University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

It was on a Saturday afternoon that the
Long Finne was remanded to prison, in the
manner detailed in the last chapter. The
gentle Christina wept, and wrung her hands;
for he must know little of the heart of a woman,
who cannot comprehend to what a degree
the exercise of those good offices conferred
upon the Long Finne, through the instrumentality
of Bombie, together with the pity she
felt for his unmerited imprisonment, had softened
the heart of this gentle girl towards the tall,
fair youth. She besought the Frizzled Head to
carry him his supper as usual; but that ancient
sybil pertinaciously replied with her eternal
sing song of “I have seen what I have seen—I
know what I know.”

The blue-eyed damsel of the north could not

sleep that night, which turned out dark and
dismal. She sat at her window, and the death-like
silence, unbroken by a single sound, save the
howling of the north-east wind, added to her
feelings of desolation. Through the black void
that separated the prison and the palace, she
could see the Long Finne pacing past the grated
window, from which poured the light of his
lamp. When it disappeared, supposing the
youth had gone to rest, Christina threw herself
on her bed, and after, long and troubled wakefulness,
sunk into an unquiet sleep, haunted by
dreams even more doleful than her waking
thoughts.

She was roused by a glaring light shining
full into the room, with a brightness that astonished
and alarmed her. Starting up, and running
to the window that looked towards the
prison, she saw a sight that froze her blood into
horror. The bars of the prison seemed like
those before a red-hot furnace, and all within
exhibited a fiery redness. Anon, the flames
poured forth from the windows of the keeper's
apartment, in glaring volumes, advancing and
receding as the different currents of air obtained
a mastery. To utter a loud shriek, to run to
her father, and to awaken the whole household,

was the work of a moment; and in a few minutes
afterwards, all was noise and confusion in the
village of Elsingburgh.

Every man, woman, child, and dog in the
town was out, lending assistance to the uproar,
and impeding, in some way or other, the attempts
made by a few persons, not quite out of their
senses, to stop the progress of the flames.—
Tongue cannot describe, nor imagination conceive,
the discordant cries of “fire, fire,” the
shrieks of women, and the howls of dogs, that
mingled in the mighty uproar, and drowned
the voices of those who attempted to give directions
for preventing the fire from spreading into
the village.

With much difficulty they forced the outer
door, which led to the keeper's apartments,
where they found that trusty blade, Gottleib
Schwashbuckler, and his wife, fast asleep in each
other's arms, in spite of the shriekings of the
little urchins within, and the uproar without.
The truth is, that Saturday night was generally
devoted by Master Gottleib and his fat rib,
to certain loving tipplings, which commonly
ended in their both going to sleep, just on the
spot where they took the last glass together.
On this night, the fire in an adjoining room,

which served as parlour and kitchen, had been
left burning, for the purpose of drying Madam
Schwashbuckler's best, and indeed only, muslin
gown, (an article which conferred, at that time,
no little distinction on the possessor,) together
with certain other articles of dress, intended for
the husband and children the ensuing Sunday.
Besides these, there was in the chimney corner,
a quantity of light wood, which Master Gottleib,
who smelt a storm that night, had collected
together for the use of the morrow. Either the
clothes had taken fire, and communicated to the
dry wood, or the latter had first caught, and
communicated to the former; for this is one of
those knotty difficulties, which even authors,
who know so many secrets, are often unable
to resolve.

Be this as it may, when the door was burst
open, the flames had so far advanced, that a
few minutes more and it had been all over with the
ancient family of the Schwashbucklers. As the
door opened the little brood rushed out like so
many caged partridges; but it was with no little
difficulty that the sleeping pair were made to
comprehend their situation, and with still more
that they were got out of the building, it being

their pleasure to stay and dispute which was to
blame for this catastrophe.

The opening of the large door, which fronted
the direction from which the wind was blowing,
having given an impulse to the flames, they
almost instantaneously communicated to the
only staircase that led to the upper story of the
prison. It was now in vain to attempt saving
the building, and accordingly, one part of the
community were employing themselves in
sprinkling the roofs of such houses as were
most exposed to the flakes of fire, which now
began to soar into the air, while others were
quietly looking on in gaping wonderment,
sometimes watching the reflection of the flames,
that at one moment spread upwards on the
bosom of the dark sky, and at another receded,
leaving them darker than before. Others were
adding to the horrors of the scene, by wailings,
and cries of fire, fire, although by this time,
every one was collected from far and near.

At this moment the mysterious Bombie
rushed among the crowd, crying out, in a voice
that overpowered the infernal uproar,—“Shame
on the pale-faced race! They will let one of
their colour perish in the flames, without essaying
to relieve him, as if he were one of those ye call
the posterity of the first murderer!”

“There is nobody in the prison!” exclaimed
half a hundred voices.

“There is, I tell you,” replied the sybil.—
“Look! see ye not a shadow, passing among
the lights in yonder room? See ye not that he is
putting forth his hands through the grates, imploring
assistance? See ye not how he tries
to wrench the iron from its fixture in the last effort
of despair. He is innocent—at least,” muttered
she to herself, “he is innocent of the crime
for which he is here—would I could say, of all
others.”

“A ladder! a ladder!” cried half a hundred
voices at once. But alas! there was no ladder
to be had long enough to reach the window.

The person of master Gottlieb Schwashbuckler
was then searched for the key of the room where
the prisoner was confined, and all his pockets
turned inside out to no purpose. At last that
worthy, after rubbing his eyes, scratching his
head, and yawning half a dozen times, avowed
his firm belief that he had locked the room carefully
last evening, and as carefully left the key
sticking in the keyhole. Several attempts were
now made, by different persons, to ascend the
staircase and unlock the door, which was not
more than two paces from it; but they all returned

without success, some with their hair singed,
others with scorched hands, and almost suffocated;
in short, all now declared that relief was
entirely hopeless.

Bombie now advanced a little before the rest,
leaned upon her horn-headed stick, and cried out
with an almost supernatural voice—“Koningsmarke!”

“I hear”—answered a voice from within.

“Koningsmarke—thy fate is in thine own
hands; all human help, save thine, is vain.
Exert thy strength upon the door, or upon the
iron bars. Thou art strong, and thou art desperate;
exert thyself and be free, or perish—as
thou deservest,” said the sybil, ending in a low
mutter.

At that moment there was a crash within the
building, and the disappearance of the youth
was announced by a groan from the spectators,
whose noisy exclamations now sunk into a horrible
silence. A minute or two after, he appeared
again, at the window, having employed the
interval of his disappearance in attempting, in
vain, to force the door. Now he made a desperate
effort at the bars of one of the windows,
but they resisted his strength. “The other! the
other!” cried the sybil.

He essayed the other without success. “'Tis
in vain,” cried the youth, in despair. “I perish
here; remember! remember!”

“Remember thou!” shrieked the old woman:
“Remember that the dove of thy christian legend
went forth thrice, ere she found what she
sought. Try once again.”

He tried again, but in vain—the bars shook,
but did not yield.

“Once more,” cried she, “for the sake of
thy benefactress.”

He essayed again with convulsive strength—
the bars shook—moved—the wall in which they
were inserted trembled—gave way—and the
whole fell into the room. A shout of triumphant
humanity announced the event. “Jump—jump
for thy life!” cried out one and all, for that was
the only way to escape. Koningsmarke hung
for a moment, with his hands, from the side of
the broken window, and at length, letting himself
go, fell to the ground insensible.