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There was a man named Onund, the son of Ofeig Clumsyfoot, who was the son of Ivar Horsetail. Onund was the brother of Gudbjorg, the mother of Gudbrand Knob, the father of Asta, the mother of King Olaf the Saint. His mother came from the Upplands, while his father's relations were mostly in Rogaland and Hordland. He was a great viking and used to harry away in the West over the sea.
He was brought up in the home of his kinsman, the Swedish patriot Sten Sture, and early showed the fruits of his training. Master Ivar, his Danish teacher, gave him a whaling for that. White with anger, the boy drove his dirk through the book, nailing it to the desk, and stalked out of the room.
At the battle in the Bay of Kjöge, the Dannebrog, commanded by Ivar Hvitfeldt, caught fire, and by its position exposed the Danish fleet to great danger. Hvitfeldt could do one of two things: save his own life and his men's by letting his ship drift before the wind and by his escape risking the rest of the fleet and losing the battle, or stay where he was to meet certain death.
The road to Ivar's homestead was a very poor one. He had settled in the rough country across the county line, where no one lived but some Russians, half a dozen families who dwelt together in one long house, divided off like barracks. Ivar had explained his choice by saying that the fewer neighbors he had, the fewer temptations.
He always addressed Alexandra in terms of the deepest respect, hoping to set a good example to the kitchen girls, whom he thought too familiar in their manners. "Mistress," he began faintly, without raising his eyes, "the folk have been looking coldly at me of late. You know there has been talk." "Talk about what, Ivar?" "About sending me away; to the asylum."
"We're getting on to a whole lot of things." As Ivar drove a double carriage up to the gate, Annie came out in a hat that looked like the model of a battleship. Carl rose and took her down to the carriage, while Lou lingered for a word with his sister. "What do you suppose he's come for?" he asked, jerking his head toward the gate. "Why, to pay us a visit. I've been begging him to for years."
"Ivar," she said suddenly, beginning to trace the pattern on the oilcloth with her forefinger, "I came to-day more because I wanted to talk to you than because I wanted to buy a hammock." "Yes?" The old man scraped his bare feet on the plank floor. "We have a big bunch of hogs, Ivar.
They say that your brothers are afraid God forbid! that I may do you some injury when my spells are on me. Mistress, how can any one think that? that I could bite the hand that fed me!" The tears trickled down on the old man's beard. Alexandra frowned. "Ivar, I wonder at you, that you should come bothering me with such nonsense.
He dropped his arms and went up to the wagon, smiling amiably and looking at them out of his pale blue eyes. "We want to buy a hammock, if you have one," Alexandra explained, "and my little brother, here, wants to see your big pond, where so many birds come." Ivar smiled foolishly, and began rubbing the horses' noses and feeling about their mouths behind the bits. "Not many birds just now.
No, there was another kind of legs in my time! Pooh, boys, that was dancing, that was! We held up our heads and footed it until our ears tingled. But every time that Uncle Ivar passed the ball-room door, his jeers became more aggravating, until we were almost exhausted, each one trying to be nimbler than another. But what was the use?
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