The King's Ring - Zacharias Topelius

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of his prosperity the surgeon had been too liberal; he now only owned his old brown cloak, yellow nankeen vest, a hundred fish hooks, and his cheerful disposition. But he now obtained the appointment of public vaccinator, which allowed him to roam about the country twice a year, like old times. No one knew better than he how to lull the little children to rest, whilst he pricked the fine soft flesh of their arms; almost before they knew it the pain was over.

      This gained for him the goodwill of all the mothers; they even forgave him the ugly habit of chewing tobacco—it was too late to cure it now.

      Then the snow of old age stole gently o'er the surgeon's head. He had gone through the storms of life without losing faith in humanity; never hardening under adversity, nor unduly puffed up when fortune smiled. He was throughout a good soul.

      Often in our childhood and first youth we sat up there in the old garret chamber around his leather-covered arm-chair, by the light of the crackling fire, listening to his tales from the world of fiction and from life. His memory was inexhaustible, and as the old runa says, that even the wild stream does not let its waves flow by all at once, so had the surgeon continually new stories of his own time, and still more from periods which had long passed away.

      It sometimes happened after we had been listening to the old man, that he took out an electric battery, and drew from it a succession of sparks.

      "In that way the world sparkled when I was young," he said smiling; "one had only to apply a finger, and click it flashed in all directions. But then it was our Lord who turned the machine."

      But rarely had he a story written like that of the Duchess of Finland. Most of them were given orally. Many years have since passed; part I have forgotten, and some I have compared with traditions and books. If the reader finds a pleasure in them, then the surgeon will not have told his tales in vain during the long winter evenings.

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      Reader, as you sit in your peaceful home, surrounded by the calm of civilisation, can you recall the grand heroic memories of the past, which after centuries remain illuminated with a bright glow, and are also often darkened with blood and tragedy? Can you transport yourself back to the joys and terrors of the past, and take a vital interest in those struggles and battles long since fought out, and become full of hopes or fears as fortune smiled or betrayed?

      Stand with me on the heights of History, and looking far around on the wild arena of human destiny, can you transfer yourself to the vale of the past, the physically dead and buried, but spiritually immortal life, which forms the being and substance of all History?

      Reader, have you ever seen History depicted as an aged man with a frozen heart and wise brow, trying all things in the balance of reason? But is not the Genius of History like an ever youthful virgin, full of fire, with a living heart and a flaming soul—human, warm, and beautiful?

      If then you have the capacity to suffer or rejoice with the generations that have passed away, to love, and hate with them, to admire, despise, and curse as they have done; in a word, to live amongst them with your whole heart, and not merely with your cold reflecting mentality, then follow me. I will lead down the valley; but your heart will guide you better that I; upon that I rely—and begin.

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       THE BATTLE OF BREITENFELD.

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      Through the histories of Germany and Sweden the fame of mighty names has resounded for centuries; at their mention the Swede raises his head aloft, and the free German uncovers his with admiration. These are Leipzig, Breitenfeld, and the 7th of September, 1631.

      King Gustaf Adolf, with his army of Swedes and Finns, stood on German soil to protect the holiest and highest things in life—Liberty and Faith.

      Tilly, the terrible old corporal, had invaded Saxony, and the king pursued him. Twice had they met; the tiger had challenged the lion to the combat, but the latter would not move. Now for the third time they faced each other; the crushing blow must fall, and the fate of Germany trembled in the balance.

      At dawn the Swedes and Saxons crossed the Loder, and placed themselves in battle array at the village of Breitenfeld.

      The king rode along the lines, and inspected everything. His eye beamed with delight on these brave men; the left wing was composed of Gustave Horn's cavalry, Teuffel was in the centre, and Torstensson with his leathern cannon in front. The Livonians and Hepburn's Scots were both in the second line.

      The king commanded the right wing, composed of several regiments of cavalry and the Finns.

      "Stälhandske," said he, checking his large steed at the last Finnish division, "I suppose you understand why you are here. Pappenheim is opposite, and longs to make your acquaintance," he added smiling, "and I expect a vigorous attack from that quarter. I rely upon you Finns to receive him right royally."

      The king then raised his voice and said,

      "Boys, do not blunt your swords upon those iron-clad fellows, but first tackle the horses, and then you will have light work with the riders."

      The Finns were proud of their danger and the honour of their position. The king inspired all with courage and self-reliance. But these short, sturdy fellows on their small horses seemed unequal to the onset of the big Wallachians upon their strong and heavy chargers. Tilly held the same opinion.

      "Ride them down," he said, "and horse and man will fall powerless under the heels of your steeds." But Tilly did not know his foes. The outer bearing of the Finns was deceptive. Their iron muscles and calm courage, with the hardihood of their horses, gave them a decided advantage over their enemies.

      "Well, Bertila," said Stälhandske, turning to a young man who in the first rank rode a handsome black horse, and was noticeable from his height and bearing, "do you feel inclined to win the knight's spur to-day?"

      The one addressed seemed astonished, and coloured up to the brim of his helmet.

      "I have never dared to aspire so high," he answered. "I—a peasant's son!" he added with hesitation.

      "Thunder and lightning, the boy blushes like a bride at the altar! A peasant's son? What the devil, then, have we all come from in the beginning? Did you not provide four fully equipped horsemen? Has not our Lord placed a heart in your breast, and the king a weapon in your hand? That is in itself a coat of arms; you must attend to the rest."

      A multitude of thoughts passed quickly through the young man's mind. He thought of the days of his childhood in far-off Finland. He remembered his old father, whose name was also Bertila, and who during the peasant war was one of Duke Carl's best men. When the latter became King Carl the Ninth, he gave his follower four large farms; each of these had to provide a man and horse for military service. Owing to this, old Bertila became one of the richest peasants in the country. He thought of the time when his father first sent him to Stockholm, in the hope that he would some day attain honour and distinction by the king's side; then of his own ambition which had induced him to neglect study and take private lessons in riding and fencing. At last his father gave him permission to join the king's Finnish cavalry. Now he, a peasant's son, was about to strive to raise himself to the level of the haughty nobility. It was this thought that made him blush, and under its influence he felt he could face any danger.

      Moreover, he was about to fight under the king's eye, for his faith and the honour of his country. The whole

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