Ticket No. 9672, Jules Verne [books to read for teens .txt] 📗

needed only a word to appear before them in all her splendor.

The 16th and 17th passed, and still no Ole, nor did the postman bring any letter from Newfoundland.

“There is no cause for anxiety, little sister,” Joel said, again and again. “A sailing-vessel is always subject to delays. It is a long way from St. Pierre-Miquelon to Bergen. How I wish the Viking were a steamer and I the engine. How I would drive along against wind and tide, even if I should burst my boiler on coming into port.”

He said all this because he saw very plainly that Hulda’s uneasiness was increasing from day to day.

Just at this time, too, the weather was very bad in the Telemark. Violent gales swept the high tablelands, and these winds, which blew from the west, came from America.

“They ought to have hastened the arrival of the Viking,” the young girl repeated again and again.

“Yes, little sister,” replied Joel; “but they are so strong that they may have hindered its progress, and compelled it to face the gale. People can’t always do as they like upon the sea.”

“So you are not uneasy, Joel?”

“No, Hulda, no. It is annoying, of course, but these delays are very common. No; I am not uneasy, for there is really not the slightest cause for anxiety.”

On the 19th a traveler arrived at the inn, and asked for a guide to conduct him over the mountains to the Hardanger, and though Joel did not like the idea of leaving Hulda, he could not refuse his services. He would only be absent forty-eight hours at the longest, and he felt confident that he should find Ole at Dal on his return, though, to tell the truth, the kindhearted youth was beginning to feel very uneasy. Still, he started off early the next morning, though with a heavy heart, we must admit.

On the following day, at precisely one o’clock, a loud rap resounded at the door of the inn.

“It is Ole!” cried Hulda.

She ran to the door.

There, in a karjol, sat a man enveloped in a traveling-cloak, a man whose face was unknown to her.

VI

“Is this Dame Hansen’s inn?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Hulda.

“Is Dame Hansen at home?”

“No; but she will soon return, and if you wish to speak to her⁠—”

“I do not. There is nothing I want to say to her.”

“Would you like a room?”

“Yes; the best in the house.”

“Shall we prepare dinner for you?”

“As soon as possible, and see to it that everything is of the very best quality.”

These remarks were exchanged between Hulda and the traveler before the latter had alighted from the karjol, in which he had journeyed to the heart of the Telemark across the forests, lakes, and valleys of Central Norway.

Everyone who has visited Scandinavia is familiar with the karjol, the means of locomotion so dear to the hearts of her people. Two long shafts, between which trots a horse wearing a square wooden collar, painted yellow and striped with black, and guided with a simple rope passed, not through his mouth, but around his nose, two large, slender wheels, whose springless axle supports a small gay-colored, shell-shaped wagon-body, scarcely large enough to hold one person⁠—no covering, no dashboard, no step⁠—but behind, a board upon which the skydskarl perches himself. The whole vehicle strongly reminds one of an enormous spider between two huge cobwebs represented by the wheels of the vehicle.

At a sign from the traveler the skydskarl sprung to the horse’s head, and the stranger rose, straightened himself out, and finally alighted, though not without some difficulty, judging from two or three muttered curses.

“Will they put my karjol under shelter?” he asked, curtly, pausing upon the threshold.

“Yes, sir,” replied Hulda.

“And find my horse?”

“I will have him put in the stable immediately.”

“Have him well cared for.”

“Certainly, sir. May I ask if you intend to remain in Dal several days?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The karjol and horse were taken to a small barn built under the shelter of some trees at the foot of the mountain. It was the only stable connected with the inn, but it sufficed for the requirements of its guests.

In a few moments the traveler was duly installed in the best chamber, where, after removing his cloak, he proceeded to warm himself before the fire he had ordered lighted. In the meantime, Hulda, to satisfy this exacting guest, bade the piga (a sturdy peasant-girl, who helped in the kitchen, and did the rough work of the inn during the summer) prepare the best dinner possible.

A strong, hardy man was this newcomer, though he had already passed his sixtieth year. Thin, slightly round-shouldered, of medium stature, with an angular head, smoothly shaven face, thin, pointed nose, small eyes that looked you through and through from behind large spectacles, a forehead generally contracted by a frown, lips too thin for a pleasant word ever to escape them, and long, crooked fingers, he was the very personification of an avaricious usurer or miser, and Hulda felt a presentiment that this stranger would bring no good fortune to Dame Hansen’s house.

He was a Norwegian unquestionably, but one of the very worst type. His traveling costume consisted of a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, a snuff-colored suit, the breeches fastened at the knee with a leather strap, and over all a large brown cloak, lined with sheepskin to protect its wearer from the chilly night air.

Hulda did not ask him his name, but she would soon learn it, as he would have to enter it upon the inn register.

Just then Dame Hansen returned, and her daughter announced the arrival of a guest who demanded the best room and the best food that the inn afforded, but who vouchsafed no information in regard to the probable length of his stay.

“And he did not give his name?” asked Dame Hansen.

“No, mother.”

“Nor say whence he came?”

“No.”

“If he is not a