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the oxford handb o ok of

PROBABILIT Y
AND
PH ILOSOPHY
the oxford handb o ok of
......................................................................................................

PROBABILITY
AND
PHILOSOPHY
......................................................................................................

Edited by

A L AN H ÁJEK
and
C H R ISTOPH ER H I TCHC O CK

1
 3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, ox dp,
United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of
Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries
© in this volume the several contributors 
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted
First Edition published in 
Impression: 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics
rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the
above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above
You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
 Madison Avenue, New York, NY , United States of America
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Data available
Library of Congress Control Number: 
ISBN ––––
Printed in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and
for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials
contained in any third party website referenced in this work.
 Contents
...........................

List of Contributors ix

Introduction 
Alan Hájek and Christopher Hitchcock
. Probability for Everyone—Even Philosophers 
Alan Hájek and Christopher Hitchcock

PART I: HISTORY
. Pre-history of Probability 
James Franklin
. Probability in th- and th-century Continental Europe
from the Perspective of Jacob Bernoulli’s Art of Conjecturing 
Edith Dudley Sylla
. Probability and Its Application in Britain during the th
and th Centuries 
David R. Bellhouse
. A Brief History of Probability Theory from  to  
Hans Fischer
. The Origins of Modern Statistics: The English Statistical School 
John Aldrich
. The Origins of Probabilistic Epistemology: Some Leading
th-century Philosophers of Probability 
Maria Carla Galavotti

PART II: FORMALISM

. Kolmogorov’s Axiomatization and Its Discontents 
Aidan Lyon
. Conditional Probability 
Kenny Easwaran
vi contents

. The Bayesian Network Story 

Richard E. Neapolitan and Xia Jiang

PART III: ALTERNATIVES TO

STANDARD PROBABILIT Y THEORY
. Mathematical Alternatives to Standard Probability that Provide
Selectable Degrees of Precision 
Terrence L. Fine
. Probability and Nonclassical Logic 
J. Robert G. Williams
. A Logic of Comparative Support: Qualitative Conditional
Probability Relations Representable by Popper Functions 
James Hawthorne
. Imprecise and Indeterminate Probabilities 
Fabio G. Cozman

PART IV: INTERPRETATIONS

AND INTERPRETIVE ISSUES
. Symmetry Arguments in Probability 
Sandy Zabell
. Frequentism 
Adam La Caze
. Subjectivism 
Lyle Zynda
. Bayesianism vs. Frequentism in Statistical Inference 
Jan Sprenger
. The Propensity Interpretation 
Donald Gillies
. Best System Approaches to Chance 
Wolfgang Schwarz
. Probability and Randomness 
Antony Eagle
. Chance and Determinism 
Roman Frigg
 contents vii

PART V: PROBABILISTIC JUDGMENT

AND ITS APPLICATIONS
. Human Understandings of Probability 
Michael Smithson
. Probability Elicitation 
Stephen C. Hora
. Probabilistic Opinion Pooling 
Franz Dietrich and Christian List

PART VI: APPLICATIONS OF PROBABILIT Y:

SCIENCE
. Quantum Probability: An Introduction 
Guido Bacciagaluppi
. Probabilities in Statistical Mechanics 
Wayne C. Myrvold
. Probability in Biology: The Case of Fitness 
Roberta L. Millstein

PART VII: APPLICATIONS OF PROBABILIT Y:

PHILOSOPHY
. Probability in Epistemology 
Matthew Kotzen
. Confirmation Theory 
Vincenzo Crupi and Katya Tentori
. Self-Locating Credences 
Michael G. Titelbaum
. Probability in Logic 
Hannes Leitgeb
. Probability in Ethics 
David McCarthy
. Probability and the Philosophy of Religion 
Paul Bartha
viii contents

. Probability in Philosophy of Language 

Eric Swanson
. Decision Theory 
Lara Buchak
. Probabilistic Causation 
Christopher Hitchcock

Name Index 

Subject Index 
 List of Contributors
............................................................

John Aldrich, Economics Division, School of Social Sciences, University of Southampton

Guido Bacciagaluppi, Descartes Centre for the History and Philosophy of Science and the
Humanities, Utrecht University; UMR  IHPST, CNRS, Paris  and ENS; and UMR 
SPHERE, CNRS, Paris  and Paris 
Paul Bartha, Department of Philosophy, University of British Columbia
David R. Bellhouse, Department of Statistical and Actuarial Sciences, University of Western
Ontario
Lara Buchak, Department of Philosophy, University of California, Berkeley
Fabio G. Cozman, Engineering School, University of Sao Paolo
Vincenzo Crupi, Department of Philosophy and Education, University of Turin
Franz Dietrich, Paris School of Economics/CNRS and University of East Anglia
Antony Eagle, Department of Philosophy, University of Adelaide
Kenny Easwaran, Department of Philosophy, Texas A&M University
Terrence Fine, School of Electrical and Computer Engineering and Department of
Statistical Sciences, Cornell University
Hans Fischer, Department of Mathematics, Catholic University of Eichstätt-Ingolstadt
James Franklin, School of Mathematics and Statistics, University of New South Wales
Roman Frigg, Department of Philosophy, Logic, and Scientific Method, London School of
Economics
Maria Carla Galavotti, Department of Philosophy and Communication, University of
Bologna
Donald Gillies, Department of Philosophy, University College London
Alan Hájek, School of Philosophy, Australian National University
James Hawthorne, Department of Philosophy, University of Oklahoma
Chris Hitchcock, Division of the Humanities and Social Sciences, California Institute of
Technology
Stephen C. Hora, Management Science and Statistics, University of Hawaii at Hilo
x list of contributors

Xia Jiang, Department of Biomedical Informatics, University of Pittsburgh School of

Medicine
Matthew Kotzen, Department of Philosophy, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill
Adam La Caze, Department of Philosophy, University of Queensland
Hannes Leitgeb, Munich Center for Mathematical Philosophy, Ludwig Maximilians
University Munich
Christian List, Departments of Government and Philosophy, London, School of Economics
Aidan Lyon, Department of Philosophy, University of Maryland, College Park, and Munich
Center for Mathematical Philosophy, Ludwig Maximilians University Munich
David McCarthy, Department of Philosophy, Hong Kong University
Roberta L. Millstein, Department of Philosophy, University of California, Davis
Wayne C. Myrvold, Department of Philosophy, University of Western Ontario
Richard Neapolitan, Division of Biomedical Informatics, Department of Preventive
Medicine, Northwestern Feinberg School of Medicine
Wolfgang Schwarz, Department of Philosophy, University of Edinburgh
Michael Smithson, Research School of Psychology, Australian National University
Jan Sprenger, Tilburg Center for Logic and Philosophy of Science, Tilburg University
Eric Swanson, Department of Philosophy, University of Michigan
Edith Sylla, Department of History, North Carolina State University
Katya Tentori, Center for Mind/Brain Sciences; Department of Cognitive Sciences and
Education, University of Trento
Michael Titelbaum, Department of Philosophy, University of Wisconsin, Madison
J. Robert G. Williams, Department of Philosophy, University of Leeds
Sandy Zabell, Department of Statistics, Northwestern University
Lyle Zynda, Department of Philosophy, Indiana University, South Bend
the oxford handb o ok of

PROBABILIT Y
AND
PH ILOSOPHY
 ........................................................................................................

