“They have the night, who had, like us, the day
We, whom day binds, shall have the night as they
We, from the fetters of the light unbound,
Healed of our wound of living, shall sleep sound!”
SWINBURNE.

Night on the Altenfjord, the long, long, changeless night of winter. The sharp snow-covered crests of the mountains rose in white appeal against the darkness of the sky, the wild north wind tore through the leafless branches of the pine-forests, bringing with it driving pellets of stinging hail. Joyless and songless, the whole landscape lay as though frozen into sculptured stone. The Sun slept, and the Fjord, black with brooding shadows, seemed silently to ask where? Where was the great king of Light? the glorious god of the golden hair and ruddy countenance? the glittering warrior with the flaming shield and spear invincible? Where had he found his rest? By what strange enchantment had he fallen into so deep and long a drowsiness. The wind that had rioted across the mountains, rooting up great trees in its shrieking career northwards, grew hushed as it approached the Altenfjord there a weird stillness reigned, broken only by the sullen and monotonous plash of the invisible waves upon the scarcely visible shore.

A few tiny, twinkling lights showed the irregular outline of Bosekop, and now and then one or two fishing-boats with sable sails and small colored lamps at mast and prow would flit across the inky water like dark messengers from another world bound on some mournful errand. Human figures, more shadowy than real, were to be seen occasionally moving on the pier, and to the left of the little town, as the eye grew accustomed to the moveless gloom, a group of persons, like ghosts in a dream, could be dimly perceived, working busily at the mending of nets.

Suddenly a strange, unearthly glow flashed over the sombre scene, a rosy radiance deepening to brilliant streaks of fire. The dark heavens were torn asunder, and through them streamed flaring pennons of light, waving, trembling, dancing, luminous ribbons of red, blue, green, and a delicious amber, like the flowing of golden wine, wider, higher, more dazzlingly lustrous, the wondrous glory shone aloft, rising upward from the horizon thrusting long spears of lambent flame among the murky retreating clouds, till in one magnificent coruscation of resplendent beams a blazing arch of gold leaped from east to west, spanning the visible breath of the Fjord, and casting towards the white peaks above, vivid sparkles and reflections of jewel-like brightness and color. Here was surely the Rainbow Bridge of Odin the glittering pathway leading to Valhalla! Long filmy threads of emerald and azure trailed downwards from it, like ropes of fairy flowers, binding it to the earth above it hung a fleece-like nebulous whiteness, a canopy through which palpitated sudden flashes of amethyst. Then, as though the arch were a bent bow for the hand of some heavenly hunter, crimson beams darted across it in swift succession, like arrows shot at the dark target of the world. Round and round swept the varying circles of color now advancing now retreating now turning the sullen waters beneath into a quivering mass of steely green now beating against the snow-covered hills till they seemed pinnacles of heaped-up pearls and diamonds. The whole landscape was transformed, and the shadowy cluster of men and women on the shore paused in their toil, and turned their pale faces towards the rippling splendor, the heavy fishing-nets drooping from their hands like dark webs woven by giant spiders.

“’Tis the first time we have seen the Arch of Death this year,” said one in awed accents.

“Ay, ay!” returned another, with a sigh. “And some one is bound to cross it, whether he will or no. ’Tis a sure sign!”

“Sure!” they all agreed, in hushed voices as faint and far-off as the breaking of the tide against the rocks on the opposite coast.

As they spoke, the fairy-like bridge in the sky parted asunder and vanished! The brilliant aurora borealis faded by swift degrees a few moments, and the land was again enveloped in gloom.

