The Legion of the Lost, стр. 6

‘It is safe,’ said Olaf; like the oarsman’s, his voice seemed to hold a stifled laughter, as if he were enthralled by what he was doing, and highly delighted. He took Drusilla’s gloved hand and led her across the grass until the outlines of a small cabin were no longer imaginary, but real. One by one, guided by Olaf, they stepped over the threshold. Their guide followed them and closed the door.

Only then did someone inside strike a match.

The glow was bright enough to make Palfrey blink, but by the time an oil lamp was lighted his eyes were accustomed to it, and he saw practically everything that there was to see in a single glimpse. It was a larger room than he had expected, built of logs, with a table and several chairs and stools. A fireplace at one side without a fire, but with what seemed to be a large black tin over the hearth itself. A dresser with little crockery, two pictures – one of King Haakon, one of Christ upon the Cross. The simplicity of the little shack took on a deeper import because of those two signs of faith – both in the living monarch and in the spiritual guide.

By the table stood a tall, grave-faced man.

The lamplight shone upon his long features and full lips. His hair was over-long and his face very pale, but in spite of his gravity there was a smile in his eyes. He looked at Drusilla as she took off her furlined hat.

Palfrey saw him start and heard Olaf exclaim in Norwegian: ‘A woman! It is a woman!’

Drusilla smiled; her cheeks were glowing and her eyes very bright. The grave-faced man looked as surprised as Olaf sounded, but Palfrey broke the ensuing silence, introduced Drusilla, Brian and himself. The grave-faced man smiled more widely, and loosened the muffler about his neck. For the first time Palfrey saw the clerical collar he was wearing.

‘I am Pastor Martin,’ he said simply. ‘You know Olaf now, of course.’ Olaf beamed; he was little more than a boy, a sturdy youth with a head of fair, curly hair, thin-faced and with a hungry look about him, yet with laughter in his eyes. ‘Olaf is very thorough, my friends. You are safe for the start of your journey. The Lord is good!’

Palfrey said: ‘Yes. And you!’

‘We do the obvious thing,’ said the pastor with a faint smile. ‘But now you will want food and drink. Then you will need to sleep for the rest of the night. In the morning we shall have a guide ready to take you across country to Valle—there is a cart going there with a load of swedes. It will be easy.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to travel by night?’ Palfrey asked.

Drusilla was sitting on one of the plain wooden chairs and pushing her fingers through her hair. Olaf stood over the black tin box on the hearth, wearing thick gloves. He raised the box and revealed a small fire beneath; the box was an oven from which he took a large, steaming dish.

‘No,’ answered the pastor calmly. ‘All who travel by night are suspect, for there is a curfew. By day, the fools think, no one will dare to travel so it is safe. There is no alarm tonight, gentlemen, or we would have heard of it by now. Your aeroplane was doubtless heard, but there are many planes near here, for mines are laid almost every night.’

Olaf ladled vegetable stew into dishes which were all cracked; two were badly chipped. There were wooden spoons, roughly carved out of soft wood. Everything gave an impression of hardship and improvisation; and the pastor and Olaf ate hungrily, Olaf making no attempt to disguise it. Palfrey saw appreciatively that Drusilla and Brian, like himself, refused a second helping, although for his part he could have eaten it. The pastor pressed them but submitted to their refusal. Olaf cleared away the pots and spoons and went into another room; they heard the splashing of water and the clinking of pottery.

Pastor Martin lit a long, large-bowled pipe; the smell which came from it was not foul but was certainly not of tobacco. He smiled at Palfrey’s curious expression. ‘It is dried weed, of course, we are used to nothing different now. There is no tobacco for Norwegians.’ He looked bitter in spite of his smile. ‘I must ask you this,’ he said slowly, ‘even though you cannot know. Will it be long before you come?’ He looked intently at Palfrey, his eyes seemed very large, wide-set and almost fanatical; his voice was tense. ‘We have borne the burden for so long. There are times when I wonder whether my people can stand it for much longer, although they have performed miracles of endurance.’

Palfrey said: ‘You’ve heard this so often, you won’t find it easy to believe. But we won’t be long now.’ He spoke from conviction rather than knowledge and wondered whether he was right to do anything which might raise the pastor’s hopes. The pastor smiled and said quietly: ‘You will be no longer than you can help, I know that. Now—Olaf will be in soon, and he would be delighted to hear of some of the things happening in England. He is young, and he has a great faith in the English—they are almost his gods!’

‘Young pagan!’ Palfrey smiled. ‘We’ll try not to disappoint him. But before he comes—’ He paused. ‘There have been some disappearances recently—from Oslo mostly, I think—countrymen of yours who were relatively free but have now gone.’ Martin said quietly: ‘I know, my friend.’

‘Have you any idea where they have gone?’

‘None at all,’ the other said sadly. ‘They have just disappeared. We had hoped that they were safe, but—’ He shrugged and broke off, giving Palfrey to understand more clearly how deeply the thing affected him, as well as confirming that the Marquis’s information was sound.

After talking to Olaf, who listened with glowing eyes,