“But what good will it do now that Ole’s ticket is in the hands of that wretch, Sandgoist?”

“It was Ole’s wish, and it must be respected,” replied the professor.

“I hear that the usurer has found no purchaser for the ticket for which he paid so dearly.”

“I too have heard so, friend Helmboe.”

“Well, I must say that it serves the rascal right.  The man is a scoundrel, professor, a scoundrel, and it serves him right.”

“Yes, friend Helmboe, it does, indeed, serve him right.”

Of course they had to take supper at the farm-house.  Neither Siegfrid nor her father would allow their friends to depart without accepting the invitation, but it would not do for them to tarry too long if they wished to make up for the time lost by coming around by the way of Bamble, so at nine o’clock the horses were put to the carriage.

“At my next visit I will spend six hours at the table with you, if you desire it,” said Sylvius Hogg to the farmer; “but to-day I must ask your permission to allow a cordial shake of the hand from you and the loving kiss your charming Siegfrid will give Hulda to take the place of the dessert.”

This done they started.

In this high latitude twilight would still last several hours.  The horizon, too, is distinctly visible for a long while after sunset, the atmosphere is so pure.

It is a beautiful and varied drive from Bamble to Kongsberg.  The road passes through Hitterdal and to the south of Lake Fol, traversing the southern part of the Telemark, and serving as an outlet to all the small towns and hamlets of that locality.

An hour after their departure they passed the church of Hitterdal, an old and quaint edifice, surmounted with gables and turrets rising one above the other, without the slightest regard to anything like regularity of outline.  The structure is of wood—­walls, roofs and turrets—­and though it strongly resembles a motley collection of pepper-boxes, it is really a venerable and venerated relic of the Scandinavian architecture of the thirteenth century.

Night came on very gradually—­one of those nights still impregnated with a dim light which about one o’clock begins to blend with that of early dawn.

Joel, enthroned upon the front seat, was absorbed in his reflections.  Hulda sat silent and thoughtful in the interior of the carriage.  But few words were exchanged between Sylvius Hogg and the postilion, and these were almost invariably requests to drive faster.  No other sound was heard save the bells on the harness, the cracking of the whip, and the rumble of wheels over the stony road.  They drove on all night, without once changing horses.  It was not necessary to stop at Listhus, a dreary station, situated in a sort of natural amphitheater, surrounded by pine-clad mountains.  They passed swiftly by Tiness, too, a picturesque little hamlet, perched on a rocky eminence.  Their progress was rapid