It might have been midnight yet by the clock it was but four in the afternoon. Dreary indeed was the Altenfjord, yet the neighboring village of Talvag was even drearier. There, desolation reigned supreme it was a frozen region of bitter, shelterless cold, where the poverty-stricken inhabitants, smitten by the physical torpor and mental stupefaction engendered by the long, dark season, scarcely stirred out of their miserable homes, save to gather extra fuel. This is a time in Norway, when beyond the Arctic Circle, the old gods yet have sway when in spite of their persistent, sometimes fanatical, adherence to the strictest forms of Christianity, the people almost unconsciously revert to the superstitions of their ancestors. Gathering round the blazing pine-logs, they recount to one another in low voices the ancient legends of dead and gone heroes, and listening to the yell of the storm-wind round their huts, they still fancy they hear the wild war-cries of the Valkyries rushing past air full gallop on their coal-black steeds, with their long hair floating behind them.

On this particular afternoon the appearance of the “Death-Arch,” as they called that special form of the aurora, had impressed the Talvig folk greatly. Some of them were at the doors, and, regardless of the piercing cold, occupied themselves in staring languidly at a reindeer sledge which stood outside one of the more distant huts, evidently waiting for some person within. The hoofs of the animals made no impression on the hardened snow now and again they gently shook the tinkling bells on their harness, but otherwise were very patient. The sledge was in charge of a youthful Laplander a hideous, stunted specimen of humanity, who appeared to be literally sewed up from head to foot in skins.

This cortege was evidently an object of curiosity, the on-lookers eyed it askance, and with a sort of fear. For did it not belong to the terrible bonde, Olaf Gueldmar? and would not the Laplander, a useful boy, well known in Talvig, come to some fatal harm by watching, even for a few minutes, the property of an acknowledged pagan? Who could tell? The very reindeer might be possessed by evil spirits, they were certainly much sleeker and finer than the ordinary run of such animals. There was something uncanny in the very look of them! Thus the stupefied, unreasoning Talvig folk muttered, one to another, leaning drowsily out of their half-open doors.

“’Tis a strange thing,” said one man, “that woman as strong in the fear of the Lord as Lovisa Elsland should call for one of the wicked to visit her on her death-bed.”

“Strange enough!” answered his neighbor, blinking over his pipe, and knocking down some of the icicles pendent from his roof. “But maybe it is to curse him with the undying curse of the godly.”

“She’s done that all her life,” said the first speaker.

“That’s true! She’s been a faithful servant of the Gospel. All’s right with her in the next world she’ll die easily.”

“Was it for her the Death-Arch shone?” asked an old woman, suddenly thrusting her head, wrapped in a red woollen hood, out of a low doorway, through which the light of a fire sparkled from the background, sending vivid flashes across the snow.

The man who had spoken last shook his head solemnly.

“The Death-Arch never shone for a Christian yet,” he said gravely. “No! There’s something else in the wind. We can’t see it but it will come it must come! That sign never fails.”

And presently, tired of watching the waiting sledge and the passive Laplander, he retreated within his house, shutting his door against the darkness and the bitter wind. His neighbors followed his example, and, save for two or three red glimmers of light here and there, the little village looked as though it had been deserted long ago a picture of frost-bound silence and solitude.

Meanwhile, in Lovisa Elsland’s close and comfortless dwelling, stood Olaf Gueldmar. His strong, stately figure, wrapped in furs, seemed almost to fill the little place he had thrown aside the thick scarf of wadmel in which he had been wrapped to the eyes while driving in the teeth of the wind, and he now lifted his fur cap, thus displaying his silvery hair, ruddy features, and open, massive brow. At that moment a woman who was busying herself in putting fresh pine-logs on the smouldering fire, turned and regarded him intently.

“Lord, Lord!” she muttered “’tis a man of men, he rejoiceth in his strength, even as the lion, and of what avail shall the curse of the wicked avail against the soul that is firmly established!”

Gueldmar heard her not he was looking towards a low pallet bed, on which lay, extended at full length, an apparently insensible form.

“Has she been long thus?” he asked, in a low voice.

“Since last night,” replied the woman no other than Mr. Dyceworthy’s former servant, Ulrika. “She wakened suddenly, and bade me send for you. To-day she has not spoken.”

