"That is well, Rané: light me, and help me to reckon," he whispered. "How many studs are there in my belt?" Rané held the light closer. "I count twelve," he replied: "but why desire you to know that?" "That was a singular woman in the forest, Rané. She could see up into heaven and down among the damned. She bade me count the studs upon my belt, if I would know the number of my traitors. Twelve only you reckoned? I fancied I had counted fourteen. Thirteen there are, at least." "Who would be guided by the number of buttons, sire?" replied Rané. "When a man cannot make up his mind, I have heard that he should count his buttons; but that is suited only to children, sire." "Thou thinkest, then, that we should be decided, Rané? Reckon again, and, perhaps, thou mayst consider. Is it not so?--there are thirteen?" "Well, possibly," replied Rané, shutting the lantern; "but thirteen is not a lucky number, sir king." "Thou art right. Thirteen was the number when the false Judas betrayed his heavenly Lord and King. But, why becomest thou so pale, Rané?" "I have fasted the whole day, your grace," replied Rané, looking towards the door: "it is, therefore, no wonder if I am a little palefaced. But listen! What is that?" Lusty blows were now heard on the barn-door, as if with spears and poles. "Arise, King Erik, and come forth to us!" shouted a powerful voice outside. "I am betrayed!" exclaimed the king, springing up. "That was the terrible Stig Anderson's voice." He had drawn his sword; but stood irresolute and perplexed, and pale as a spectre. The chamberlain, with the lantern in his hand, ran to the door. "King Erik is not here--that you must surely know," he cried. "Conceal yourself, sire," he whispered to the agitated monarch. "Lay yourself down: I will cover you with straw, and no one shall see you." He extinguished the candle, and threw the lantern from him, and they now stood in total darkness. "Rané, Rané! wilt thou betray thy king and master?" whispered the wretched king. "Hide yourself--hide yourself, sire! I shall defend you to the last drop of my blood." "So shall I too!" cried little Aagé Jonsen, who had hitherto knelt and prayed, but who now sprang up with fire and spirit. "Alas! had I but a sword!" The little Bent wept and cried aloud, whilst the noise without continued. "Be still--be still, youth! Resistance is useless here," whispered the king to Aagé. "Do not betray me with your whining, Bent," he added; "but cover me with straw, and set yourselves down quietly in a corner." They hastily concealed the king with straw, and did as he had commanded them.