his temper, amiable in prosperous circumstances,
was by no means improved by exposure to the
elements, and he was unsparing in his denunciations
of everything and everybody connected
with Jutland, from the time of King Gorm
downwards. I could not help laughing at the
excess of his wrath, though I, too, felt that we
were in a scrape which might prove serious.
The horses could with difficulty be kept in the
narrow road, and, should they bolt across the
heath, our choice would probably be between
jumping out at some personal risk, or being
smothered in one of the numerous bogs, deep
and dangerous, with which the country abounds.
Suddenly a flash of lightning, more than
commonly broad and brilliant, lighted up the
whole horizon, showing with startling distinctness
the black and purple surface of the wild
moor, strewed with stones, speckled with yellow
flowers, and dotted with round blue tarns and
patches of intensely green verdure, beneath
which lay soft mire that would bear no heavier
foot than that of the plover. But there was
also visible a moss-grown stone cross, broken
and weather-worn, but conspicuously planted on
a knoll of rising ground, whereon grew several
fir-trees, bent and warped into fantastic crookedness
by the might of the north-west gales. This
was evidently a landmark well known to the
country people, and the postilion gave a shout
of joy as he pointed it out with his whip.

"I know where we are now, English knights!
That's the cross of old Abbot Tholl, he that was
tied up in a sack, and drowned in the Elster
fiord by the peasants of Vetter, one fifth of
whose corn he wanted to take away as Church
dues. We are far from home, and far from the
right road, though, and this rain will have
swelled the Skiern so much that we could not
get back, not if we risked our lives in fording
it. The best thing I can do, gentlemen, is to
take you on to Rothesgaard."

"What does the fellow say?" asked Williams.
He had been but a short time in Denmark, and
had not learned as much of the language, so
similar, and yet so provokingly unlike, our
native English, as I, who had been in constant
contact with native labourers, sailors, and
professional men.

"What is this Rothesgaard you speak of?
Is there a kro there, or some farm-house where
strangers are received?" I asked.

But the place was not one fitted for a
protracted colloquy, and I suppose the lad was
weary of doing battle with his rampant steeds,
which he had hitherto managed with much
address and courage. At any rate, he shouted
something quite unintelligible, cracked his whip,
loosened his reins, and went off at a
slapping pace through the tempest and the
darkness. Half an hour afterwards he pulled up
his horses in front of a long and lofty wall,
which evidently enclosed a large court-yard,
gardens, and inner buildings, and which was, as
I could see by a flash of the now distant
lightning, of a dull red colour, instead of the
usual white. The postilion sprang to the
ground, rang a loud clanging bell, and thumped
lustily on the oaken gate with his whip-handle.

"Any haven in a storm!" said the driver,
"but this haven is of the best! I'll warrant
we find supper not over, and as for corn and
hay for the nags, where should they be to be
had if not in the stables of the noble Baron
Dyring?" At this instant the gates were
opened by an old serving-man with a lantern,
and, after a very brief explanation, we were civilly
invited to enter.

Much as I had heard of the primitive
hospitality still existing in out-of-the-way nooks
of the ancient kingdom of Denmark, I was
rather startled at the notion of intruding on
the domestic privacy of a country gentleman,
such as I could not doubt this Baron Dyring,
whose name I now heard for the first time, to be.
The name of the place—Rothesgaard—had not
prepared me for an invasion on our part of a
genuine château. The word "gaard," meaning
hold or place of defence, is loosely used in
Denmark, applying equally to a village, a
farmhouse, and a feudal castle. And, as far as I
could make out in the dim light, Rothesgaard,
though surrounded by barns, stabling, and
farm buildings of very great extent, was rather
an imposing edifice: a strong stone mansion in
the castellated style, moated and turreted, and
large, though low. Williams, too, drew back
somewhat as soon as he discovered where we
were. He, like myself, had expected to be
received with the rough and kindly welcome
which well-to-do Jutland farmers generally
bestow on the foreign traveller, and that we should
have been, on the morrow, rather permitted
than required to pay for our accommodation.
This, however, was quite a different affair, and
we were only reconciled to our apparent
intrusion when the baron himself, hearing of our
arrival, came to the door to meet us with
extended hand, and gave us a hearty welcome in
tolerable English.

In a quarter of an hour we had been provided
with rooms, in which the stoves were hastily
lighted, warm as the weather was, in consideration
of our drenched condition; we had been
accommodated with dry garments from our host's
wardrobe, since our scanty baggage did not
contain much beyond linen and dressing gear;
and we were sitting in the quaintly furnished
finely proportioned drawing-room, conversing
with our entertainer, and his family, as if we
were all old friends: so utterly was our British
reserve thawed before the simple cordiality of
a Scandinavian welcome. And a fine family
they were; every one of them, except perhaps
Kalf Dyring, the second son, being well looking.

Baron Dyring, who was then about forty-five
years of age, was a tall man, with a dark
complexion, and a handsome thoughtful face.
There was something dreamy and unpractical
about his large grey eyes and delicately cut lips,
but his forehead was broad and ample, and his
whole face had a pleasant expression. Eskil, the
eldest son, was like his father, but shorter and
slighter; and Madame Dyring, who must have