The bonde sighed somewhat impatiently. He approached the now blazing pine-logs, and as he drew off his thick fur driving-gloves, and warmed his hands at the cheerful blaze, Ulrika again fixed her dull eyes upon him with something of wonder and reluctant admiration. Presently she trimmed an oil-lamp, and set it, burning dimly, on the table. Then she went to the bed and bent over it, after a pause of several minutes, she turned and made a beckoning sign with her finger. Gueldmar advanced a little, when a sudden eldritch shriek startled him back, almost curdling the blood in his veins. Out of the deep obscurity, like some gaunt spectre rising from the tomb, started a face, wrinkled, cadaverous, and distorted by suffering, a face in which the fierce, fevered eyes glittered with a strange and dreadful brilliancy the face of Lovisa Elsland, stern, forbidding, and already dark with the shadows of approaching death. She stared vacantly at Gueldmar, whose picturesque head was illumined by the ruddy glow of the fire and feebly shaded her eyes as though she saw something that hurt them. Ulrika raised her on her tumbled pillow, and saying, in cold, unmoved tones “Speak now, for the time is short,” she once more beckoned the bonde imperatively.

He approached slowly.

“Lovisa Elsland,” he began in distinct tones, addressing himself to that ghastly countenance still partly shaded by one hand. “I am here Olaf Gueldmar. Dost thou know me?”

At the sound of his voice, a strange spasm contorted the withered features of the dying woman. She bent her head as though to listen to some far-off echo, and held up her skinny finger as though enjoining silence.

“Know thee!” she babbled whisperingly. “How should I not know the brown-haired Olaf! Olaf of the merry eye Olaf, the pride of the Norse maiden?” She lifted herself in a more erect attitude, and stretching out her lean arms, went on as though chanting a monotonous recitative. “Olaf, the wanderer over wild seas, he comes and goes in his ship that sails like a white bird on the sparkling waters long and silent are the days of his absence mournful are the Fjelds and Fjords without the smile of Olaf Olaf the King!”

She paused, and Gueldmar regarded her in pitying wonder. Her face changed to a new expression one of wrath and fear.

“Stay, stay!” she cried in penetrating accents. “Who comes from the South with Olaf? The clouds drive fast before the wind clouds rest on the edge of the dark Fjord sails red as blood flash against the sky who comes with Olaf? Fair hair ripples against his breast like streaming sunbeams; eyes blue as the glitter of the northern lights, are looking upon him lips crimson and heavy with kisses for Olaf ah!” She broke off with a cry, and beat the air with her hands as though to keep some threatening thing away from her. “Back, back! Dead bride of Olaf, torment me no more back, I say! See,” and she pointed into the darkness before her “The pale, pale face the long glittering hair twisted like a snake of gold, she glides along the path across the mountains, the child follows! the child! Why not kill the child as well why not?”

She stopped suddenly with a wild laugh. The bonde had listened to her ravings with something of horror, his ruddy cheeks growing paler.

“By the gods, this is strange!” he muttered. “She seems to speak of my wife, yet what can she know of her?”

For some moments there was silence. Lovisa seemed to have exhausted her strength. Presently, however, she put aside her straggling white hairs from her forehead, and demanded fiercely

“Where is my grandchild? Where is Britta?”

Neither Gueldmar nor Ulrika made any reply. But Britta’s name recalled the old woman to herself, and when she spoke again it was quite collectedly, and in her usual harsh voice. She seemed to forget all that she had just uttered, for she turned her eyes upon the bonde, as though she had but then perceived him.

“So you are come, Olaf Gueldmar!” she said. “It is well for the hand of Death is upon me.”

“It is well, indeed, if I can be of service, Lovisa Elsland,” responded Gueldmar, “though I am but a sorry consoler, holding as I do, that death is the chief blessing, and in no way to be regretted at any time. Moreover, when the body grows too weak to support the soul, ’tis as well to escape from it with what speed we may.”

“Escape escape? Where?” asked Lovisa. “From the worm that dieth not? From the devouring fame that is never quenched? From the torturing thirst and heat and darkness of hell, who shall escape?”

