He leaned in silence on his folded arms; and had not so waited for many seconds before he saw something moving on the snow at a little distance. It came nearer and nearer, and at last quite up to the can of ale.
“I am glad I stayed,” thought Oddo. “Now I can say I have seen Nipen. It is much less terrible than I expected. Grandfather told me that it sometimes came like an enormous elephant or hippopotamus; and never smaller than a large bear. But this is no bigger than—let me see—I think it is most like a fox. I should like to make it speak to me. They would think so much of me at home, if I had talked with Nipen.”
So he began gently, “Is that Nipen?”
The thing moved its bushy tail, but did not answer.
“There is no cake for you to-night, Nipen. I hope the ale will do. Is the ale good, Nipen?”
Off went the dark creature, without a word, as quick as it could go.
“Is it offended?” thought Oddo: “or is it really what it looks like—a fox? If it does not come back, I will go down presently, and see whether it has drunk the ale. If not, I shall think it is only a fox.”
He presently let himself down to the ground by the way he had come up, and eagerly laid hold of the ale-can. It would not stir. It was as fast on the ground as if it was enchanted, which Oddo did not doubt was the case; and he started back, with more fear than he had yet had. The cold he felt on this exposed spot soon reminded him, however, that the can was probably frozen to the snow—which it might well be, after being brought warm from the fire-side. It was so. The vessel had sunk an inch into the snow, and was there fixed by the frost.
None of the ale seemed to have been drunk; and so cold was Oddo by this time, that he longed for a sup of it. He took first a sup, and then a draught: and then he remembered that the rest would be entirely spoiled by the frost if it stood another hour. This would be a pity, he thought; so he finished it, saying to himself that he did not believe Nipen would come that night.
At that very moment he heard a cry so dreadful that it shot, like sudden pain, through every nerve of his body. It was not a shout of anger: it was something between a shriek and a wail—like what he fancied would be the cry of a person in the act of being murdered. That Nipen was here now, he could not doubt; and at length Oddo fled. He fled the faster, at first, for hearing the rustle of wings; but the curiosity of the boy even now got the better of his terror, and he looked up at the barn where the wings were rustling. There he saw, in the starlight, the glitter of two enormous round eyes, shining down upon him from the ridge of the roof. But it struck him at once that he had seen those eyes before. He checked his speed, stopped, went back a little, sprang up once more into the gallery, hissed, waved his cap, and clapped his hands, till the echoes were all awake again; and, as he had hoped, the great white owl spread its wings, sprang off from the ridge, and sailed away over the fiord.
Oddo tossed up his cap, cold as the night was, so delighted was he to have scared away the bird which had for a moment scared him. He hushed his mirth, however, when he perceived that lights were wandering in the yard, and that there were voices approaching. He saw that the household were alarmed about him, and were coming forth to search for him. Curious to see what they would do, Oddo crouched down in the darkest corner of the gallery to watch and listen.
First came Rolf and his master, carrying torches, with which they lighted up the whole expanse of snow as they came. They looked round them without any fear, and Oddo heard Rolf say—
“If it were not for that cry, sir, I should think nothing of it. But my fear is that some beast has got him.”
“Search first the place where the cake and ale ought to be,” said Erlingsen. “Till I see blood, I shall hope the best.”
“You will not see that,” said Hund, who followed, his gloomy countenance now distorted by fear, looking ghastly in the yellow light of the torch he carried. “You will see no blood. Nipen does not draw blood.”
“Never tell me that any one that was not wounded and torn could send out such a cry as that,” said Rolf. “Some wild brute seized him, no doubt, at the very moment that Erica and I were standing at the door listening.”
Oddo repented his prank when he saw, in the flickering light behind the crowd of guests, who seemed to hang together like a bunch of grapes, the figures of his grandfather and Erica. The old man had come out in the cold for his sake; and Erica, who looked as white as the snow, had no doubt come forth because the old man wanted a guide. Oddo now wished himself out of the scrape. Sorry as he was, he could not help being amused, and keeping himself hidden a little longer, when he saw Rolf discover the round hole in the snow where the can had sunk, and heard the different opinions of the company as to what this portended. Most were convinced that his curiosity had been his destruction, as they had always prophesied. What could be clearer by this hole than that the ale had stood there, and been carried off with the cake, and Oddo with it, because he chose to stay and witness what is forbidden to mortals?
“I wonder where he is now?” said a shivering youth, the gayest dancer of the evening.
“O, there is no doubt about that; any one can tell you that,” replied the elderly and experienced M. Holberg. “He is chained upon a wind, poor fellow, like all Nipen’s victims. He will have to be shut up in a cave all the hot summer through, when it is pleasantest to be abroad; and when the frost and snow come again, he will be driven out with a lash of Nipen’s whip, and he must go flying wherever his wind flies without resting or stopping to warm himself at any fire in the country. Every winter now, when Erlingsen hears a moaning above his chimney, he may know it is poor Oddo, foolish boy!”
“Foolish boy! but one can’t help pitying him,” said another. “Chained astride upon the wind, and never to be warm again!”
Oddo had thus far kept his laughter to himself, but now he could contain himself no longer. He laughed aloud, and then louder and louder as he heard the echoes all laughing with him. The faces below, too, were so very ridiculous—some of the people staring up in the air, and others at the rock where the echo came from; some having their mouths wide open, others their eyes starting, and all looking unlike themselves in the torchlight. His mirth was stopped by his master.
“Come down, sir,” cried Erlingsen, looking up at the gallery. “Come down this moment. We shall make you remember this night as well perhaps as Nipen could do. Come down, and bring my can and the ale and the cake. The more pranks you play to-night the more you will repent it.”
Most of the company thought Erlingsen very bold to talk in this way; but he was presently justified by Oddo’s appearance on the balustrade. His master seized him as he touched the ground, while the others stood aloof.
“Where is my ale-can?” said Erlingsen.
“Here, sir;” and Oddo held it up dangling by the handle.
“And the cake? I bade you bring down the cake with you.”
“So I did, sir.”
And to his master’s look of inquiry the boy answered by pointing down his throat with one finger, and laying the other hand upon his stomach. “It is all here, sir.”
“And the ale in the same place?”
Oddo bowed, and Erlingsen turned away without speaking. He could not have spoken without laughing.
“Bring this gentleman home,” said Erlingsen, presently to Rolf; “and do not let him out of your hands. Let no one ask him any questions till he is in the house.” Rolf grasped the boy’s arm, and Erlingsen went forward to relieve Peder, though it was not very clear to him at the moment whether such a grandchild was better safe or missing. The old man made no such question, but hastened back to the house with many expressions of thanksgiving.
As the search-party crowded in among the women, and pushed all before them into the large