Thelma
their fall last night?--I--I forget, . . ."
"No harm has come to them," said Svensen hastily, seeing that the very
effort of thinking was becoming too much for the old man. "They are safe
and unhurt. Trouble not about these things!"
A strange, unearthly radiance transfigured Gueldmar's visage.
"Trouble is departing swiftly from me," he murmured.
"Trouble and I shall know each other no more!" His voice died away
inarticulately, and he was silent a little space. Suddenly, and with a
rush of vigor--that seemed superhuman, he raised himself nearly erect,
and pointed outwards with a commanding gesture.
"Bear me hence!" he cried in ringing tones. "Hence to the mountains and
the sea!"
With a sort of mechanical, swift obedience, Valdemar threw open the
door--the wind rushed coldly into the house, bringing with it large
feathery flakes of snow. A hand sledge stood outside the porch,--it was
always there during the winter, being much used for visiting the
outlying grounds of the farm,--and to this, Valdemar prepared to carry
the _bonde_ in his herculean arms. But, on being lifted from his couch,
the old man, filled with strange, almost delirious force, declared
himself able to stand,--and, though suffering deadly anguish at every
step, did in truth manage to reach and enter the sledge, strongly
supported by Valdemar. There, however, he fainted--and his faithful
servant, covering his insensible form with, furs, thought he was dead.
But there was now no time for hesitation,--dead or living, Olaf
Gueldmar's will was law to his vassal,--an oath had been made and must be
kept. To propel the sledge down to the Fjord was an easy matter--how the
rest of his duty was accomplished he never knew.
He was conscious of staggering blindly onward, weighted with a heavy,
helpless burden,--he felt the slippery pier beneath his feet--the
driving snow and the icy wind on his face,--but he was as one in a
dream, realizing nothing plainly, till with a wild start, he seemed to
awake--and lo! he stood on the glassy deck of the _Valkyrie_ with the
body of his "King" stretched senseless before him! Had he brought him
there? He could not remember what he had done during the past few mad
minutes,--the earth and sky whirled dizzily around him,--he could grasp
nothing tangible in thought or memory. But there, most certainly, Olaf
Gueldmar lay,--his pallid face upturned, his hair and beard as white as
the snow that clung to the masts of his vessel--his hand clenched on the
fur garment that enwrapped him as with a robe of royalty.
Dropping on his knees beside him, Valdemar felt his heart--it still
throbbed fitfully and feebly. Watching the intense calm of the grand,
rugged face, this stern, weather-worn sailor--this man of superstitious
and heathen imaginations--gave way to womanish tears--tears that were
the outcome of sincere and passionate grief. His love was of an
exceptional type,--something like that of a faithful dog that refuses to
leave the grave of its master,--he could contemplate death for himself
with absolute indifference,--but not for the _bonde_, whose sturdy
strength and splendid physique had seemed to defy all danger.
As he knelt and wept unrestrainedly, a soft change, a delicate
transparency, swept over the dark bosom of the sky. Pale pink streaks
glittered on the dusky horizon--darts of light began to climb upward
into the clouds, and to plunge downward into the water,--the radiance
spread, and gradually formed into a broad band of deep crimson, which
burned with a fixed and intense glow--topaz-like rays flickered and
streamed about it, as though uncertain what fantastic shape they should
take to best display their brilliancy. This tremulous hesitation of
varying color did not last long; the whole jewel-like mass swept
together, expanding and contracting with extraordinary swiftness for a
few seconds--then, suddenly and clearly defined in the sky, a Kingly
Crown blazed forth--a Crown of perfect shape, its five points distinctly
and separately outlined and flashing as with a million rubies and
diamonds. The red lustre warmly tinged the pale features of the dying
man, and startled Valdemar, who sprang to his feet and gazed at that
mystic aureola with a cry of wonder. At the same moment Olaf Gueldmar
stirred, and began to speak drowsily without opening his eyes.
"Dawn on the sea!" he murmured--"The white waves gleam and sparkle
beneath the prow, and the ship makes swift way through the water! It is
dawn in my heart--the dawn of love for thee and me, my Thelma--fear not!
The rose of passion is a hardy flower that can bloom in the north as
well as in the south, believe me! Thelma--Thelma!"
He suddenly opened his eyes, and realizing his surroundings, raised
himself half-erect.
"Set sail!" he cried, pointing with a majestic motion of his arm to the
diadem glittering in the sky. "Why do we linger? The wind favors us, and
the tide sweeps forward--forward! See how the lights beckon from the
harbor!"
He bent his brows and looked almost angrily at Svensen. "Do what thou
hast to do!" and his tones were sharp and imperious. "I must press on!"
An expression of terror, pain, and pity passed over the sailor's
countenance--for one instant he hesitated--the next, he descended into
the hold of the vessel. He was absent for a very little space,--but when
he returned his eyes were wild as though he had been engaged in some
dark and criminal deed. Olaf Gueldmar was still gazing at the brilliancy
in the heavens, which seemed to increase in size and lustre as the wind
rose higher. Svensen took his hand--it was icy cold, and damp with the
dew of death.
"Let me go with thee!" he implored, in broken accent. "I fear nothing!
Why should I not venture also on the last voyage?"
Gueldmar made a faint but decided sign of rejection.
"The Viking sails alone to the grave of his fathers!" he with a serene
and proud smile. "Alone--alone! Neither wife, nor child, nor vassal may
have place with him in his ship--even so have the gods willed it.
