Thelma
away before him. His long and varied experience as a sailor, pilot, and
traveller in many countries had given him some useful knowledge of
medicine and surgery, and if anything was possible to be done, he could
do it. But in this case no medical skill would have been availing--the
old man's ribs were crushed in and his spine injured,--his death was a
question of but a few hours at the utmost, if so long.
"Olaf the King!" muttered the _bonde_ presently, "True! They make no
mistakes yonder,--they know each warrior by name and rank--'tis only in
this world we are subject to error. This world! By the gods! . . . 'tis
but a puff of thistle-down--or a light mist floating from the sunset to
the sea!"
He made a vigorous attempt to raise himself from his pillow--though the
excruciating anguish caused by his movement, made him wince a little and
grow paler.
"Wine, Valdemar! Fill the horn cup to the brim and bring it to me--I
must have strength to speak--before I depart--on the last great
journey."
Obediently and in haste, Svensen filled the cup he asked for with old
Lacrima Christi, of which there was always a supply in this far Northern
abode, and gave it to him, watching him with a sort of superstitious
reverence as he drained off its contents and returned it empty.
"Ah! That warms this freezing blood of mine," he said, the lustre
flashing back into his eyes. "'Twill find fresh force to flow a brief
while longer. Valdemar--I have little time to spend with thee--I feel
death _here_"--and he slightly touched his chest--"cold--cold and heavy.
'Tis nothing--a passing, chilly touch that sweeps away the world! But
the warmth of a new, strong life awaits me--a life of never-ending
triumph! The doors of Valhalla stand wide open--I heard the trumpet-call
last night--I saw the dark-haired Valkyrie! All is well--and my soul is
full of rejoicing. Valdemar--there is but one thing now thou hast to do
for me,--the one great service thou hast sworn to render. _Fulfill thine
oath!_"
Valdemar's brown cheek blanched,--his lips quivered,--he flung up his
hands in wild appeal. The picturesque flow of his native speech gained
new fervor and eloquence as he spoke.
"Not yet--not yet, my lord!" he cried passionately. "Wait but a
little--there is time. Think for one moment--think! Would it not be well
for my lord to sleep the last sleep by the side of his beloved
Thelma--the star of the dark mountains--the moonbeam of the night of his
life? Would not peace enwrap him there as with a soft garment, and would
not his rest be lulled by the placid murmur of the sea? For the days of
old time and storm and victory are past--and the dead slumber as stones
in the silent pathways--why would my lord depart in haste as though he
were wrathful, from the land he has loved?--from the vassal who implores
his pardon for pleading against a deed he dares not do!"
"Dares not--dares not!" cried the _bonde_, springing up half-erect from
his couch, in spite of pain, and looking like some enraged old lion with
his tossed, streaming hair and glittering eyes. "Serf as thou art and
coward! Thinkest thou an oath such as thine is but a thread of hair, to
be snapped at thy pleasure? Wilt thou brave the wrath of the gods and
the teeth of the Wolf of Nastrond? As surely as the seven stars shine on
the white brow of Thor, evil shall be upon thee if thou refusest to
perform the vow thou hast sworn! And shall a slave have strength to
resist the dying curse of a King?"
The pride, the supreme authority,--the magnified strength of command
that flushed the old man's features, were extraordinary and almost
terrible in their impressive grandeur. If he indeed believed himself by
blood a king and a descendant of kings,--he could not have shown a more
forcible display of personal sovereignty. The effect of his manner on
Valdemar was instantaneous,--the superstitious fears of that bronzed
sea-wanderer were easily aroused. His head drooped--he stretched out his
hands imploringly.
"Let not my lord curse his servant," he faltered. "It was but a tremor
of the heart that caused my tongue to speak foolishly. I am ready--I
have sworn--the oath shall be kept to its utmost end!"
Olaf Gueldmar's threatening countenance relaxed, and he fell back on his
pillows.
"It is well!" he said feebly and somewhat indistinctly. "Thy want of
will maddened me--I spoke and lived in times that are no more--days of
battle--and--glory--that are gone--from men--for ever. More wine,
Valdemar!--I must keep a grip on this slippery life--and yet--I
wander--wander into the--night--"
His voice ceased, and he sank into a swoon--a swoon that was like death.
His breathing was scarcely perceptible, and Svensen, alarmed at his
appearance, forced some drops of wine between his set lips, and chafed
his cold hands with anxious solicitude. Slowly and very gradually he
recovered consciousness and intelligence, and presently asked for a
pencil and paper to write a few farewell words to his daughter. In the
grief and bewilderment of the time, Valdemar entirely forgot to tell him
that a letter from Thelma had arrived for him on the previous afternoon
while he was away at Talvig,--and was even now on the shelf above the
chimney, awaiting perusal. Gueldmar, ignorant of this, began to write
slowly and with firmness, disregarding his rapidly sinking strength.
Scarcely had he begun the letter, however, than he looked up meaningly
at Svensen, who stood waiting beside him.
"The time grows very short," he said imperatively. "Prepare everything
quickly--go! Fear not--I shall live to see thee return--and to bless
thee for thy faithful service."