INTRODUCTION
........................................................................................................

alan hájek and christopher hitchcock

Probability theory has long played a central role in statistics, the sciences, and the
social sciences, and it is an important branch of mathematics in its own right. It has also
been playing an increasingly significant role in philosophy—in epistemology, philosophy
of science, ethics, social philosophy, philosophy of religion, and elsewhere. A case can be
made that probability is as vital a part of the philosopher’s toolkit as logic. Moreover, there
is a fruitful two-way street between probability theory and philosophy: the theory informs
much of the work of philosophers, and philosophical inquiry, in turn, has shed considerable
light on the theory.
This volume encapsulates and furthers the influence of philosophy on probability, and
of probability on philosophy. Nearly forty chapters summarize the state of play and present
new insights in various areas of research at the intersection of these two fields. The chapters
should be of special interest to practitioners of probability who seek a greater understanding
of its mathematical and conceptual foundations, and to philosophers of probability who
want to get up to speed on the cutting edge of research in this area. There is also plenty here to
entice philosophical readers who don’t work especially on probability but who want to learn
more about it and its applications. Indeed, this volume should appeal to the intellectually
curious generally; after all, there is much here to be curious about.
We do not expect all of this volume’s audience to have a thorough training in probability
theory. And while probability is relevant to the work of many philosophers, they often do not
have much of a background in its formalism. With this in mind, we begin with “Probability
for Everyone—Even Philosophers”, a primer on those parts of probability theory that we
believe are most important for philosophers to know. The rest of the volume is divided into
seven main sections:

• History
• Formalism
• Alternatives to Standard Probability Theory
• Interpretations
• Probabilistic Judgment and Its Applications
• Applications of Probability: Science
• Applications of Probability: Philosophy
2 a. hájek and c. hitchcock

Some historians of probability, notably Hacking, regard probability as having arrived

surprisingly late on the intellectual scene, given its relative simplicity and practical value.
Specifically, the birth of probability is usually dated to , when Blaise Pascal and Pierre
de Fermat began to correspond about a problem inspired by gambling on dice. (By contrast,
Descartes’ groundbreaking work in analytic geometry—a much more complex and abstract
topic—appeared in .) James Franklin’s chapter in this volume traces the origins of
probabilistic thinking much further back, even to antiquity. To be sure, the mid-to-late th
century represents something of a watershed in the study of probability, and Edith Sylla
takes up its history at that point, focusing on the work of Jacob Bernoulli and his influence
in Continental Europe. Meanwhile, in Britain in the th and th centuries, probability
theory was appropriated in various applications, as David Bellhouse details in his chapter.
Hans Fischer continues the theory’s history from early in the th century until around
the middle of the th century, as probability increasingly became an autonomous branch
of pure mathematics. During this period, statistics became an important field in England
especially; this is the topic of John Aldrich’s contribution to this volume. Finally, Maria Carla
Galavotti canvases the work and legacy of some of the leading philosophers of probability
in the th century, which created the field of philosophy of probability in its own right, and
which set the stage for research in that field right up to today.
Two of the chief areas of research in the foundations of probability concern its formalism,
and its interpretation. We begin with some suitable formal theory of probability, some
codification of how probabilities are to be represented and how they behave. We then
interpret that theory, bringing the formalism to life with an account of what probabilities
are and of what grounds them. Regarding the formalism, Kolmogorov’s axiomatization of
 remains orthodoxy. However, it has also found its share of critics. The chapters by
Aidan Lyon and Kenny Easwaran discuss Kolmogorov’s formalism and some of the sources
of discontent with his approach. Richard Neapolitan and Xia Jiang’s chapter on causal Bayes
nets describes a newer formalism for efficiently representing and computing probabilities.
The chapters by Terrence Fine, James Hawthorne, and Fabio Cozman describe formalisms
intended as alternatives to standard probability theory, such as imprecise probabilities and
qualitative analogues of probability. J. Robert G. Williams discusses how Kolmogorov’s
approach may be generalized to accommodate various nonclassical logics.
Regarding the interpretation of probability, we are pulled in multiple directions.
Probability apparently begins in uncertainty, but it arguably does not end there. We are
irremediably ignorant of various aspects of the world; probability theory has been our chief
tool for systematizing and managing this ignorance. Our evidence is impoverished, and it
typically fails to settle various matters of interest to us. But even if Hume was right that
there are no necessary connections between distinct existences, still it seems that there are
probabilistic connections between the evidence that we have and the hypotheses that we
entertain. Moreover, many authors believe that modern physics gives us reason to think
that the world itself has not settled various matters either: probability is part of the fabric of
reality. If this is right, then pace Einstein, God does play dice.
Accordingly, philosophers have homed in on three leading kinds of probability: evi-
dential, subjective, and physical. (Note that one can consistently adhere to more than

 The Emergence of Probability, A Philosophical Study of Early Ideas about Probability, Induction and

Statistical Inference. . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

 introduction 3

one interpretation of probability. Indeed, a case can be made for embracing evidential,
subjective, and physical probabilities for different purposes.) Evidential probability is
meant to capture the degree to which available or hypothetical evidence supports various
hypotheses, where typically such support falls short of entailment. One might think of this
as how objectively plausible the hypotheses are in light of the evidence, irrespective of what
anyone actually thinks. The earliest incarnation of this idea was enshrined in the classical
interpretation of probability, in which the probability of an event is regarded as the ratio
of the number of live possibilities favourable to the event divided by the total number
of live possibilities. (The live possibilities are those that have not been ruled out.) This
interpretation is founded on the indifference principle: when there is no relevant evidence,
or when the relevant evidence bears symmetrically on the alternative possibilities, the
possibilities should be given equal weight. Sandy Zabell’s chapter on symmetry arguments
in probability traces the history of the indifference principle, and more recent heirs of the
classical interpretation that aim to ground probability values in symmetries.
The logical interpretation of probability generalizes this approach to evidential proba-
bility, seeking to measure the degree of support that a body of evidence gives a particular
hypothesis, whatever the evidence and hypothesis. The possibilities can be assigned unequal
weights, and probabilities can be computed whatever the evidence may be, symmetrically
balanced with respect to the hypothesis or not. The result, to the extent that it succeeds, is
a comprehensive inductive logic or confirmation theory. Several chapters in this volume
discuss at least to some extent these themes of evidential probability, the classical and
logical interpretations of probability, and confirmation theory. Maria Carla Galavotti’s
chapter discusses the logical interpretation of probability in the early th century, with
particular attention to the work of Harold Jeffreys. Vincenzo Crupi and Katya Tentori focus
on confirmation theory and inductive logic in their chapter. Matthew Kotzen also addresses
evidential probability in his contribution, paying special attention to the work of Kyburg and
Williamson. Sandy Zabell’s discussion of symmetry arguments additionally covers many
ideas that have been associated with the logical interpretation of probability.
Some authors in philosophy of probability’s pantheon, however, were sceptical of any
notion of logical probability—notably, Ramsey and de Finetti. They advocated a more
permissive subjectivism about probability, which interprets probabilities as degrees of
confidence of suitably rational agents. This interpretation is addressed especially by Lyle
Zynda’s chapter, but it also takes centre stage in the chapters by Fabio Cozman, Franz
Dietrich and Christian List, Stephen Hora, Michael Smithson, and Jan Sprenger.
Meanwhile, a number of authors hold that probabilities reside in the world itself,
mind-independently—these are physical probabilities, often called chances. Frequentist
interpretations identify such probabilities with appropriate relative frequencies in some
sequence of events; see the chapter by Adam La Caze. These interpretations seem to fare
better when there are many trials of the relevant event type—flips of a coin, throws of a die,

 Terminological caution: in ordinary English, “confirms” usually means establishes or verifies, but
confirmation theory’s relations are probabilistic. Moreover, these relations include those of evidential
counter-support.
 They are sometimes also called objective probabilities. However, logical probabilities are often

regarded as objective also (much as logic itself is often regarded as objective). We thus prefer to speak of
physical probabilities.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
recognized as a hermit of the neighborhood; I believe they called him the
Monk of Lynrass. It is evident that this poor man was murdered also; but for
what purpose? People are not slaughtered now for their religious opinions,
and the old hermit possessed nothing in the world but his serge gown and
the good-will of all who knew him.”
“And you say,” observed Richard, “that his body was mangled, like
those of the soldiers, as if by the claws of some savage animal?”
“Yes, my dear boy; and a fisherman declares that he noticed the same
marks upon the body of an officer found murdered a few days since upon
Urchtal Sands.”
“That is strange,” said Arthur.
“It is frightful,” said Richard.
“Come,” said Wapherney, “silence, and to work, for I think the general
will be here soon. My dear Gustavus, I am curious to see those corpses. If
you like, we will stop a moment at the Spladgest when we leave here this
evening.”
 XVI.

She with young unwakened senses,

Within her cabin on the Alpine field
Her simple homely life commences,
Her little world therein concealed.
And I, God’s hate flung o’er me,
Had not enough, to thrust
The stubborn rocks before me
And strike them into dust!
She and her peace I yet must undermine:
Thou, Hell, hast claimed this sacrifice as thine!
Goethe: Faust, Bayard Taylor’s Translation.