“Nay, if that is all the comfort thy creed can give thee,” said the bonde, with a half-smile, “’tis but a poor staff to lean on!”

Lovisa looked at him mockingly. “And is thine so strong a prop to thy pride?” she asked disdainfully. “Has Odin so endowed thee that thou shouldst boast of him? Listen to me, Olaf Gueldmar I have but little strength remaining, and I must speak briefly. Thy wife ”

“What of her?” said the bonde hastily. “Thou knewst her not.”

“I knew her,” said Lovisa steadily, “as the lightning knows the tree it withers as the sea knows the frail boat it wrecks for sport on a windy day. Thou haughty Olaf! I knew her well even as the broken heart knows its destroyer!”

Gueldmar looked perplexedly at Ulrika. “Surely she raves again?” he said. Ulrika was silent.

“Rave? Tell him I do not rave!” cried Lovisa rising in her bed to utter her words with more strength and emphasis. “May be I have raved, but that is past! The Lord, who will judge and condemn my soul, bear witness that I speak the truth! Olaf Gueldmar, rememberest thou the days when we were young?”

“’Tis long ago, Lovisa!” replied the bonde with brief gentleness.

“Long ago? It seems but yesterday! But yesterday I saw the world all radiant with hope and joy and love love that to you was a mere pastime but with me ” She shuddered and seemed to lose herself in a maze of dreary recollections. “Love!” she presently muttered “’love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave the coals thereof are coals of fire which hath a most vehement flame!’ Even so! You, Olaf Gueldmar, have forgotten what I remember, that once in that yesterday of youth, you called me fair, once your lips branded mine! Could I forget that kiss? Think you a Norse woman, bred in a shadow of the constant mountains, forgets the first thrill of passion waked in her soul? Light women of those lands where the sun ever shines on fresh follies, may count their loves by the score, but with us of the North, one love suffices to fill a lifetime. And was not my life filled? Filled to overflowing with bitterness and misery! For I loved you, proud Olaf! I loved you ” The bonde uttered an exclamation of incredulous astonishment. Lovisa fixed her eyes on him with a dark scorn. “Yes, I loved you, scoffer and unbeliever as you were and are! accursed of God and man! I loved you in spite of all that was said against you nay, I would have forsaken my creed for yours, and condemned my soul to the everlasting burning for your sake! I loved you as she that pale, fair, witch-like thing you wedded, could never love ” Her voice died away in a sort of despairing wail, and she paused.

“By my soul!” said the bonde, astounded, and stroking his white beard in some embarrassment. “I never knew of this! It is true that in the hot days of youth, mischief is often done unwittingly. But why trouble yourself with these memories, Lovisa? If it be any comfort, believe me, I am sorry harm ever came to you through my thoughtless jesting ”

“It matters not!” and Lovisa regarded him with a strange and awful smile. “I have had my revenge!” She stopped abruptly, then went on “’Twas a fair bride you chose, Olaf Gueldmar child of an alien from these shores, Thelma, with the treacherous laughter and light of the South in her eyes and smile! And I, who had known love, made friends with hate ” She checked herself, and looked full at the bonde with a fiendish joy sparkling in her eyes. “She whom you wedded she whom you loved so well, how soon she died!”

There was something so suggestive and dreadful in the expression of her face as she said this, that the stout heart of the old bonde, pulsated more quickly with a sudden vague distrust and dread. She gave him no time to speak, but laying one yellow, claw-like hand on his arm, and raising her voice to a sort of yell, exclaimed triumphantly

“Yes, yes! how soon she died! Bravely, bravely done! And no one ever guessed the truth no one ever knew I killed her!”

Gueldmar uttered a sharp cry, and shook himself free from her touch. In the same instant his hand flew to the hilt of the hunting-knife in his girdle.

“Killed her! By the gods ”

Ulrika sprang before him. “Shame!” she cried sternly. “She is dying!”

“Too slowly for me!” exclaimed the bonde furiously.

