Linnart Hindrickson then asked if he might walk with her part of the way.  He said that he had thought of going down to the pier to see her and now he did not want to miss this good opportunity of speaking with her, as it was very necessary that she should hear what he had to say.

Glory Goldie made no further objections.  She perceived, however, that the man had some difficulty in stating his business and concluded it was something of an unpleasant nature.  He hemmed and hawed a while, as if trying to find the right words; presently he said, with apparent effort: 

“I don’t believe you know, Glory Goldie, that I was the last person who talked with your father—­the Emperor, as we used to call him.”

“No, I did not know of this,” answered the girl, at the same time quickening her steps.  She was thinking to herself that this conversation was something she would rather have escaped.

“One day last autumn,” Linnart continued, “while I was out in the yard hitching up a horse to drive over to the village shop, I saw the Emperor come running down the road; he seemed in a great hurry, but when he espied me he stopped and asked if I had seen the Empress drive by.  I couldn’t deny that I had.  Then he burst out crying.  He had been on his way to Broby, he said, but such a strange feeling of uneasiness had suddenly come over him that he had to turn back, and when he reached home he found the hut deserted.  Katrina was also gone.  He felt certain his wife and daughter were leaving by the boat and he didn’t know how he should ever be able to get down to the Borg pier before they were gone.”

Glory Goldie stood stock still.  “You let him ride with you, of course?” she said.

“Oh, yes,” replied Linn art.  “Jan once did me a good turn and I wanted to repay it.  Perhaps I did wrong in giving him a lift?”

“No, indeed!” said Glory Goldie.  “It was I who did wrong in attempting to leave him.”

“He wept like a child the whole time he sat in the wagon.  I didn’t know what to do to comfort him, but at last I said, ’Don’t cry like that, Jan!  We’ll surely overtake her.  Besides, these little freight steamers that run in the autumn are never on time.’  No sooner had I said that than he laid his hand on my arm and asked me if I thought they would be harsh and cruel toward the Empress—­those who had carried her off.”

“Those who had carried me off!” repeated Glory Goldie in astonishment.

“I was as much astonished at that as you are,” Linnart declared, “and I asked him what he meant.  Well, he meant those who had lain in wait for the Empress while she was at home—­all the enemies of whom Glory Goldie had been so afraid that she had not dared to put on her gold crown or so much as mention Portugallia, and who had finally overpowered her and carried her into captivity.”

“So that was it!”

“Yes, just that.  You understand of course that your father did not weep because he had been deserted and left alone, but because he thought you were in peril.”  It had been a little hard for Linnart to come out with the last few words; they wanted to stick in his throat.  Perhaps he was thinking of old Bjoern Hindrickson and himself, for there was that in his own life which had taught him the true worth of a love that never fails you.