Farewell, Valdemar! Loosen the ropes and let me go!--thou servest me
ill--hasten--hasten--I am weary of waiting--"
His head fell back,--that mysterious shadow which darkens the face of
the dying a moment before dissolution, was on him now.
Just then a strange, suffocating odor began to permeate the air--little
wreaths of pale smoke made their slow way through the boards of the
deck--and a fierce gust of wind, blowing seawards from the mountains,
swayed the _Valkyrie_ uneasily to and fro. Slowly, and with evident
reluctance, Svensen commenced the work of detaching her from the
pier--feeling instinctively all the while that his master's dying eyes
were fixed upon him. When but one slender rope remained to be cast off,
he knelt by the old man's side said whispered tremblingly that all was
done. At the same moment a small, stealthy tongue of red flame curled up
through the deck from the hold,--and Gueldmar, observing this, smiled.
"I see thou hast redeemed thine oath," he said, gratefully pressing
Svensen's hand. "'Tis the last act of thine allegiance,--may the gods
reward thy faithfulness! Peace be with thee!--we shall meet hereafter.
Already the light shines from the Rainbow Bridge,--there,--there are the
golden peaks of the hills and the stretch of the wide sea! Go,
Valdemar!--delay no longer, for my soul is impatient--it burns, it
struggles to be free! Go!--and--farewell!"
Stricken to the heart, and full of anguish,--yet serf-like in his
submission and resignation to the inevitable,--Svensen kissed his
master's hand for the last time. Then, with a sort of fierce sobbing
groan, wrung from the very depths of his despairing grief, he turned
resolutely away, and sprang off the vessel. Standing at the extreme edge
of the pier, he let slip the last rope that bound her,--her sails filled
and bulged outward,--her cordage creaked, she shuddered on the
water--lurched a little--then paused.
In that brief moment a loud triumphant cry rang through the air. Olaf
Gueldmar leaped upright on the deck as though lifted by some invisible
hand, and confronted his terrified servants, who gazed at him in
fascinated amazement and awe. His white hair gleamed like spun
silver--his face was transfigured, and wore a strange, rapt look of pale
yet splendid majesty--the dark furs that clung about him trailed in
regal folds to his feet.
"Hark!" he cried, and his voice vibrated with deep and mellow clearness.
"Hark to the thunder of the galloping hoofs!--see--see the glitter of
the shield and spear! She comes-ah! Thelma! Thelma!" He raised his arms
as though in ecstacy. "Glory!--joy!--Victory!"
And, like a noble tree struck down by lightning, he fell--dead!
Even as he fell, the _Valkyrie_ plunged forward, driven forcibly by a
swooping gust of wind, and scudded out to the Fjord like a wild bird
flying before a tempest,--and, while she thus fled, a sheet of flame
burst through her sides and blazed upwards, mingling a lurid, smoky glow
with the clear crimson radiance of the still brilliant and crown-like
aurora. Following the current, she made swift way across the dark water
in the direction of the island of Seiland, and presently became a
wondrous Ship of Fire! Fire flashed from her masts--fire folded up her
spars and sails in a devouring embrace,--fire, that leaped and played
and sent forth a million showering sparks hissingly into the waves
beneath.
With beating heart and straining eyes, Valdemar Svensen crouched on the
pier-head, watching, in mute agony, the burning vessel. He had fulfilled
his oath!--that strange vow that had so sternly bound him,--a vow that
was the outcome of his peculiar traditions and pagan creed.
Long ago, in the days of his youth,--full of enthusiasm for the worship
of Odin and the past splendors of the race of the great Norse
warriors,--he had chosen to recognize in Olaf Gueldmar a true descendant
of kings, who was by blood and birth, though not in power, himself a
king,--and tracing his legendary history back to old and half-forgotten
sources, he had proved, satisfactorily, to his own mind, that he,
Svensen, must lawfully, and according to old feudal system, be this
king's serf or vassal. And, growing more and more convinced of this in
his dreamy and imaginative mind,--he had sworn a sort of mystic
friendship and allegiance, which Gueldmar had accepted, imposing on him,
however, only one absolute command. This was that he should be given the
"crimson shroud" and sea-tomb of his war-like ancestors,--for the idea
that his body might be touched by strange hands, shut in a close coffin,
and laid in the earth to moulder away to wormy corruption,--had been the
one fantastic dread of the sturdy old pagan's life. And he had taken
advantage of Svensen's devotion and obedience to impress on him the
paramount importance of his solitary behest.
"Let no hypocritical prayers be chanted over my dumb corpse," he had
said. "My blood would ooze from me at every pore were I touched by the
fingers of a Lutheran! Save this goodly body that has served me so well
from the inferior dust,--let the bright fire wither it, and the glad sea
drown it,--and my soul, beholding its end afar off, shall rejoice and be
satisfied. Swear by the wrath and thunder of the gods!--swear by the
unflinching Hammer of Thor,--swear by the gates of Valhalla, and in the
name of Odin!--and having sworn, the curse of all these be upon thee if
thou fail to keep thy vow!"
And Valdemar had sworn. Now that the oath was kept--now that his
promised obedience had been carried out to the extremest letter, he was
as one stupefied. Shivering, yet regardless of the snow that began to
fall thickly, he kept his post, staring, staring in drear fascination
across the Fjord, where the _Valkyrie_ drifted, now a mass of flame