"Ah, _cher_ Lorimer! Put your knee here, will you? So! that is well--I will rest myself!" And he rose, smoothing his roughened hair with both hands, while Lorimer in obedience to his request, kept one knee artistically pressed on the rec.u.mbent figure of the minister. "Ah! and there is our Phil-eep, and Sandy, and Monsieur Guldmar! But I do not think," here he beamed all over, "there is much more to be done! He is one bruise, I a.s.sure you! He will not preach for many Sundays;--it is bad to be so fat--he will be so exceedingly suffering!"

Errington could not forbear smiling at Pierre's equanimity. "But what has happened?" he asked. "Is Thelma here?"

"She _was_ here," answered Duprez. "The religious had decoyed her here by means of some false writing,--supposed to be from you. He kept her locked up here the whole afternoon. When I came he was making love and frightening her,--I am pleased I was in time. But"--and he smiled again--"he is well beaten!"

Sir Philip strode up to the fallen Dyceworthy, his face darkening with wrath.

"Let him go, Lorimer," he said sternly. Then, as the reverend gentleman slowly struggled to his feet, moaning with pain, he demanded, "What have you to say for yourself, sir? Be thankful if I do not give you the horse-whipping you deserve, you scoundrel!"

"Let me get at him!" vociferated Guldmar at this juncture, struggling to free himself from the close grasp of the prudent Macfarlane. "I have longed for such a chance! Let me get at him!"

But Lorimer a.s.sisted to restrain him from springing forward,--and the old man chafed and swore by his G.o.ds in vain.

Mr. Dyceworthy meanwhile meekly raised his eyes, and folded his hands with a sort of pious resignation.

"I have been set upon and cruelly abused," he said mournfully, "and there is no part of me without ache and soreness!" He sighed deeply.

"But I am punished rightly for yielding unto carnal temptation, put before me in the form of the maiden who came hither unto me with delusive entrancements--"

He stopped, shrinking back in alarm from the suddenly raised fist of the young baronet.

"You'd better be careful!" remarked Philip coolly, with dangerously flashing eyes; "there are four of us here, remember!"

Mr. Dyceworthy coughed, and resumed an air of outraged dignity.

"Truly, I am aware of it!" he said; "and it surpriseth me not at all that the number of the unG.o.dly outweigheth that of the righteous! Alas!

'why do the heathen rage so furiously together?' Why, indeed! Except that 'in their hearts they imagine a vain thing!' I pardon you, Sir Philip, I freely pardon you! And you also, sir," turning gravely to Duprez, who received his forgiveness with a cheerful and delighted bow.

"You can indeed injure--and you _have_ injured this poor body of mine--but you cannot touch the _soul_! No, nor can you hinder that freedom of speech"--here his malignant smile was truly diabolical--"which is my glory, and which shall forever be uplifted against all manner of evil-doers, whether they be fair women and witches, or misguided pagans--"

Again he paused, rather astonished at Errington's scornful laugh.

"You low fellow!" said the baronet. "From Yorkshire, are you? Well, I happen to know a good many people in that part of the world--and I have some influence there, too. Now, understand me--I'll have you hounded out of the place! You shall find it too hot to hold you--that I swear!

Remember! I'm a man of my word! And if you dare to mention the name of Miss Guldmar disrespectfully, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life!"

Mr. Dyceworthy blinked feebly, and drew out his handkerchief.

"I trust, Sir Philip," he said mildly, "you will reconsider your words!

It would ill beseem you to strive to do me harm in the parish were my ministrations are welcome, as appealing to that portion of the people who follow the G.o.dly Luther. Oh yes,"--and he smiled cheerfully--"you will reconsider your words. In the meantime--I--I"--he stammered slightly--"I apologize! I meant naught but good to the maiden--but I have been misunderstood, as is ever the case with the servants of the Lord. Let us say no more about it! I forgive!--let us all forgive! I will even extend my pardon to the pagan yonder--"

But the "pagan" at that moment broke loose from the friendly grasp in which he had been hitherto held, and strode up to the minister, who recoiled like a beaten cur from the look of that fine old face flushed with just indignation, and those clear blue eyes fiery as the flash of steel.