I N 1675, twenty-four years previous to the date of this story, sooth to say,
the whole village of Thoctree rejoiced and made merry over the marriage
of sweet Lucy Pelryhn and that tall, handsome, upright youth, Carroll
Stadt. They had long been lovers, and every one felt a warm interest in the
happy pair upon the day which was to change so many restless hopes and
eager longings into assured and quiet bliss. Born in the same village, reared
in the same fields, Carroll had often in their childhood slept in Lucy’s lap
when tired of play; Lucy had often, as a young girl, leaned on Carroll’s arm
as she returned from work. Lucy was the loveliest and most modest maiden
in the land; Carroll the bravest and noblest lad in the village. They loved
each other, and they could no more remember the day when their love
began than they could recall the day when they were born.
But their marriage did not come, like their love, easily and as a matter of
course. There were domestic interests to be consulted,—family feuds,
relations, obstacles. They were parted for a whole year; and Carroll suffered
sadly far from Lucy, and Lucy wept bitter tears far from Carroll, before the
dawn of that happy day which united them, thereafter never to suffer or to
weep apart.
It was by saving her from great danger that Carroll finally won his Lucy.
He heard cries from the woods one day; they were uttered by his Lucy,
surprised by a brigand dreaded by all the mountain folk, and on the point of
carrying her off to his den. Carroll boldly attacked this monster in human
shape, who gave vent to strange growls like those of a wild beast. Yes, he
attacked the wretch, whom none before had ventured to resist. Love lent
him a lion’s strength. He rescued his beloved Lucy, restored her to her
father, and her father gave her to her deliverer.
Now, the whole village made merry upon the day which united these two
lovers. Lucy alone seemed depressed; and yet never had she gazed more
tenderly at her dear Carroll. But her gaze was as sad as it was loving, and
amid the universal rejoicing this was a subject for surprise. Every moment,
as her husband’s happiness seemed to increase, her eyes expressed more
and more love and despair.
“Oh, my Lucy,” said Carroll, when the sacred rites were over, “the
coming of that robber, a curse to the entire country, was the greatest
blessing for me!”
She shook her head, and made no answer.
Night came; they were left alone in their new abode, and the sports and
dancing on the village green went on more merrily than before, to celebrate
the happiness of the bridal pair.
Next morning Carroll Stadt had vanished. A few words in his
handwriting were brought to Lucy’s father by a hunter from the mountains
of Kiölen, who met him before daylight wandering along the shore of the
fjord.
Old Will Pelryhn showed the paper to his pastor and the mayor, and
nothing was left of last night’s festival but Lucy’s gloom and dull despair.
This mysterious catastrophe dismayed the entire village, and vain efforts
were made to explain it. Prayers for Carroll’s soul were said in the same
church where but a few days before he himself sang hymns of thanksgiving
for his happiness.
No one knew what kept Widow Stadt alive. At the end of nine months of
solitary grief she brought into the world a son, and on the same day the
village of Golyn was destroyed by the fall of the hanging cliff above it.
The birth of this son did not dissipate his mother’s deep depression. Gill
Stadt showed no signs of resemblance to Carroll. His fierce, angry infancy
seemed to prophecy a still more ferocious manhood. Sometimes a little wild
man—whom those mountaineers who saw him from a distance asserted to
be the famous Hans of Iceland—entered the lonely hut of Carroll’s widow,
and the passers-by would then hear a woman’s shrieks and what seemed the
roar of a tiger. The man would carry off young Gill, and months would
elapse; then he would restore him to his mother, more sombre and more
terrible than before.
Widow Stadt felt a mixture of horror and affection for the child.
Sometimes she would clasp him in her maternal arms, as the only tie which
still bound her to earth; again she would repulse him with terror, calling
upon Carroll, her dear Carroll. No one in the world knew what agitated her
soul.
Gill reached his twenty-third year; he saw Guth Stersen, and loved her
madly.
Guth Stersen was rich, and he was poor; therefore he set off for Roeraas
and turned miner, in order to make money. His mother never heard from
him again.
One night she sat at the wheel, by which she earned her daily bread; the
lamp burned low as she worked and waited in her cabin, beneath those
walls which had grown old like herself, in solitude and grief, the silent
witnesses of her mysterious wedding-night. She thought anxiously of her
son, whose presence, ardently desired as it was, would recall much sorrow,
perhaps bring more in its train. The poor mother loved her son, ungrateful
as he was. And how could she help loving him, she had suffered so much
for him?
She rose and took from an antique wardrobe a crucifix thickly coated
with dust. For an instant she looked at it imploringly; then suddenly casting
it from her in horror, she cried: “I pray! How can I pray? Your prayers can
only be addressed to hell, poor woman! You belong to hell, and to hell
alone.”
She had relapsed into her mournful revery, when there was a knock at
the door.
This was a rare event with Widow Stadt. For many long years, in
consequence of the strange incidents connected with her history, the whole
village of Thoctree believed that she had dealings with evil spirits; no one
therefore ever ventured near her hut,—strange superstitions of that age and
ignorant region! She owed to her misfortunes the same reputation for
witchcraft that the keeper of the Spladgest owed to his learning.
“What if it were my son, if it were Gill!” she exclaimed; and she rushed
to the door.
 Alas! it was not her son. It was a little monk clad in serge, his cowl
covering all of his face but a black beard.
“Holy man,” said the widow, “what would you have? You do not know
the house to which you come.”
“Yes, truly!” replied the hermit in a hoarse and all too familiar voice.
And tearing off his gloves, his black beard, and his cowl, he revealed a
fierce countenance, a red beard, and a pair of hands armed with tremendous
claws.
“Oh!” cried the widow, burying her head in her hands.
“Well,” said the little man, “have you not in four-and-twenty years
grown used to seeing the husband upon whom you must gaze through all
eternity?”
“Through all eternity!” she repeated in a terrified whisper.
“Hark ye, Lucy Pelryhn, I bring you news of your son.”
“My son! Where is he? Why does he not come?”
“He cannot.”
“But you have news of him. I thank you. Alas! and can you bring me
pleasure?”
“They are pleasant tidings indeed that I bring you,” said the man in
hollow tones; “for you are a weak woman, and I wonder that you could
bring forth such a son. Rejoice and be glad. You feared that your son would
follow in my footsteps; fear no longer.”
“What!” cried the enraptured mother, “has my son, my beloved Gill,
changed?”
The hermit watched her raptures with an ominous sneer.
“Oh, greatly changed!” said he.
“And why did he not fly to my arms? Where did you see him? What was
he doing?”
“He was asleep.”
In the excess of her joy, the widow did not notice the little man’s
ominous look, nor his horrible and scoffing manner.
“Why did you not wake him? Why did not you say to him, ‘Gill, come to
your mother?’ ”
“His sleep was too sound.”
 “Oh, when will he come? Tell me, I implore, if I shall see him soon.”
The mock monk drew from beneath his gown a sort of cup of singular
shape.
“There, widow,” said he, “drink to your son’s speedy return!”
The widow uttered a shriek of horror. It was a human skull. She waved it
away in terror, and could not utter a word.
“No, no!” abruptly exclaimed the man, in an awful voice, “do not turn
away your eyes, woman; look. You asked to see your son. Look, I say! for
this is all that is left of him.”
And by the red light of the lamp, he offered the dry and fleshless skull of
her son to the mother’s pale lips.
Too many waves of misfortune had passed over her soul for one misery
the more to crush her. She gazed at the cruel monk with a fixed and
meaningless stare.
“Dead!” she whispered; “dead! Then let me die.”
“Die, if you choose! But remember, Lucy Pelryhn, Thoctree woods;
remember the day when the demon, taking possession of your body, gave
your soul to hell! I am that demon, Lucy, and you are my wife forever!
Now, die if you will.”
It is the belief in those superstitious regions that infernal spirits
sometimes appear among men to lead lives of crime and calamity. In
common with other noted criminals, Hans of Iceland enjoyed this fearful
renown. It was also believed that a woman, who by seduction or by
violence, became the prey of one of these monsters in human form, by that
misfortune was doomed to be his companion in hell.
The events of which the hermit reminded the widow seemed to revive in
her these thoughts.
“Alas!” she sobbed, “then I cannot escape from this wretched existence!
And what have I done? for you know, my beloved Carroll, I am innocent. A
young girl’s arm is without strength to resist the arm of a demon.”
She rambled on; her eyes were wild with delirium, and her incoherent
words seemed born of the convulsive quiver of her lips.
“Yes, Carroll, since that day, though polluted, I am innocent; and the
demon asks me if I remember that horrible day! Carroll, I never deceived
you; you came too late. I was his before I was yours, alas! Alas! and I must
be forever punished. No, I can never rejoin you,—you for whom I weep.
What would it avail me to die? I should follow this monster into a world as
fearful as himself,—the world of the damned! And what have I done? Must
my misfortunes in this life become my crimes in the next?”
The little monk bent a look of triumph and command upon her face.
“Ah!” she suddenly exclaimed, turning toward him; “ah, tell me, is not
this some fearful dream induced by your presence? For you know but too
well, alas! that since the day of my ruin, every night that I am visited by
your fatal spirit is marked by foul apparitions, awful dreams, and frightful
visions.”
“Woman, woman, cease your raving; it is as true that you are wide
awake as it is true that Gill is dead.”
The memory of her past misfortunes had, as it were, blotted out all
thought of her fresh grief; these words revived it.
“Oh, my son! my son!” she moaned; and the tones of her voice would
have moved any but the wicked being who heard it. “No, he will return; he
is not dead; I cannot believe that he is dead.”
“Well, go ask him of Roeraas rocks, which crushed out his life; of
Throndhjem Fjord, which swallowed up his body.”
The widow fell upon her knees, crying convulsively, “God! great God!”
“Be silent, servant of hell!”
The wretched woman was silent. He added: “Do not doubt your son’s
death; he was punished for the sins of his father. He let his granite heart
melt in the sunlight of a woman’s eyes. I possessed you, but I never loved
you. Your Carroll’s misfortune was also his. My son and yours was
deceived by his betrothed, by her for whom he died.”
“Died!” she repeated, “died! Then it is really true? Oh, Gill, you were
born of my misery; you were conceived in terror and born in sorrow; your
lips lacerated my breast; as a child, you never returned my caresses or
embraces; you always shunned and repulsed your mother, your lonely and
forsaken mother! You never tried to make me forget my past distress, save
by causing me fresh injury. You deserted me for the demon author of your
existence and of my widowhood. Never, in long years, Gill, never did you
procure me one thrill of pleasure; and yet to-day your death, my son, seems
to me the most insupportable of all my afflictions. Your memory to-day
seems to me to be twined with comfort and rapture. Alas! alas!”
She could not go on; she covered her head with her coarse black woollen
veil, and sobbed bitterly.
“Weak woman!” muttered the hermit; then he continued in a firm voice:
“Control your grief; I laugh at mine. Listen, Lucy Pelryhn. While you still
weep for your son, I have already begun to avenge him. It was for a soldier
in the Munkholm regiment that his sweetheart betrayed him. The whole
regiment shall perish by my hands. Look, Lucy Pelryhn!”
He had rolled up the sleeves of his gown, and showed the widow his
misshapen arms stained with blood.
“Yes,” he said with a fierce roar, “Gill’s spirit shall delight to haunt
Urchtal Sands and Cascadthymore ravine. Come, woman, do you not see
this blood? Be comforted!”
Then all at once, as if struck by a sudden thought, he interrupted himself:
“Widow, did you not receive an iron casket from me? What! I sent you gold
and I bring you blood, and you still weep. Are you not human?”
The widow, absorbed in her despair, was silent.
“What!” said he, with a fierce laugh, “motionless and mute. You are no
woman, then, Lucy Pelryhn!” and he shook her by the arm to rouse her.
“Did not a messenger bring you an iron casket?”
The widow, lending him a brief attention, shook her head, and relapsed
into her gloomy revery.
“Ah, the wretch!” cried the little man, “the miserable traitor! Spiagudry,
that gold shall cost you dear!”
And stripping off his gown, he rushed from the hut with the growl of a
hyena that scents a corpse.
 XVII.
My lord, I braid my hair; I braid it with salt tears because you leave me alone, and
because you go hence into the hills.—The Count’s Lady (Old Romance).

