which the holy Verena
took. But what all that has to do with your son's sufferings I know not,
and I wait for your narration."

"You may wait long enough," said Biorn, with a sneer. "Sooner shall--"

"Swear not!" said the chaplain in a loud commanding tone, and his eyes
flashed almost fearfully.

"Hurra!" cried Biorn, in wild affright; "hurra! Death and his companion
are loose!" and he dashed madly out of the chamber and down the steps.
The rough and fearful notes of his horn were heard summoning his
retainers; and presently afterwards the clatter of horses' feet on the
frozen court-yard gave token of their departure. The knights retired,
silent and shuddering; while the chaplain remained alone at the huge
stone table, praying.

CHAPTER 2

After some time the good Rolf returned with slow and soft steps, and
started with surprise at finding the hall deserted. The chamber where he
had been occupied in quieting and soothing the unhappy child was in so
distant a part of the castle that he had heard nothing of the knight's
hasty departure. The chaplain related to him all that had passed, and
then said, "But, my good Rolf, I much wish to ask you concerning those
strange words with which you seemed to lull poor Sintram to rest.
They sounded like sacred words, and no doubt they are; but I could not
understand them. 'I believe, and yet I cannot believe.'"

"Reverend sir," answered Rolf, "I remember that from my earliest years
no history in the Gospels has taken such hold of me as that of the child
possessed with a devil, which the disciples were not able to cast out;
but when our Saviour came down from the mountain where He had been
transfigured, He broke the bonds wherewith the evil spirit had held the
miserable child bound. I always felt as if I must have known and loved
that boy, and been his play-fellow in his happy days; and when I grew
older, then the distress of the father on account of his lunatic son lay
heavy at my heart. It must surely have all been a foreboding of our poor
young Lord Sintram, whom I love as if he were my own child; and now
the words of the weeping father in the Gospel often come into my
mind,--'Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief;' and something similar
I may very likely have repeated to-day as a chant or a prayer. Reverend
father, when I consider how one dreadful imprecation of the father has
kept its withering hold on the son, all seems dark before me; but, God
be praised! my f