"Pagan, you call me!" he cried. "I thank the G.o.ds for it--I am proud of the t.i.tle! I would rather be the veriest savage that ever knelt in untutored worship to the great forces of Nature, than such a _thing_ as you--a slinking, unclean animal, crawling coward-like between earth and sky, and daring to call itself a _Christian_! Faugh! Were I the Christ, I should sicken at sight of you!"

Dyceworthy made no reply, but his little eyes glittered evilly.

Errington, not desiring any further prolongation of the scene, managed to draw the irate _bonde_ away, saying in a low tone--

"We've had enough of this, sir! Let us get home to Thelma."

"I was about to suggest a move," added Lorimer. "We are only wasting time here."

"Ah!" exclaimed Duprez radiantly--"and Monsieur Dyceworthy will be glad to be in bed! He will be very stiff to-morrow, I am sure! Here is a lady who will attend him."

This with a courteous salute to the wooden-faced Ulrika, who suddenly confronted them in the little pa.s.sage. She seemed surprised to see them, and spoke in a monotonous dreamy tone, as though she walked in her sleep.

"The girl has gone?" she added slowly.

Duprez nodded briskly. "She has gone! And let me tell you, madame, that if it had not been for you, she would not have come here at all. You took that card to her?"

Ulrika frowned. "I was compelled," she said. "_She_ made me take it. I promised." She turned her dull eyes slowly on Guldmar. "It was Lovisa's fault. Ask Lovisa about it." She paused, and moistened her dry lips with her tongue. "Where is your crazy lad?" she asked, almost anxiously. "Did he come with you?"

"He is dead!" answered Guldmar, with grave coldness.

"Dead!" And to their utter amazement, she threw up her arms and burst into a fit of wild laughter. "Dead! Thank G.o.d! Thank G.o.d! Dead! And through no fault of mine! The Lord be praised! He was only fit for death--never mind how he died--it is enough that he is dead--dead! I shall see him no more--he cannot curse me again!--the Lord be thankful for all His mercies!"

And her laughter ceased--she threw her ap.r.o.n over her head and broke into a pa.s.sion of weeping.

"The woman must be crazy!" exclaimed the _bonde_, thoroughly mystified,--then placing his arm through Errington's, he said impatiently, "You're right, my lad! We've had enough of this. Let us shake the dust of this accursed place off our feet and get home. I'm tired out!"

They left the minister's dwelling and made straight for the sh.o.r.e, and were soon well on their journey back to the farm across the Fjord. This time the tide was with them--the evening was magnificent, and the coolness of the breeze, the fresh lapping of the water against the boat, and the brilliant tranquility of the landscape, soon calmed their over-excited feelings. Thelma was waiting for them under the porch as usual, looking a trifle paler than her wont, after all the worry and fright and suspense she had undergone,--but the caresses of her father and lover soon brought back the rosy warmth on her fair face, and restored the l.u.s.tre to her eyes. Nothing was said about Sigurd's fate just then,--when she asked for her faithful servitor, she was told he had "gone wandering as usual," and it was not till Errington and his friends returned to their yacht that old Guldmar, left alone with his daughter, broke the sad news to her very gently. But the shock, so unexpected and terrible, was almost too much for her already overwrought nerves,--and such tears were shed for Sigurd as Sigurd himself might have noted with grat.i.tude. Sigurd--the loving, devoted Sigurd--gone for ever! Sigurd,--her playmate,--her servant,--her worshiper,--dead! Ah, how tenderly she mourned him!--how regretfully she thought of his wild words! "Mistress, you are killing poor Sigurd!" Wistfully she wondered if, in her absorbing love for Philip, she had neglected the poor crazed lad,--his face, in all its pale, piteous appeal, haunted her, and her grief for his loss was the greatest she had ever known since the day on which she had seen her mother sink into the last long sleep. Britta, too, wept and would not be comforted--she had been fond of Sigurd in her own impetuous little way,--and it was some time before either she or her mistress, could calm themselves sufficiently to retire to rest. And long after Thelma was sleeping, with tears still wet on her cheeks, her father sat alone under his porch, lost in melancholy meditation. Now and then he ruffled his white hair impatiently with his hand,--his daughter's adventure in Mr. Dyceworthy's house had vexed his proud spirit. He knew well enough that the minister's apology meant nothing--that the whole village would be set talking against Thelma more, even than before,--that there was no possibility of preventing scandal so long as Dyceworthy was there to start it. He thought and thought and puzzled himself with probabilities--till at last, when he finally rose to enter his dwelling for the night, he muttered half-aloud. "If it must be, it must! And the sooner the better now, I think, for the child's sake."

