Wichita eagle., 1888-09-09


mile between his sledge and his pursuers. As
though to encourage him, the moon at last
rises free Of the far stretching cloud that till
the present had hidden it. A clear white
light floods the darkness and the snowy plain
begins to widen out upon every side as the
driver, rising in his seat, casts one searching
glance ahead, looks to the fastening OF big
leather bag which is tied to the floor Of the
sledge, and then gazes long and carefully
behind him. Yes, there they are, just a little
dark shallow on the waste, a shadow which
one less experienced might have overlooked,
but a shadow that is moving hardly less
quickly than those cast by the rack Of broken
clouds drifting across the moon
What Svantsen had seen in front Of him
was black line on the horizon and q tail
fingerpost, still far ahead, where two roads
met What be had not seen was a figure on
foot, travelling towards that same black line
upon the horizon
The pedestrian Is moving but slowly, and
has very little more running left in him
The snow retards every step and clogs and
Jumps upon the heels of his boots. There is
no track to 60 by, but he keeps as straight a.
he can for the tall finger post To reach the
black line before those flying feet in the rear
have closed with him is, he knows, inpossi-
bic, and yet he staggers forward. He cannot
help himself The instinct of self preserve
ton would make him struggle on, even
though safety were . hundred miles distant
instead Of scarce five. And On he will dreg
his tired body till he drops. or till the wolves
pull him down.
Then cones-think Of it-the sound of
sledge bells in his ears, the one earthly mel
ody he knows in his present sore strait can
mean sucoor and salvation. He heeds it not
at first. The Norwegians arc superstitious
folk, and our poor wretch thinks that the
night demons are abroad, dancing in the
drifting Snow wreaths. laughing at his agony
and tuning the distant bowling into the sound
of bells.
Sledge bells do not always make music.
There is nothing to suggest pleasure and
plumes and nodding Of proud equine heads
in the harsh jingle that now rusbes down
upon tho traveller. Svantssn's horses have
long since caught the distant chorus and
their ears are beginning to lie back and their
necks to stretch ont. Jangle, jangle, jangle,
thud, thud, thud, go hoots and bells A hot
steam streams away from the animals and
the bright red ray Of little lamp in front
of the sledge casts glow upon their sweat
ing TANKS. The driver is standing up now
and unwinds the lash Of his long whip. His
hat is of and he looks with frown behind
him. To us, horses and man and vehicle
seem but the incarnation of flying terror;
to him on foot, a chariot sent straight from
God
And thus they meet, these men than whom
all Norway could not show two enemies moro
bitter. They are dweDers in the little vii
lage of Joksdal, in Finmark, the most north
ern division OF Tronso, or Northern Nor
way. There had their fathers lived before
them, and there had Svantsen, rich, proud
and the autocrat Of his birthplace, cruelty
wronsed Eric Skien, young herdsman and
poor one.
An old, stale story it was Of two men low
ing the same woman. Young Eric had been
everything to her until the other came creep
ing into her beart, ousting the old love anA
replacing it vita one ten times as powerful
she dare not to tell her betrothed, and upon
the very eve OF their marriage Svantsen had
stolen the girl away with her own consent,
married her in distant hamlet, and then,
returning, braved tbs black storm of rage
that swept over him. All believed this step
TO be one Of most lawless abduction upon the
mans part, and he, only thinking for his
wife and her reputation, was content that
in such belief Joksdal should remain Eric
Skien, however, was wiser. He had long
noted the change in his sweetheart, and the
blow did not fall SO heavily upon him, there
fore, as his friends supposed. He was good
hearted, easy going, loutish fellow, not over
quick OF comprehension, but a popular man
among his comrades and one with hind
soul in him That he would nurse his re-
venge until it grew into something strong
and terrible and could walk alone, was the
general opinion in JoksdaL But Sken
breathed no word Of his future intentions to
anybody and went on living and working
tamely enough, though with the most OF the
laughter and rough fro.ic blotted out Of his
life. 1t is improbable that he would ever
have seriously set about retaliation or gone
far out Of his way to get it. Dweliers in
northern lands, all things being equal, are
not so fruitful of violence and the knife as
hot blooded men of the south Nor have
they quite such keenness and capability for
either suffering or joy. Their sensibilities
are somewhat more blunt, and there is moro
prose and less poetry In their lives, less sun
shine and more hard work l speak, Of
was shepherd; Svantsen the keeper Of a
small inn.
And nova year after the catastrophe
they meet, the one flushed and bot and
nearly spent with his hard running; the
other cold and white and with all his wits
about him. Skien, thinking to see a friend,
looks up at the man in the slsdge. As he
does anxiety changes to incredulous and
savage joy; the howl Of wolves falls I'm
heeded upon his ear; be clutches hard at
something hidden In his belt and shows his
teeth. The other, with an iron hand upon
the reins, checks for an instant his flying
sledge and keeps pace with his old enemy.
One Of the struggling horses, arrested in his
fight for life, neighs and plnnges to be free.
The bells clash and jange; for moment the
hungry throats behind are silent; over all
the moon shines bright and cold, bringing
out every detail Of the scene os clearly -
daylight could
Rouo Svantsen speaks first:
''Ah, friend Skien, thou wilt have to go at
greater pace than thy present jog if Joksdl
is to see thee again Graabeen ["gray legs'1
travels world faster, and is now nearer to
thee than thou ert TO home VILE deign to
accept seat1 Ii SO, it is at thy service"
''At Last we meet then," gasped the other.
81 had rather seen thee than the trueet
friend and strongest horse in Norway. At
last thou art il my hand, Eolo Svantsen
Nay, stay thine horses, OF l viii do it for
thee
.'FooIl Thou do ita Couldst thou stop
me year agoi Then think not to hold back
these mad bru.es here by any act of thipa"
Fer answer Skien leveled pistol at the
head Of the horse nearest him The barrel
ftashel in tie ruocrii~bt like a knife and