The Song of the Blood-Red Flower Part 19

"Good evening." She flung the words at him over her shoulder, turning her head but just so much as to show the corner of an eye.

Silence.

"What lovely roses!"

The speech was pleasant enough in itself, almost a compliment. But there was a challenge in the words--as the speaker himself was aware.

"They're well enough," she answered carelessly, as if to imply that she had no more to say--he could go on if he cared to.

"I wonder, now, if you'd give me one--one of the red ones yonder--if it's not too much to ask?"

The girl drew herself up. "'Tis not our way at Moisio to give roses over the fence to strangers--though there may be those elsewhere that are willing enough."

"Though there may be those elsewhere...." The young man flushed. He understood what was in her mind--the tone of her voice was enough. He had expected something of this at their first encounter, but for all that he was startled at the fierce resolution in her opening thrust.

"'Tis not my way to beg for roses over every fence," he answered proudly. "Nor to ask a thing twice of anyone. Good-night!"

The girl looked at him, astonished. She had not expected anything like this.

He walked on a few paces, then stopped suddenly, and clearing the ditch with a leap, stood leaning against the fence.

"There's just one thing I'd like to say--if I may," he said, glancing sharply at her.

"You can say what you please, I suppose," she answered.

"Just this, then," he went on. "If any day you should find you have set too high a price upon your roses, then take the one I asked for, and wear it yourself. It could not hurt your pride, I think. It would only show that you counted me a fellow-creature at least."

"Too high at least to be given to any tramp that is bold enough to ask," said the girl, facing him squarely. "If anyone cares for them, he must venture more than that."

They looked each other straight in the eyes for a moment.

"I'll bear that in mind," said the youth, with emphasis. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said the girl.

He walked on, and she stood watching him.

"Not like the others--they were right in that," said she, and went on with her work.

That Sunday afternoon a crowd of people gathered on Kohiseva bridge.

There was not room for all, and the banks were thickly lined on either side.

There were rumours of unusual doings abroad--and folk had come out to see.

"Next Sunday afternoon at four," the news had run, "a match at Kohiseva--shooting the rapids."

And folk p.r.i.c.ked up their ears aghast--down the rapids at Kohiseva on a stick of timber; it was more than any had ever ventured yet. True, there was the man some ten years back--a foolhardy fellow from a neighbouring district--who had tried the lower reach, which was less dangerous by far, but he was dead when he came ash.o.r.e.

Anyhow, it was to be done now. There were two gangs of lumbermen in the place, and, as it chanced, men of unusual daring and skill in each. A dispute had arisen between the headmen as to the merits of their respective parties, and the only way to settle it was by a match, the headman of the losing gang to stand treat all round.

All Kohiseva was afoot, and many had come in from the villages round.

It was no light thing to try the rapids there.

The sight-seers on the bridge moved this way and that, eagerly discussing the event.

"'Tis a mad idea, for sure."

"Ay, they'll have been drunk the time, no doubt."

"There's no man in his sober senses would ever try it."

"But which of them is it?" asked one. "Who's going down?"

"One of them's just a mad young fool that'll do anything if you dare him."

"Ay, there's some of that sort most ways to be found. But 'tis a mad thing to do."

"None so mad, perhaps," put in another. "They say he's the cleverest of them all."

"I doubt but Kohiseva'll be one too clever for him. And the other--who's he?"

"Why, didn't you know? There he is standing over there; Olof, they say's his name."

"That one? He looks a sight too fine for a lumberman at all."

"'Tis him none the less for that."

"What's he doing in the gang, anyway? 'Tis not his business, by the look of him."

"Ay, you may say so, but there's none knows more about him than all can see. Book-learned, they say he is, and speaks foreign lingos, but Olof's all the name he goes by."

"H'm. Must be a queer sort."

"Ah, there's more than one queer sort among these gangs. But if any ever gets through the rapids, I say 'twill be him and no other."

"Wait and see," grumbled an adherent of the opposite party.

"Hey--look! there's old man Moisio pus.h.i.+ng through to the foremen.

Now, what's he want with them, I wonder?"

The foremen stood midway across the bridge. One of them, Falk, was leaning against the parapet, puffing at his ta.s.selled pipe, and smiling. The other, Vantti he was called, a st.u.r.dy, thick-set fellow, stood with his hands in his pockets and a cigar between his teeth.

Vantti came from the north-east, from Karelen, and was proud of it, as he was proud of his Karelen dialect and his enormous Karelen boots--huge, crook-toed thigh-boots that seemed to swallow him up to the waist.

Moisio came up to the two. "What's this about the rapids?" he said sternly. "If you've put up a match, as they're saying here, then I've come to say you'd better put it off before harm comes of it. Five men's lives the river's taken here in my time. And we've no wish for more."

"Easy, Moisio," says Vantti, taking the cigar from his mouth, and spitting a thin jet sideways. "No call to take it that way. 'Tis but a bit of a show we've got up to amuse the village folk."