E THEL, meantime, had already reckoned four long and weary days since
she was left to wander alone in the dark garden of Schleswig tower;
alone in the oratory, the witness of so many tears, the confidant of so
many longings; alone in the long gallery, where once upon a time she had
failed to hear the midnight bell. Her aged father sometimes accompanied
her, but she was none the less alone, for the true companion of her life was
absent.
Unfortunate young girl! What had that pure young soul done that it
should be thus early given over to so much sorrow? Taken from the world,
from honors, riches, youthful delights, and from the triumphs of beauty, she
was still in the cradle when she was already in a prison cell; a captive with
her captive father, she had grown up watching his decay; and to complete
her misery, that she might not be ignorant of any form of bondage, love had
sought her out in prison.
Even then, could she but have kept her Ordener at her side, would liberty
have tempted her? Would she ever have known that a world existed from
which she was cut off? Moreover, would not her world, her heaven, have
been with her in that narrow keep, within those gloomy towers bristling
with soldiers, toward which the passer-by would still have cast a pitying
glance?
But, alas! for the second time her Ordener was absent; and instead of
spending all too brief but ever recurring hours with him in holy caresses and
chaste embraces, she passed days and nights in bewailing his absence, and
praying that he might be shielded from danger. For a maiden has only her
prayers and her tears.
Sometimes she longed for the wings of the free swallow which came to
her to be fed through her prison bars. Sometimes her thought escaped upon
the cloud which a swift breeze drove northward through the sky; then
suddenly she would turn away her head and cover her eyes, as if she
dreaded to see a gigantic brigand appear and begin the unequal contest upon
one of the distant mountains whose blue peaks hung on the horizon like a
stationary cloud.
Oh, it is cruel to live when we are parted from the object of our love!
Few hearts have known this pang in all its extent, because few hearts have
known love in all its depth. Then, in some sort a stranger to our ordinary
existence, we create for ourselves a melancholy waste, a vast solitude, and
for the absent one some terrible world of peril, of monsters, and of deceit;
the various faculties which make up our being are changed into and lost in
an infinite longing for the missing one; everything about us seems utterly
indifferent to us. And yet we still breathe, and move, and act, but without
our own volition. Like a wandering planet which has lost its sun, the body
moves at random; the soul is elsewhere.
 XVIII.

On a vast buckler those relentless men

Terrified hell with fearful oaths;
And beside a black bull which they had slain,
All, bathing their hands in blood, swore to be revenged.
The Seven Chiefs before Thebes.