The next morning Sir Philip arrived unusually early,--and remained shut up with the _bonde_, in private conversation for more than an hour. At the expiration of that time, Thelma was called, and taken into their confidence. The result of their mysterious discussion was not immediately evident,--though for the next few days, the farm-house lost its former tranquility and became a scene of bustle and excitement.

Moreover, to the astonishment of the Bosekop folk, the sailing-brig known as the _Valkyrie_, belonging to Olaf Guldmar, which had been hauled up high and dry on the sh.o.r.e for many months, was suddenly seen afloat on the Fjord, and Valdemar Svensen, Errington's pilot, appeared to be busily engaged upon her decks, putting everything in ship-shape order. It was no use asking _him_ any questions--he was not the man to gratify impertinent curiosity. By-and-by a rumor got about in the village--Lovisa had gained her point in one particular,--the Guldmars were going away--going to leave the Altenfjord!

At first, the report was received with incredulity--but gained ground, as people began to notice that several packages were being taken in boats from the farm-house to both the _Eulalie_ and the _Valkyrie_.

These preparations excited a great deal of interest and inquisitiveness,--but no one dared ask for information as to what was about to happen. The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy was confined to his bed "from a severe cold"--as he said, and therefore was unable to perform his favorite mission of spy;--so that when, one brilliant morning, Bosekop was startled by the steam-whistle of the _Eulalie_ blowing furiously, and echoing far and wide across the surrounding rocky islands, several of the lounging inhabitants paused on the sh.o.r.e, or sauntered down to the rickety pier, to see what was the cause of the clamor. Even the long-suffering minister crawled out of bed and applied his fat, meek visage to his window, from whence he could command an almost uninterrupted view of the glittering water. Great was his amazement, and discomfiture to see the magnificent yacht moving majestically out of the Fjord, with Guldmar's brig in tow behind her, and the English flag fluttering gaily from her middle-mast, as she curtsied her farewell to the dark mountains, and glided swiftly over the little hissing waves. Had Mr. Dyceworthy been possessed of a field-gla.s.s, he might have been able to discern on her deck, the figure of a tall, fair girl, who, drawing her crimson hood over her rich hair, stood gazing with wistful, dreamy blue eyes, at the last receding sh.o.r.es of the Altenfjord--eyes that smiled and yet were tearful.

"Are you sorry, Thelma?" asked Errington gently, as he pa.s.sed one arm tenderly round her. "Sorry to trust your life to me?"

She laid her little hand in playful reproach against his lips.

"Sorry! you foolish boy! I am glad and grateful! But it is saying good-bye to one's old life, is it not? The dear old home!--and poor Sigurd!"

Her voice trembled, and bright tears fell.

"Sigurd is happy,"--said Errington gravely, taking the hand that caressed him, and reverently kissing it. "Believe me, love,--if he had lived some cruel misery might have befallen him--it is better as it is!"

Thelma did not answer for a minute or two--then she said suddenly--"Philip,--do you remember where I saw you first?"

"Perfectly!" he answered, looking fondly into the sweet upturned face.

"Outside a wonderful cavern, which I afterwards explored."

She started and seemed surprised. "You went inside?--you saw--?"

"Everything!"--and Philip related his adventure of that morning, and his first interview with Sigurd. She listened attentively--then she whispered softly--

"My mother sleeps there, you know,--yesterday I went to take her some flowers for the last time. Father came with me--we asked her blessing.

And I think she will give it, Philip--she must know how good you are and how happy I am."