[_Catherine timidly moves her hands from before her face, sees the waistcoat, gives a faint scream, and falls back in a swoon. The peasant runs to support her.--At this instant the back door of the cottage opens, and_ ALEFTSON _enters_.]

_Aleft_. Catherine!

_Charles_. Poor soul!--there, raise her head--give her air--she fell into this swoon at the sight of yonder knapsack--her husband's--he's dead. Poor creature!--'twas my luck to bring the bad news--what shall we do for her?--I'm no better than a fool, when I see a body this way.

_Aleft_. (_sprinkling water on her face_.) She'll be as well as ever she was, you'll see, presently--leave her to me!

_Charles_. There! she gave a sigh--she's coming to her senses.

[_Catherine raises herself_.]

_Cath_. What has been the matter?--(_She starts at the sight of Aleftson_.)--My husband!--no--'tis Aleftson--what makes you look so like him?--you don't look like yourself.

_Aleft. (aside to the peasant_.) Take that waistcoat out of the way.

_Cath_. (_looking round, sees the knapsack_.) What's there?--Oh, I recollect it all now.--(_To Aleftson_) Look there! look there! your brother! your brother's dead! Poor fool, you have no feeling.

_Aleft_. I wish I had none.

_Cath_. Oh, my husband!--shall I never, never see you more--never more hear your voice--never more see my children in their father's arms?

_Aleft_. (_takes up the waistcoat, on which her eyes are fixed_.) But we are not sure this is Christiern's.

_Charles (s.n.a.t.c.hing it from him_). Don't show it to her again, man!--you'll drive her mad.

_Aleft. (aside_.) Let me alone; I know what I'm about. (_Aloud_) 'Tis certainly like a waistcoat I once saw him wear; but perhaps--

_Cath_. It is his--it is his--too well I know it--my own work--I gave it to him the very day he went away to the wars--he told me he would wear it again the day of his coming home--but he'll never come home again.

_Aleft_. How can you be _sure_ of that?

_Cath_. How!--why, am not I sure, too sure?--hey!--what do you mean?--he smiles!--have you heard any thing?--do you know any thing?--but he can know nothing--he can tell me nothing--he has no sense. (_She turns to the peasant_.) Where did you get this knapsack?--did you see--

_Aleft_. He saw nothing--he knows nothing--he can tell you nothing:--listen to me, Catherine--see, I have thrown aside the dress of a fool--you know I had my senses once--I have them now as clear as ever I had in my life--ay, you may well be surprised--but I will surprise you more--Count Helmaar's come home.

_Cath_. Count Helmaar!--impossible!

_Charles_. Count Helmaar!--he was killed in the last battle, in Finland.

_Aleft_. I tell ye, he was not killed in any battle--he is safe at home--I have just seen him.

_Cath_. Seen him!--but why do I listen to him, poor fool! he knows not what he says--and yet, if the count be really alive--

_Charles_. Is the count really alive? I'd give my best cow to see him.

_Aleft_. Come with me, then, and in one quarter of an hour you _shall_ see him.

_Cath. (clasping her hands_.) Then there _is_ hope for me--Tell me, is there any news?

_Aleft_. There is.

_Cath_. Of my husband?

_Aleft_. Yes--ask me no more--you must hear the rest from Count Helmaar himself--he has sent for you.

_Cath. (springs forward_.) This instant let me go, let me hear--(_she stops short at the sight of the waistcoat, which lies in her pa.s.sage_).--But what shall I hear?--there can be no good news for me--this speaks too plainly.

[_Aleftson pulls her arm between his, and leads her away_.]

_Charles_. Nay, master, take me, as you promised, along with you--I won't be left behind--I'm wide awake now--I must have a sight of Count Helmaar in his own castle--why, they'll make much of me in every cottage on my road home, when I can swear to 'em I've seen Count Helmaar alive, in his own castle, face to face--G.o.d bless him, he's _the poor man's friend_.

[_Exeunt_.]

SCENE--_The housekeeper's room in Count_ HELMAAR'S _Castle_.

ULRICA _and_ CHRISTIERN.

CHRISTIERN _is drawing on his boots_.--_Mrs_. ULRICA _is sitting at a tea-table making coffee_.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Well, well; I'll say no more: if you can't stay to-night, you can't--but I had laid it all out in my head so cleverly, that you should stay, and take a good night's rest here, in the castle; then, in the morning, you'll find yourself as fresh as a lark.

_Christiern_. Oh! I am not at all tired.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Not tired! don't tell me that, now, for I know that you _are_ tired, and can't help being tired, say what you will--Drink this dish of coffee, at any rate--(_he drinks coffee_).

_Christiern_. But the thoughts of seeing my Catherine and my little ones--

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Very true, very true; but in one word, I want to see the happy meeting, for such things are a treat to me, and don't come every day, you know; and now, in the morning, I could go along with you to the cottage, but you must be sensible I could not be spared out this night, on no account or possibility.

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_. Ma'am, the cook is hunting high and low for the brandy-cherries.

_Mrs. Ulrica._ Lord bless me! are not they there before those eyes of yours?--But I can't blame n.o.body for being out of their wits a little with joy such a night as this.

[_Exit Footman_.]

_Christiern_. Never man was better beloved in the regiment than Count Helmaar.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Ay! ay! so he is every where, and so he deserves to be.

Is your coffee good? sweeten to your taste, and don't spare sugar, nor don't spare any thing that this house affords; for, to be sure, you deserve it all--nothing can be too good for him that saved my master's life. So now that we are comfortable and quiet over our dish of coffee, pray be so very good as to tell me the whole story of my master's escape, and of the horse being killed under him, and of your carrying him off on your shoulders; for I've only heard it by bits and sc.r.a.ps, as one may say; I've seen only the bill of fare, ha! ha! ha!--so now pray set out all the good things for me, in due order, garnished and all; and, before you begin, taste these cakes--they are my own making.

_Christiern (aside)_. 'Tis the one-and-twentieth time I've told the story to-day; but no matter. (_Aloud_) Why, then, madam, the long and the short of the story is--

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh, pray, let it be the _long_, not the _short_ of the story, if you please: a story can never be too long for my taste, when it concerns my master--'tis, as one may say, fine spun sugar, the longer the finer, and the more I relish it--but I interrupt you, and you eat none of my cake--pray go on--(_A call behind the scenes of Mrs. Ulrica!

Mrs. Ulrica!_)--Coming!--coming!--patience.

_Christiern_. Why, then, madam, we were, as it might be, here--just please to look; I've drawn the field of battle for you here, with coffee, on the table--and you shall be the enemy.