T HE coast of Norway abounds in narrow bays, in creeks, coves, reefs,

lagoons, and little headlands so numerous as to weary the traveller’s
memory and the topographer’s patience. Formerly, if we are to credit
popular tradition, every isthmus was haunted by some demon, each bay
inhabited by some fairy, each promontory protected by some saint;
superstition mingles all beliefs to create for itself imaginary terrors. Upon
Kelvel strand, some miles to the north of Walderhog cave, there was but a
single spot, they said, which was free from all jurisdiction either of infernal,
intermediary, or celestial spirits. It was the glade lying along the shore,
overhung by a cliff, on the top of which could still be seen vestiges of the
manor of Ralph, or Rudolf, the Giant. This little wild meadow, bordered on
the west by the sea, and closely shut in by rocks clad with heather, owed its
exemption solely to the name of that ancient Norwegian lord, its first
possessor. For what fairy, what devil, or what angel would venture to
become master or guest of a domain once occupied and guarded by Ralph
the Giant?
It is true that the mere name of the much dreaded Ralph sufficed to give
an alarming character to a region wild in itself. But after all, a memory is
not so much to be feared as a spirit; and no fisher, belated in rough weather,
and mooring his bark in Ralph’s creek, had ever seen the will-o’-the-wisp
sport and dance upon the summit of a rock, or a fairy ride through the
heather in her phosphorescent car drawn by glow-worms, or a saint ascend
toward the moon, after his prayers were said.
And yet, if the angry waves and wind had allowed a wandering mariner
to land in that hospitable harbor upon the night after the great storm, he
might have been struck with superstitious fear at the sight of three men,
who upon that same night sat around a huge fire, blazing in the middle of
the meadow. Two of them wore the broad felt hat and loose trousers of royal
miners. Their arms were bare to the shoulder, their feet were cased in fawn-
colored leather boots; a red sash held their crooked swords and heavy
pistols; each had a hunter’s horn slung about his neck. One was old, the
other was young; the old man’s thick beard and the young man’s long hair
lent a wild and barbarous look to their faces, which were naturally hard and
stern.
By his bearskin cap, his tanned leather jacket, the musket slung across
his back, his short, tight-fitting drawers, his bare knees, his bark shoes, and
the glittering axe in his hand, it was easy to guess that the companion of the
two miners was a mountaineer from the north of Norway.
Certainly, any one who saw from afar these three weird figures, upon
which the flames, fanned by the salt breeze, cast a red, flickering light,
might well have been frightened, even had he no faith in spectres and
demons; it would have been enough that he believed in thieves and was
somewhat richer than the ordinary poet.
The three men constantly turned their heads toward the winding path
through the wood which fringes Ralph’s meadow, and judging by such of
their words as were not carried off by the wind, they were expecting a
fourth person.
“I say, Kennybol, do you know that we should not be allowed to wait so
peacefully for this envoy from Count Griffenfeld, if we were in the
neighboring meadow, Goblin Tulbytilbet’s meadow, or yonder in St.
Cuthbert’s bay?”
“Don’t talk so loud, Jonas,” replied the mountaineer; “blessed be Ralph
the Giant, who protects us! Heaven save me from setting foot in
Tulbytilbet’s meadow! The other day I thought I was picking hawthorn
there, and I gathered mandrake instead, which began to bleed and shriek,
and nearly drove me mad.”
The young miner laughed.
“Nearly, Kennybol? For my part, I think that the mandrake’s shriek
produced its full effect upon your feeble brains.”
“Feeble brains yourself!” said the vexed mountaineer; “just see, Jonas,
he jests at mandrake. He laughs like a lunatic playing with a death’s-head.”
“Hum!” answered Jonas. “Let him go to Walderhog cave, where the
heads of those whom Hans, the foul fiend of Iceland, has murdered, come
back every night to dance about his bed of withered leaves, and gnash their
teeth to lull him to sleep.”
“That’s so,” said the mountaineer.
“But,” rejoined the young man, “did not Mr. Hacket, for whom we are
waiting, promise us that Hans of Iceland would take the lead in our
rebellion?”
“He did,” replied Kennybol; “and with the help of that demon we are
sure to conquer the green jackets of Throndhjem and Copenhagen.”
“So much the better!” cried the old miner. “But I’m not the man to stand
guard beside him at night.”
At this moment the rustle of dead leaves beneath the tread of a man drew
the attention of the speakers; they turned, and the firelight gleamed on the
new-comer’s face.
“It is he! it is Mr. Hacket! Welcome, Mr. Hacket; you have kept us
waiting. We have been here this three quarters of an hour.”
“Mr. Hacket” was a short, fat man, dressed in black, and his jovial
countenance wore a forbidding expression.
“Well, friends,” said he, “I was delayed by my ignorance of the road and
the necessary precautions. I left Count Schumacker this morning; here are
three purses of gold which he bade me give you.”
The two old men flung themselves upon the gold with the eagerness
common among the peasants of barren Norway. The young miner declined
the purse which Hacket offered him.
“Keep your gold, Sir Envoy; I should lie if I said that I had joined the
revolt for your Count Schumacker’s sake. I rebel to free the miners from the
guardianship of the crown; I rebel that my mother’s bed may have a blanket
less ragged than the coast of our good country, Norway.”
Far from seeming disconcerted, Mr. Hacket answered smilingly, “Then I
will send this money to your poor mother, my dear Norbith, so that she may
have two new blankets to shield her from the cold wind this winter.”
The young man assented with a nod, and the envoy, like a skilful orator,
made haste to add:—
“But be careful not to repeat what you just now inconsiderately said, that
you are not taking up arms in behalf of Schumacker, Count Griffenfeld.”
 “But—but,” muttered the two old men, “we know very well that the
miners are oppressed, but we know nothing about this count, this prisoner
of state.”
“What!” sharply rejoined the envoy; “are you so ungrateful? You groan
in your subterranean caves, deprived of light and air, robbed of all your
property, slaves to the most onerous tutelage! Who came to your rescue?
Who revived your failing courage? Who gave you gold and arms? Was it
not my illustrious master, noble Count Griffenfeld, more of a slave and
more unfortunate even than you? And now, loaded with his favors, would
you refuse to use them to acquire his liberty with your own?”
“You are right,” interrupted the young miner; “that would be an ill
deed.”
“Yes, Mr. Hacket,” said the two old men, “we will fight for Count
Schumacker.”
“Courage, my friends! Rise in his name; bear your benefactor’s name
from one end of Norway to the other. Only listen; everything seconds your
righteous enterprise; you are about to be freed from a formidable enemy,
General Levin de Knud, governor of the province. The secret power of my
noble master, Count Griffenfeld, will soon procure his recall to Bergen.
Come, tell me, Kennybol, Jonas, and you, my dear Norbith, are all your
comrades ready?”
“My brethren of Guldbrandsdal,” said Norbith, “only await my signal.
To-morrow, if you wish—”
“To-morrow; so be it. The young miners under your leadership must be
the first to raise the standard. And you, my brave Jonas?”
“Six hundred heroes from the Färöe Islands, who for three days have
lived on chamois flesh and bear’s fat in Bennallag forest, only ask a blast
from the horn of their old captain, Jonas of Loevig town.”
“Good! And you, Kennybol?”
“All those who carry an axe in the gorges of Kiölen, and climb the rocks
with bare knees, are ready to join their brothers, the miners, when they need
them.”
“Enough. Tell your comrades that they need not doubt their victory,”
added the envoy, raising his voice; “for Hans of Iceland will be their
captain.”
 “Is that certain?” asked all three at once, in a voice of mingled hope and
fear.
The envoy answered: “I will meet you four days hence, at the same hour,
with your united forces, in Apsyl-Corh mine, near Lake Miösen, on Blue
Star plain. Hans of Iceland will be with me.”
“We will be there,” said the three leaders. “And may God not desert
those whom the Devil aids!”
“Fear nothing from God,” said Hacket, with a sneer. “Stay; you will find
flags for your troops among the ruins of Crag. Do not forget the war-cry,
‘Long live Schumacker! We will rescue Schumacker!’ Now we must part;
day will shortly break. But first, swear the most profound secrecy as to what
has passed between us.”
Without a word each of the three chiefs opened a vein in his left arm
with the point of his sword; then, seizing the envoy’s hand, each let a few
drops of blood trickle into it.
“You have our blood,” they said.
Then the young man exclaimed: “May all my blood flow forth like that
which I now shed; may a malicious spirit destroy my plans, as the hurricane
does a straw; may my arm be of lead to avenge an insult; may bats dwell in
my tomb; may I, still living, be haunted by the dead, and dead, be profaned
by the living; may my eyes melt with tears like those of a woman, if ever I
speak of what has occurred at this time in Ralph the Giant’s meadow. And
may the blessed saints deign to hear this, my prayer!”
“Amen!” repeated the two old men.
Then they parted, and nothing was left in the meadow but the
smouldering fire, whose expiring embers burned up at intervals, and
gleamed upon the summit of Ralph the Giant’s ruined and deserted towers.
 XIX.

Theodore. Tristam, let us be gone.

Tristam. This is a strange disgrace.
Theodore. Did any one see us?
Tristam. I know not, but I fear they did.
Lope da Vega: The Gardener’s Dog.