As he uttered these words he smiled;--and with one wistful, yearning
look at him, Valdemar obediently and instantly departed. He left the
house, carrying with him a huge pile of dry brushwood, and with the air
of a man strung up to prompt action, rapidly descended the sloping path,
thick with hardened snow, that led downwards to the Fjord. On reaching
the shore, he looked anxiously about him. There was nothing in sight but
the distant, twinkling lights of Bosekop--the Fjord itself was like a
black pool,--so still that even the faintest murmur of its rippling
against the _bonde's_ own private pier could be heard,--the tide was
full up.
Out of the reach of the encroaching waters, high and dry on the beach,
was Gueldmar's brig, the _Valkyrie_, transformed by the fingers of the
frost into a white ship, fantastically draped with threads of frozen
snow and pendent icicles. She was placed on a descending plank, to which
she was attached by a chain and rope pulley,--so that at any time of the
weather or tide she could be moved glidingly downwards into deep
water--and this was what Valdemar occupied himself in doing. It was a
hard task. The chains were stiff with the frost,--but, after some
patient and arduous striving, they yielded to his efforts, and, with
slow clank and much creaking complaint, the vessel slid reluctantly down
and plunged forward, afloat at last. Holding her ropes, Valdemar sprang
to the extreme edge of the pier and fastened her there, and then getting
on board, he untied and began to hoist the sails. This was a matter of
the greatest difficulty, but it was gradually and successfully
accomplished; and a strange sight the _Valkyrie_ then presented, resting
nearly motionless on the black Fjord,--her stretched and frosted canvas
looking like sheeted pearl fringed with silver,--her masts white with
encrusted snow, and topped with pointed icicles. Leaving her for a
moment, Valdemar quickly returned, carrying the pile of dry brushwood he
had brought,--he descended with this into the hold of the ship, and
returned without it. Glancing once more nervously about him, he jumped
from the deck to the pier--thence to the shore--and as he did so a long
dark wave rolled up and broke at his feet. The capricious wind had
suddenly arisen,--and a moaning whisper coming from the adjacent hills
gave warning of another storm.
Valdemar hurriedly retraced his steps back to the house,--his work with
the _Valkyrie_ had occupied him more than an hour--the _bonde_, his
friend and master, might have died during his absence! There was a cold
sickness at his heart--his feet seemed heavy as lead, and scarcely able
to carry him along quickly enough--to his credulous and visionary mind,
the hovering shadow of death seemed everywhere,--in every crackling twig
he brushed against,--in every sough of the wakening gale that rustled
among the bare pines. To his intense relief he found Gueldmar lying
calmly back among his pillows,--his eyes well open and clear, and an
expression of perfect peace upon his features. He smiled as he saw his
servant enter.
"All is in readiness?" he asked.
Valdemar bent his head in silent assent.
The _bonde's_ face lightened with extraordinary rapture.
"I thank thee, old friend!" he said in low but glad accents. "Thou
knowest I could not be at peace in any other grave. I have suffered in
thine absence,--the sufferings of the body that, being yet strong in
spite of age, is reluctant to take leave of life. But it is past! I am
as one numbed with everlasting frost,--and now I feel no pain. And my
mind is like a bird that poises for a while over past and present, ere
soaring into the far future. There are things I must yet say to thee,
Valdemar,--give me thy close hearing, for my voice is weak."
Svensen drew closer, and stood in the humble attitude of one who waits a
command from some supreme chief.
"This letter," went on the old man, giving him a folded paper, "is to
the child of my heart, my Thelma. Send it to her--when--I am gone. It
will not grieve her, I hope--for, as far as I could find words, I have
expressed therein nothing but joy--the joy of a prisoner set free. Tell
her, that with all the strength of my perishing body and escaping soul,
I blessed her! . . . her and the husband in whose arms she rests in
safety." He raised his trembling hands solemnly--"The gods of my fathers
and their attendant spirits have her young life in their glorious
keeping!--the joy of love and purity and peace be on her innocent head
for ever!"
He paused,--the wind wailed mournfully round the house and shook the
lattice with a sort of stealthy clatter, like a forlorn wanderer
striving to creep in to warmth and shelter.
"Here, Valdemar," continued the _bonde_ presently, in fainter accents,
at the same time handing him another paper. "Here are some scrawled
lines--they are plainly set forth and signed--which make thee master of
this poor place and all that it contains."
A low, choked sob broke from Valdemar's broad breast--he covered his
face with his hands.
"Of what avail?" he murmured brokenly. "When my lord departs, I am alone
and friendless!"
The _bonde_ regarded him with kindly pity.
"Tears from the stout heart?" he inquired with a sort of grave wonder.
"Weep for life, Valdemar--not for death! Alone and friendless? Not while
the gods are in heaven! Cheer thee--thou art strong and in vigorous
pride of manhood--why should not bright days come for thee--" He broke
off with a gasp--a sudden access of pain convulsed him and rendered his
breathing difficult. By sheer force of will he mastered the cruel agony,
though great drops of sweat stood on his brow when he at last found
voice to continue--
"I thought all suffering was past," he said with a heroic smile. "This
foolish flesh and blood of mine dies hard! But, as I was saying to thee,
Valdemar--the farm is thine, and all it holds--save some few trifles I
have set down to be given to my child. There is little worth in what I
leave thee--the soil--is hard and ungrateful--the harvest uncertain, and
the cattle few. Even the reindeer--didst thou say they were injured by