"Has the good Lovisa left us?"
Güldmar burst into a hard laugh. "Good! By my soul! The folks of Talvig take up murderers for saints and criminals for guides! 'Tis a wild world! Yes—she has gone—where all such blessed ones go—to—heaven!" He shook his clenched fist in the air—then hastily gathering up the reins, prepared to start.
The Lapp, after the manner of his race, was easily frightened, and cowered back, terrified at the bonde's menacing gesture and fierce tone,—but quickly bethinking himself of the liberal fee he clutched in his palm, he volunteered a warning to this kingly old man with the streaming white hair and beard, and his keen eyes that were already fixed on the dark sweep of the rough, uneven road winding towards the Altenfjord.
"There is a storm coming, Jarl Güldmar!" he stammered.
Güldmar turned his head. "Why call me Jarl?" he demanded half angrily. "'Tis a name I wear not."
He touched the reindeer lightly with his long whip—the sensitive beast started and sprang forward.
Once more the Lapp exclaimed, with increased excitement and uncouth gestures—
"Storm is coming!—wide—dark, deep! See how the sky stoops with the hidden snow!"
He pointed to the north, and there, low on the horizon, was a lurid red gleam like a smouldering fire, while just above it a greenish blackness of cloud hung heavy and motionless. Towards the central part of the heaven two or three stars shone with frosty brightness, and through a few fleecy ribbons of greyish mist limmered the uncertain promise of a faint moon.
Güldmar smiled slightly. "Storm coming?" he answered almost gaily. "That is well! Storm and I are old friends, my lad! Good night!"