B ENIGNUS SPIAGUDRY found it hard to guess the motives which led

a youth of fine appearance, and apparently likely to live for many long
years, to become the voluntary antagonist of the much-dreaded Hans of
Iceland. He had frequently and with much ingenuity broached the question
since they started on their travels; but the young adventurer preserved a
stubborn silence as to the cause of his journey. Nor was the poor fellow any
more successful in satisfying his curiosity concerning various other details
as to his strange comrade. Once he ventured to ask a question about his
young master’s family and his name. “Call me Ordener,” was the reply; and
this very unsatisfactory answer was given in a tone which forbade further
question. He was forced to submit; every one has his secrets, and good
Spiagudry himself carefully concealed in his wallet, under his cloak, a
certain mysterious casket, any inquiry as to which he would certainly have
considered very disagreeable and greatly out of place.
Four days had passed since they left Throndhjem, but they had made
little progress, owing to the bad state of the roads after the storm, and the
multiplicity of crosscuts and roundabout routes which the runaway keeper
thought it prudent to take in order to avoid too thickly settled regions.
Leaving Skongen on their right, toward evening of the fourth day they
reached the shores of Lake Sparbo.
The vast stretch of water reflecting the last gleams of daylight and the
first stars of coming night set in a frame of tall cliffs, black firs, and lofty
oaks, presented a gloomy but magnificent picture. The sight of a lake at
evening sometimes produces, at a certain distance, a peculiar optical
illusion; it seems as if a vast abyss, cleaving the earth from side to side,
revealed the heavens beneath our feet.
 Ordener paused to contemplate the old Druidical forests, which cover the
steep shores of the lake as with a garment, and the chalky huts of Sparbo,
scattered over the slope like a stray flock of white goats. He listened to the
distant clink of the forges,[11] mingled with the dull roar of the weird
forests, the intermittent cry of wild birds, and the solemn music of the
waves. To the north a huge granite bowlder, still gilded by the rays of the
sun, rose majestically above the little village of Oëlmœ, its summit bending
beneath a mass of ruined towers, as if the giant were weary of his load.
When the soul is sad, it delights in melancholy scenes; it adds to them its
own gloom. Let an unhappy man be thrown among wild, high mountains
beside some black lake in the heart of a dark forest, at the close of day, and
he will see this solemn scene through a funereal veil; he will not feel that
the sun is setting, but that it is dying.
Ordener lingered, motionless and mute, until his companion exclaimed:
“Capital, sir! You do well to ponder thus beside the most miasma-laden lake
in Norway.”
This remark and the gesture which accompanied it, would have brought
a smile to the lips of any but a lover parted from his mistress perhaps never
again to meet her. The learned keeper added:—
“And yet I must rouse you from your meditations to remind you that day
is drawing to a close, and we must make haste if we would reach Oëlmœ
village before twilight overtakes us.”
The observation was correct. Ordener resumed his journey, and
Spiagudry followed him, continuing his unheeded reflections upon the
botanic and physiologic phenomena which Lake Sparbo affords the
naturalist.
“Mr. Ordener,” said he, “if you will listen to your devoted guide, you
will give up your fatal enterprise; yes, sir, and you will take up your abode
upon the shores of this most curious lake, where we can devote ourselves to
all sorts of learned research; for instance, to the study of the stella canora
palustris,—a singular plant, which many scholars consider to be fabulous,
but which Bishop Arngrimmsson asserts that he both saw and heard on the
shores of Lake Sparbo. Added to this, we shall have the satisfaction of
feeling that we dwell upon soil which contains more gypsum than any other
in Europe, and where the hired assassins of Throndhjem are least likely to
find their way. Doesn’t it attract you, young master? Come, renounce your
senseless journey; for, not to offend you, your scheme is dangerous, without
being profitable,—periculum sine pecunia; that is to say, senseless, and
conceived at a moment when you might better have been thinking of other
things.”
Ordener, who paid no attention to the poor man’s words, merely kept up
the conversation by those occasional meaningless monosyllables which
great talkers are ready to accept in lieu of answers. Thus they reached
Oëlmœ village, where they found an unusual bustle and stir.
The inhabitants—hunters, fishers, and blacksmiths—had left their
houses, and hastily collected about a central mound occupied by a group of
men, one of whom blew a horn and waved a small black-and-white banner
over his head.
“Probably some quack doctor,” said Spiagudry,—“ambubaiarum
collegia, pharmacopolœ; some scamp who turns gold into lead and wounds
into sores. Let us see. What invention of the Evil One will he sell these poor
rustics? It would be bad enough if these impostors confined themselves to
kings, if they all imitated Borch the Dane and Borri of Milan, those
alchemists who so completely duped our Frederic III.;[12] but they are just
as greedy for the peasant’s mite as for the prince’s million.”
Spiagudry was mistaken. As they approached the mound they recognized
by his black gown and round, pointed cap, the mayor, surrounded by a
number of bowmen. The man blowing the horn was the town crier.
The fugitive keeper, somewhat disturbed, muttered: “Truly, Mr. Ordener,
I did not expect to stumble upon the mayor when I came into this hamlet.
Great Saint Hospitius, protect us! What does he say?”
His uncertainty was of brief duration, for the crier’s shrill voice was
quickly raised, and religiously heeded by the little group of villagers.
“In the name of his Majesty and by order of his Excellency, General
Levin de Knud, governor, the lord mayor of Throndhjem notifies the
inhabitants of all cities, towns, and villages in the province, that a reward of
one thousand crowns is offered for the head of Hans, a native of Klipstadur,
in Iceland, a murderer and incendiary.”
A vague murmur ran through the crowd. The crier continued:—
“A reward of four crowns is offered for the head of Benignus Spiagudry,
ex-keeper of the Spladgest at Throndhjem, accused of necromancy and
sacrilege. This proclamation shall be published throughout the province by
the mayors of all cities, towns, and villages, who will see that it is carried
out.”
The mayor took the proclamation from the crier’s hands, and added in a
lugubrious and solemn voice:—
“The life of these men is offered to whosoever will take it.”
The reader will readily believe that this reading was not heard unmoved
by our poor, unfortunate Spiagudry. No doubt, the unusual signs of terror
which he showed would have roused the attention of the bystanders, had it
not just then been wholly absorbed by the first clause of the proclamation.
“A reward for the head of Hans!” cried an old fisherman, who had
hastened to the spot, trailing his wet nets behind him. “They might as well,
by Saint Usuph, set a price upon the head of Beelzebub!”
“To keep up a proper balance between Hans and Beelzebub,” said a
hunter, recognizable by his chamois-skin jerkin, “they should only offer
fifteen hundred crowns for the head and horns of the latter fiend.”
“Glory be to the holy mother of God!” cried an old woman, her bald
head shaking as she twirled her distaff. “I only wish I might see the head of
that Hans, so that I might make sure if his eyes are really live coals, as they
say.”
“Yes, to be sure,” replied another old woman; “it was just by looking at
it that he set Throndhjem cathedral on fire. Now I should like to see the
monster whole, with his serpent’s tail, cloven foot, and broad wings like a
bat.”
“Who told you such nonsense, good mother?” broke in the hunter, with a
self-satisfied air. “I’ve seen this Hans of Iceland with my own eyes in the
gorges of Medsyhath; he is a man like ourselves, only he is as tall as a
forty-year-old poplar.”
“Indeed!” said a voice from the crowd, with singular emphasis.
This voice, which made Spiagudry shudder, proceeded from a short man
whose face was hidden by the broad felt hat of a miner, his body wrapped in
rush matting and sealskin.
“Faith!” cried, with a coarse laugh, a smith who wore his heavy hammer
slung across his shoulder, “they may offer one thousand or ten thousand
crowns for his head, and he may be four or forty feet tall, but I’ll not offer
to go in search of him.”
“Nor I,” said the fisherman.
“Nor I; nor I,” repeated every voice.
“And yet any one who may feel tempted,” rejoined the little man, “will
find Hans of Iceland to-morrow at the ruins of Arbar, near Lake Miösen; the
day after that at Walderhog cave.”
“Are you sure, my good man?”
This question was asked at one and the same time by Ordener, who
listened to this scene with an interest easily understood by any one but
Spiagudry, and by another short and tolerably stout man, dressed in black,
with a merry countenance, who had issued from the only inn which the
village contained, at the first sound of the crier’s horn.
The little man with the broad-brimmed hat seemed to be studying them
both for a moment, and then answered in hollow tones: “Yes.”
“And how can you be so certain?” asked Ordener.
“I know where Hans of Iceland is, just as well as I know where Benignus
Spiagudry is; neither of them is far off at this instant.”
All the poor keeper’s terrors were revived, and he scarcely dared look at
the mysterious little man. Fancying that his French periwig had failed to
disguise him, he began to pluck at Ordener’s cloak and to whisper: “Master,
sir, in Heaven’s name, have mercy! have pity let us be off! let us leave this
accursed suburb of hell!”
Ordener, although equally surprised, carefully examined the little man,
who, turning his back to the light, seemed anxious to conceal his face.
“I’ve seen that Benignus Spiagudry,” cried the fisherman, “at
Throndhjem Spladgest. He’s a tall fellow. They offer four crowns for him.”
The hunter burst out laughing.
“Four crowns! I shan’t go a-hunting for him. I can get more for the skin
of a blue fox.”
This comparison, which at any other time would have greatly offended
the learned keeper, now comforted him. Still, he was about to address
another prayer to Ordener to persuade him to continue his journey, when the
latter, having learned all that he wished to know forestalled him by making
his way out of the crowd, which was beginning to disperse.
 Although when they entered Oëlmœ village they had intended passing
the night there, they quitted it, as if by common consent, without even
alluding to the motive for their abrupt departure. Ordener was moved by the
hope of a more speedy meeting with the brigand, Spiagudry by a desire to
get away from the archers as speedily as might be.
Ordener was in too serious a mood to laugh at his comrade’s
misadventures. He broke the silence in kindly tones.
“Old man, what is the name of the ruin where Hans is to be found to-
morrow, according to that little man who seemed to know everything?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t quite catch the name, noble master,” replied
Spiagudry, who uttered no falsehood in so saying.
“Then,” continued the young man, “I must make up my mind not to meet
him until the day after to-morrow at Walderhog cave.”
“Walderhog cave, sir! Indeed, that is Hans of Iceland’s favorite haunt.”
“Let us take that road,” said Ordener.
“We must turn to the left, behind Oëlmœ cliff. It will take us at least two
days to get to Walderhog cave.”
“Do you know, old man,” cautiously observed Ordener, “who that odd
fellow was, who seemed to be so well acquainted with you?”
This question again awakened Spiagudry’s fears, which had been lulled
to sleep as the village of Oëlmœ faded in the distance.
“No, truly, sir,” he answered, in trembling accents. “But he had a very
strange voice.”
Ordener tried to encourage him.
“Fear nothing, old man; serve me well, and I will protect you. If I return
victorious over Hans, I promise you not only a pardon, but I will also give
you the thousand crowns reward offered by the officers of the law.”
Honest Benignus dearly loved his life, but he also loved gold. Ordener’s
promises sounded like magic in his ears; they not only banished all his
terrors, but they excited in him a kind of garrulous mirth, which found vent
in lengthy discourses, queer gestures, and learned quotations.
“Mr. Ordener,” said he, “if I should ever have occasion to discuss the
subject with Over-Bilseuth, otherwise called ‘the Babbler,’ nothing shall
prevent me from maintaining that you are a wise and honorable young man.
What more worthy and more glorious, in fact, quid cithara, tuba, vel
campana dignius, than nobly to risk your life to free your country from a
monster, a brigand, a demon, in whom all demons, brigands, and monsters
seem to be combined? Nobody need tell me that you are moved by
mercenary motives. Noble Lord Ordener yields the price of his conflict to
the companion of his journey, to the old man who only guided him within a
mile of Walderhog cave; for I am sure, young master, that you will allow
me to await the result of your illustrious enterprise at the village of Surb,
situated in the forest within a mile of Walderhog, will you not? And when
your glorious victory is made known, sir, all Norway will thrill with joy like
that of Vermund the Refugee, when from the summit of this same Oëlmœ
cliff, which we just now passed, he saw the great fire kindled by his brother
Halfdan on Munkholm tower in token of his deliverance.”
At these words Ordener interrupted him eagerly.
“What! is Munkholm tower visible from the top of this rock?”
“Yes, sir; twelve miles to the south, between the mountains which our
fathers called Frigga’s Footstools. At this hour you should be able to see the
light in the tower distinctly.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Ordener, fired by the idea of another glimpse of the
seat of all his happiness. “Old man, of course there is a path leading to the
top of the rock, is there not?”
“Yes, to be sure; a path which begins in the wood that lies just before us,
and rises by a gentle slope to the bare crown of the cliff, whence it is
continued by steps cut in the rock by Vermund’s companions, as far as the
castle, where it ends. Those are the ruins which you see in the moonlight.”
“Well, old man, you shall show me the path; we will spend the night in
those ruins,—in those ruins from which Munkholm tower is visible.”
“Can you really mean it, sir?” asked Benignus. “The fatigues of the day
—”
“Old man, I will support your steps; my footing was never more secure.”
“Sir, the brambles that block the path, which has long been deserted, the
fallen stones, the darkness—”
“I will take the lead.”
“There may be some savage beast, some unclean animal, some hideous
monster—”
“I did not undertake this journey to avoid monsters.”
 The idea of halting so near Oëlmœ was very unpleasant to Spiagudry;
the thought of seeing Munkholm light, and possibly the light in Ethel’s
window, enraptured and transported Ordener.
“Young master,” urged Spiagudry, “give up this scheme; take my advice.
I have a presentiment that it will bring us bad luck.”
This plea was as nothing in the face of Ordener’s longing.
“Come,” said he, impatiently, “you must remember that you agreed to
serve me faithfully. I insist upon your showing me the path; where is it?”
“We shall come across it directly,” said the keeper, forced to obey.
In fact, they soon saw the path. They entered it; but Spiagudry observed,
with surprise mixed with fright, that the tall grass was broken and trampled,
and that Vermund the Refugee’s old footpath seemed to have been recently
trodden.
 XX.

