very queer in the dim twilight. They gazed at
me curiously as I walked by.

I turned the corner of a house which stood half in the road, and just
in front of me, in its little yard, was the little white church with
its square, heavy, short spire. At the gate stood a tall figure,
perfectly motionless, leaning on a long staff. As I approached I saw
that he was an elderly man. He wore a long beard, once yellow but now
gray, and he looked very straight and large. There was something grand
about him as he stood there in the dusk.

I came quite up to him. He did not move.

"Good-evening," I said.

"Good-evening."

"Are you Mr. Hovedsen?" I asked, drawing out my letter.

"I am Olaf of the Mountain," he said slowly, as if his name embraced
the whole title.

I handed him the letter.

"You are----?"

"I am----" taking my cue from his own manner.

"The friend of her friend?"

"His great friend."

"Can you climb?"

"I can."

"Are you steady?"

"Yes."

"It is well; are you ready?"

I had not counted on this, and involuntarily I asked, in some surprise,
"To-night?"

"To-night. You cannot go in the day."

I thought of the speech I had heard: "No one goes over the mountain
except at night," and the ominous conclusion, "Who goes over the
mountain comes no more." My strange host, however, diverted my thoughts.

"A stranger cannot go except at night," he said, gravely; and then
added, "I must get back to watch over Elsket."

"I shall be ready in a minute," I said, turning.

In ten minutes I had bade good-by to my simple hosts, and leaving them
with a sufficient evidence of my consideration to secure their lasting
good-will, I was on my way down the street again with my light luggage
on my back. This time the entire population of the little village
was in the road, and as I passed along I knew by their murmuring
conversation that they regarded my action with profound misgiving. I
felt, as I returned their touch of the cap and bade them good-by, a
little like the gladiators of old who, about to die, saluted Cæsar.

At the gate my strange guide, who had not moved from the spot where I
first found him, insisted on taking my luggage, and buckling his straps
around it and flinging it over his back, he handed me his stick, and
without a word strode off straight toward the black mountain whose vast
wall towered above us to the clouds.

I shall never forget that climb.

We were hardly out of the road before we began to ascend, and I
had shortly to stop for breath. My guide, however, if silent was
thoughtful, and he soon caught my gait and knew when to pause. Up
through the dusk we went, he guiding me now by a word telling me how to
step, or now turning to give me his hand to help me up a steep place,
over a large rock, or around a bad angle. For a time we had heard
the roar of the torrent as it boiled below us, but as we ascended it
had gradually hushed, and we at length were in a region of profound
silence. The night was cloudy, and as dark as it ever is in midsummer
in that far northern latitude; but I knew that we were climbing along
the edge of a precipice, on a narrow ledge of rock along the face of
the cliff. The vast black wall above us rose sheer up, and I could feel
rather than see that it went as sheer down, though my sight could not
penetrate the darkness which filled the deep abyss below. We had been
climbing about three hours when suddenly the ledge seemed to die out.
My guide stopped, and unwinding his rope from his waist, held it out to
me. I obeyed his silent gesture, and binding it around my body gave him
the end. He wrapped it about him, and then taking me by the arm, as if
I had been a child, he led me slowly along the narrow ledge around the
face of the wall, step by step, telling me where to place my feet, and
waiting till they were firmly planted. I began now to understand why no
one ever went "over the mountain" in the day. We were on a ledge nearly
three thousand feet high. If it had not been for the strong, firm hold
on my arm, I could not have stood it. As it was I dared not think.
Suddenly we turned a sharp angle and found ourselves in a curious
semicircular place, almost level and fifty or sixty feet deep in the
concave, as if a great piece had been gouged out of the mountain by the
glacier which must once have been there.

"This is a curious place," I ventured to say.

"It is," said my guide. "It is the Devil's Seat. Men have died here."

His tone was almost fierce. I accepted his explanation silently. We
passed the singular spot and once more were on the ledge, but except
in one place it was not so narrow as it had been the other side of the
Devil's Seat, and in fifteen minutes we had crossed the summit and the
path widened a little and began to descend.

"You do well," said my guide, briefly, "but not so well as Doctor
John." I was well content with being ranked a good second to the doctor
just then.

The rain had ceased, the sky had partly cleared, and, as we began to
descend, the early twilight of the northern dawn began to appear. First
the sky became a clear steel-gray and the tops of the mountains became
visible, the dark outlines beginning to be filled in, and taking on a
soft color. This lightened rapidly, until on the side facing east they
were bathed in an atmosphere so clear and transparent that they seemed
almost within a stone's throw of us, while the other side was still
left in a shadow which was so deep as to be almost darkness. The gray
lightened and lightened into pearl until a tinge of rose appeared, and
then the sky suddenly changed to the softest blue, and a little later
the snow-white mountain-tops were bathed in pink, and it was day.

I could see in the light that we were descending into a sort of upland
hollow between the snow-patched mountain-tops; below us was a lovely
little valley in which small pines and birches grew, and patches of the
green, short grass which stands for hay shone among the great bowlders.
Several little streams came jumping down as white as milk from the
glaciers stuck between the mountain-tops, and after resting in two or
three tiny lakes which looked like hand-mirrors lying in the grass
below, went bubbling and foaming on to the edge of the precipice, over
which they sprang, to be dashed into vapor and snow hundreds of feet
down. A half-dozen sheep and as many goats were feeding about in the
little valley; but I could not see the least sign of a house, except a
queer, brown structure, on a little knoll, with many gables and peaks,
ending in the curious dragon-pennants, which I recognized as one of the
old Norsk wooden churches of a past age.

When, however, an hour later, we had got down to the table-land, I
found myself suddenly in front of a long, quaint, double log cottage,
set between two immense bowlders, and roofed with layers of birch bark,
covered with turf, which was blue with wild <DW29>s. It was as if it
were built under a bed of heart's-ease. It was very old, and had
evidently been a house of some pretension, for there was much curious
carving about the doors, and indeed about the whole front, the dragon's
head being distinctly visible in the design. There were several lesser
houses which looked as if they had once been dwellings, but they seemed
now to be only stables.

As we approached the principal door it was opened, and there
stepped forth one of the most striking figures I ever saw--a young
woman, rather tall, and as straight as an arrow. My friend's words
involuntarily recurred to me, "A daughter of the Vikings," and then,
somehow, I too had the feeling he had expressed, "Poor thing!" Her
figure was one of the richest and most perfect I ever beheld. Her face
was singularly beautiful; but it was less her beauty than her nobility
of look and mien combined with a certain sadness which impressed me.
The features were clear and strong and perfectly carved. There was a
firm mouth, a good jaw, strong chin