If the reader will transport himself to the highway leading from Throndhjem to Skongen, a narrow, stony road which skirts Throndhjem Fjord until it reaches the village of Vygla, he will not fail to hear the footsteps of two travellers, who left the city by what is known as Skongen Gate, at nightfall, and are rapidly climbing the range of hills up which the path to Vygla winds. Both are wrapped in cloaks. One walks with a firm, youthful step, his body erect and his head well up; the point of his sword hangs below the hem of his cloak, and in spite of the darkness, we see the plume in his cap waving in the breeze. The other is rather taller than his companion, but slightly bent; upon his back is a hump, doubtless formed by a wallet which is hidden by his large black mantle, whose ragged edges bear witness to its long and faithful service. His only weapon is a stick, with which he supports his rapid and uneven steps. If darkness prevent our reader from distinguishing the features of the two travellers, he may perhaps recognize them by the conversation which one of them opens after an hour of silent, consequently tedious travel. “Master, my young master! we have reached the point from which Vygla tower and Throndhjem spires may both be seen at the same time. Before us, on the horizon, that black mass is the tower; behind us lies the cathedral; its flying buttresses, darker still against the sky, stand out like the skeleton ribs of a mammoth.” “Is Vygla far from Skongen?” asked the other wayfarer. “We have to cross the Ordals, sir; we shall not reach Skongen before three o’clock in the morning.” “What hour is that striking now?” “Good heavens, master! you make me shiver. Yes, that is Throndhjem clock; the wind brings the sound to us. That’s a sign of storm. The northwest wind brings clouds.” “In truth, the stars have all disappeared behind us.” “Pray let us make haste, my noble lord, the storm is close at hand, and Gill’s corpse and my escape may already have been discovered in the city. Let us make haste!” “Willingly. Old man, your load seems heavy; give it to me, I am younger and stronger than you.” “No, indeed, noble master; it is not for the eagle to carry the shell of the tortoise. I am too far beneath you for you to burden yourself with my wallet.” “But, old man, if it tires you? It seems heavy. What have you in it? Just now you stumbled, and it clinked as if there were iron in it.” The old man sprang away from the young man. “It clinked, master? Oh, no! you are mistaken. It contains nothing--but food, clothes. No, it does not tire me, sir.” The young man’s friendly offer seemed to give his old comrade a fright which he tried to disguise. “Well,” replied the young man, without noticing it, “if your bundle does not tire you, keep it.” The old man, although his fears were set at rest, made haste to change the conversation.