Leonardo. The king requires your presence.

Henrique. How so?
Lope da Vega: La Fuerza Lastinosa.

G ENERAL LEVIN DE KNUD sat at his desk, which was covered with
papers and open letters, apparently lost in thought. A secretary stood
before him awaiting his orders. The general now struck the rich carpet
beneath his feet with his spurs, and now absently toyed with the decoration
of the Elephant, hanging about his neck from the collar of the order.
Occasionally he opened his lips as if to speak, then stopped, rubbed his
head, and cast another glance at the unsealed despatches littering the table.
“How the devil!” he cried at last.
This conclusive exclamation was followed by a brief silence.
“Who would ever have imagined,” he resumed, “that those devilish
miners would have gone so far? Of course they were secretly egged on to
this revolt; but do you know, Wapherney, the thing looks serious? Do you
know that five or six hundred scoundrels from the Färöe Islands, headed by
a certain old thief named Jonas, have already quitted the mines; that a
young fanatic called Norbith has also taken command of the Guldbrandsdal
malcontents; that all the hot-heads in Sund-Moer, Hubfallo, and Kongsberg,
who were only waiting the signal, may have risen already? Do you know
that the mountaineers have joined the movement, and that they are headed
by one of the boldest foxes of Kiölen, old Kennybol? And finally, do you
know that according to popular report in northern Throndhjem, if we are to
believe the lord mayor, who has written me, that notorious criminal, upon
whose head we have set a price, the much-dreaded Hans, has taken chief
command of the insurrection? What do you say to all this, my dear
Wapherney? Ahem!”
“Your Excellency,” said Wapherney, “knows what measures—”
“There is still another circumstance connected with this lamentable affair
which I cannot explain; that is, how our prisoner Schumacker can be the
author of the revolt, as they claim. This seems to surprise no one, but it
surprises me more than anything else. It is hard to believe that a man whose
company my faithful Ordener loves can be a traitor; and yet it is asserted
that the miners have risen in his name,—his name is their watchword. They
even give him the titles of which the king deprived him. All this seems
certain; but how does it happen that Countess d’Ahlefeld knew all these
details a week ago, at a time when the first real symptoms of trouble had
scarcely begun to appear in the mines? It is strange! No matter, I must
provide for every emergency. Give me my seal, Wapherney.”
The general wrote three letters, sealed them, and handed them to his
secretary.
“See that this message is sent to Baron Vœthaün, colonel of musketeers,
now garrisoned at Munkholm, so that his regiment may march at once to
the seat of the revolt; this to the officer in command at Munkholm, an order
to guard the ex-chancellor more closely than ever. I must see and question
this Schumacker myself. Then despatch this letter to Skongen, to Major
Wolhm, who is in command there, directing him to send forward a portion
of the garrison to the centre of rebellion. Go, Wapherney, and see that these
orders are executed at once.”
The secretary went out, leaving the governor plunged in meditation.
“All this is very alarming,” thought he. “These miners rebelling in one
place, this chancellor intriguing in another, that crazy Ordener—nobody
knows where! He may be travelling in the very midst of all these rioters,
leaving Schumacker here under my protection to conspire against the State,
and his daughter, for whose safety I have been kind enough to remove the
company of soldiers to which that Frederic d’Ahlefeld belongs, whom
Ordener accuses of—Why, it seems to me that this very company might
easily stop the advance columns of the insurgents; it is very well situated
for that. Wahlstrom, where it is stationed, is near Lake Miösen and Arbar
ruin. That is one of the places of which the rebels will be sure to take
possession.”
At this point in his revery, the general was interrupted by the sound of
the opening door.
“Well, what do you want, Gustavus?”
“General, a messenger asks to speak for a moment with your
Excellency.”
“Well, what is it now? What fresh disaster! Let the messenger come in.”
 The messenger entered, and handed a packet to the governor, saying,
“From his highness the viceroy, your Excellency.”
The general hurriedly tore open the despatch.
“By Saint George!” he cried, with a start of surprise, “I believe that they
have all gone mad! If here is not the viceroy requesting me to proceed to
Bergen. He says it is on urgent business, by order of the king. A fine time
this to transact urgent business! ‘The lord chancellor, now travelling in the
province of Throndhjem, will take your place during your absence.’ Here’s
a substitute in whom I have no confidence! ‘The bishop will assist him—’
Really, these are excellent governors that Frederic chooses for a country in
a state of revolt,—two gentlemen of the cloth, a chancellor, and a bishop!
Well, no matter, the invitation is express; it is the order of the king. Needs
must obey; but before I go I must see Schumacker and question him. I am
sure that there is a plot to involve me in a network of intrigue; but I have
one unerring compass,—my conscience.”
 XXI.

