“And I imagine, Captain, that this young stranger may have far greater influence with the count whom we are about to set free than Mr. Hacket, who strikes me, by my soul! as only fit to mew like a wildcat.” Kennybol nodded his head expressively. “Comrade, you have said just what I meant to say. I should be much more inclined in this whole matter to obey that young gentleman than the envoy Hacket. Saint Sylvester and Saint Olaf help me! but if the Iceland demon be our commander, I believe, friend Guldon, that we owe it far less to that magpie Hacket than to this stranger.” “Really, Captain?” inquired Guldon. Kennybol opened his mouth to answer, when he felt a hand on his shoulder; it was Norbith. “Kennybol, we are betrayed! Gormon Woëstrœm has just come from the South. The entire regiment of musketeers is marching against us. The Schleswig lancers are at Sparbo; three companies of Danish dragoons await the cavalry at Loevig. All along the road he saw as many green jackets as there were bushes. Let us hasten toward Skongen; let us not pause until we reach that point. There, at least, we can defend ourselves. One thing more; Gormon thinks that he saw the gleam of muskets among the briers as he came through the defiles of Black Pillar.” The young leader was pale and agitated; but his face and voice still showed courage and resolution. “Impossible!” cried Kennybol. “It is certain! certain!” said Norbith. “But Mr. Hacket--” “Is a traitor or a coward. Depend on what I say, friend Kennybol. Where is this Hacket?” At this moment old Jonas approached the two chiefs. By the deep discouragement stamped upon his features it was easily seen that he had learned the fatal news. The eyes of the two elder men, Jonas and Kennybol, met, and they shook their heads with one accord. “Well, Jonas! Well, Kennybol!” said Norbith. But the aged leader of the Färöe miners slowly passed his hand across his wrinkled brow, and in a low voice answered the appealing look of the aged leader of the Kiölen mountaineers: “Yes, it is but too true; it is but too certain. Gormon Woëstrœm saw them.” “If it be so,” said Kennybol, “what is to be done?” “What is to be done?” answered Jonas. “I consider, friend Jonas, that we should do well to halt.” “And better still, brother Kennybol, to retreat.” “Halt! retreat!” exclaimed Norbith; “we must push forward.” The two elders looked at the young man in cold surprise. “Push forward!” said Kennybol; “and how about the Munkholm musketeers?” “And the Schleswig lancers?” added Jonas. “And the Danish dragoons?” continued Kennybol. Norbith stamped his foot. “And the royal protectorate; and my mother dying of cold and hunger?” “The devil, the royal protectorate!” said the miner Jonas, with a shudder. “Never mind!” said Kennybol.