The voice of thy slain brother’s blood cries out,

Even from the ground, unto the Lord!
Cain: A Mystery.

“Y ES, Count; it was this very day, in Arbar ruin, that we were told he
might be found. Countless circumstances lead me to believe in the
truth of this valuable information which I accidentally picked up
yesterday, as I told you, at Oëlmœ village.”
“Are we far from this Arbar ruin?”
“It is close by Lake Miösen. The guide assures me that we shall be there
before noon.”
These words were spoken by two horsemen muffled in brown cloaks,
who early one morning were pursuing one of the many narrow, winding
paths which run in every direction through the forest lying between Lakes
Miösen and Sparbo. A mountain guide, provided with a huntinghorn and an
axe, led the way upon his little gray pony, and behind the travellers rode
four men armed to the teeth, toward whom these two persons occasionally
turned, as if afraid of being overheard.
“If that Iceland thief is really lurking in Arbar ruin,” said one rider,
whose steed kept a respectful distance behind the other, “it is a great point
gained; for the difficulty hitherto has been to find this mysterious being.”
“Do you think so, Musdœmon? And suppose he declines our offers?”
“Impossible, your Grace! What brigand could resist gold and a free
pardon?”
“But you know that this is no common scoundrel. Do not judge him by
yourself. If he should refuse, how can you keep your promise of night
before last to the three leaders of the insurrection?”
“Well, noble Count, in that case, which I regard as impossible if we are
lucky enough to find our man, has your Grace forgotten that a false Hans of
Iceland awaits me two days hence at the hour and place appointed for
meeting the three chiefs, at Blue Star, a place, moreover, conveniently near
Arbar ruin?”
 “You are right, my dear Musdœmon, as usual,” said the count; and each
resumed his own particular line of thought.
Musdœmon, whose interest it was to keep his master in good humor, for
the purpose of diverting him, asked the guide a question.
“My good man, what is that ruined stone cross yonder, behind those
young oaks?”
The guide, a man with fixed stare and stupid mien, turned his head and
shook it several times, as he said: “Oh, master, that is the oldest gallows in
Norway; holy king Olaf had it built for a judge who made a compact with a
robber.”
Musdœmon saw by his patron’s face that the guide’s artless words had
produced an effect quite contrary to that which he hoped.
“It is a curious story,” the guide added; “good Mother Osia told it to me.
The robber was ordered to hang the judge.”
The poor guide, in his simplicity, did not suppose that the incident with
which he meant to entertain his employers was almost an insult to them.
Musdœmon stopped him.
“That will do,” said he; “we have heard the story before.”
“Insolent fellow!” muttered the count, “he has heard the story before.
Ah, Musdœmon, you shall pay for your impudence yet.”
“Did your Grace speak to me?” obsequiously asked Musdœmon.
“I was thinking how I could obtain the Order of the Dannebrog for you.
The marriage of my daughter Ulrica and Baron Ordener would be an
excellent opportunity.”
Musdœmon was profuse in protestations and thanks.
“By the way,” added his Grace, “let us talk business. Do you suppose
that the temporary recall which we sent him has reached the
Mecklenburger?”
The reader may remember that the count was in the habit of thus
designating General Levin de Knud, who was indeed a native of
Mecklenburg.
“Let us talk business!” thought the injured Musdœmon; “it seems that
my affairs are not ‘business.’ Count,” he replied aloud, “I think that the
viceroy’s messenger must be in Throndhjem by this time, and therefore
General Levin must be getting ready to start.”
 The count assumed a kindly tone.
“That recall, my dear fellow, was one of your masterstrokes,—one of
your best planned and most skilfully executed intrigues.”
“The credit belongs as much to your Grace as to me,” replied
Musdœmon, careful, as we have already remarked, to mix the count in all
his machinations.
The master understood this secret desire of his confidant, but chose to
seem unconscious of it.
He smiled.
“My dear private secretary, you are always modest; but nothing can
make me depreciate your most eminent services. Elphega’s presence and
the Mecklenburger’s absence assure my triumph in Throndhjem. I am now
at the head of the province; and if Hans of Iceland accepts the command of
the rebels, which I intend to offer him in person, to me will fall, in the eyes
of the king, the glory of putting down this distressing insurrection and
capturing this terrible brigand.”
They were chatting thus in low voices when the guide rode back to them.
“Masters,” said he, “here on our left is the hillock upon which Biorn the
Just had the double-tongued Vellon beheaded in the presence of his entire
army, the traitor having driven off the king’s allies and summoned the
enemy to the camp, that he might have the appearance of saving Biorn’s
life.”
All these reminiscences of old Norway did not seem to be to
Musdœmon’s taste, for he hurriedly interrupted the guide.
“Come, come, good man, be silent and go your way, without turning
back so often. What do we care about the foolish stories of which these
ruins and dead trees remind you? You annoy my master with your old
wives’ tales.”
 XXII.

Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon;
While the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task foredone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud.
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night,
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide.
Shakespeare: Midsummer Night’s Dream.

L ET us now retrace our steps. We left Ordener and Spiagudry struggling

laboriously up the brow of Oëlmœ cliff by the light of the rising moon.
This rock, bare of vegetation at the point where it begins to curve, is,
from this peculiarity, called by the Norwegian peasants the Vulture’s Neck,
—a name which gives an excellent idea of the aspect of this huge granite
bowlder as seen from a distance.
As our travellers approached this part of the rock, the forest changed to
heather. Grass gave place to moss; wild brier-roses, broom, and holly were
substituted for oaks and beeches,—a scantier growth, which in mountainous
regions always shows that the summit is near, as it indicates the gradual
diminution of the stratum of earth covering what may be termed the
skeleton of the mountain.
“Mr. Ordener,” said Spiagudry, whose lively mind seemed ever a prey to
a varying world of ideas, “this is a very tiresome climb, and it takes all my
devotion to follow you. But it seems to me that I see a superb convolvulus
yonder to the right; how I should like to examine it. Why is it not broad
daylight? Don’t you think it was a great piece of impertinence to value a
learned man like me at no more than four paltry crowns? ’Tis true, the
famous Phædrus was a slave, and Æsop, if we are to believe the learned
Planudes, was sold at a fair like a beast of burden or household chattel. And