“Peace peace!” implored Ulrika. “Let her speak!”

“Strike, Olaf Gueldmar!” said Lovisa, in a deep voice, harsh, but all untremulous “Strike, pagan, with whom the law of blood is supreme strike to the very center of my heart I do not fear you! I killed her, I say and therein I, the servant of the Lord, was justified! Think you that the Most High hath not commanded His elect to utterly destroy and trample underfoot their enemies? and is not vengeance mine as well as thine, accursed slave of Odin?”

A spasm of pain here interrupted her she struggled violently for breath and Ulrika supported her. Gueldmar stood motionless, white with restrained fury, his eyes blazing. Recovering by slow degrees, Lovisa once more spoke her voice was weaker, and sounded a long way off.

“Yea, the Lord hath been on my side!” she said, and the hideous blasphemy rattled in her throat as it was uttered. “Listen and hear how He delivered mine enemy into my hands. I watched her always I followed her many and many a time, though she never saw me. I knew her favorite path across the mountains, it led past a rocky chasm. On the edge of that chasm there was a broad, flat stone, and there she would sit often, reading, or watching the fishing-boats on the Fjord, and listening to the prattle of her child. I used to dream of that stone, and wonder if I could loosen it! It was strongly imbedded in the earth but each day I went to it each day I moved it! Little by little I worked till a mere touch would have set it hurling downwards, yet it looked as firm as ever.” Gueldmar uttered a fierce ejaculation of anguish he put one hand to his throat as though he were stifling. Lovisa, watching him, smiled vindictively, and continued

“When I had done all I could do, I lay in wait for her, hoping and praying my hour came at last! It was a bright sunny morning a little bird had been twittering above the very place as it flew away, she approached a book was in her hand, her child followed her at some little distance off. Fortune favored me a cluster of pansies had opened their blossoms a few inches below the stone, she saw them, and, light as a bird, sprang on it and reached forward to gather them ah!” and the wretched woman clapped her hands and broke into malignant laughter “I can hear her quick shriek now the crash of the stones and the crackle of branches as she fell down, down to her death! Presently the child came running, it was too young to understand it sat down patiently waiting for its mother. How I longed to kill it! but it sang to itself like the bird that had flown away, and I could not! But she was gone she was silent for ever the Lord be praised for all His mercies! Was she smiling, Olaf Gueldmar, when you found her dead?”

A strange solemnity shadowed the bonde’s features. He turned his eyes upon her steadily.

“Blessing and honor be to the gods of my fathers!” he said “I found her living!”

The change that came over Lovisa’s face at these words was inexpressibly awful she grew livid and her lips twitched convulsively.

“Living living!” she gasped.

“Living!” repeated Gueldmar sternly. “Vile hag! Your purpose was frustrated! Your crime destroyed her beauty and shortened her days but she lived lived for ten sweet, bitter years, hidden away from all eyes save mine, mine that never grew tired of looking in her patient, heavenly face! Ten years I held her as one holds a jewel and, when she died, her death was but falling asleep in these fond arms ”

Lovisa raised herself with a sharp cry, and wrung her hands together

“Ten years ten years!” she moaned. “I thought her dead and she lived on, beloved and loving all the while. Oh God, God, why hast thou made a mockery of Thy servant!” She rocked herself to and fro then looked up with an evil smile. “Nay, but she suffered! That was best. It is worse to suffer than to die. Thank God, she suffered!”

“Ay, she suffered!” said Gueldmar fiercely, scarce able to restrain himself from seizing upon the miserable old woman and shaking the sinking life out of her “And had I but guessed who caused her sufferings, by the sword of Odin, I would have ”

Ulrika laid her hand on his suddenly upraised arm.

“Listen!” she whispered. A low wailing, like the cry of a distressed child, swept round and round the house, followed by a gust of wind and a clattering shower of hailstones. A strange blue light leaped up from the sparkling log fire, and cast an unearthly glow through the room. A deep stillness ensued.

Then steady and clear and resonant a single sound echoed through the air, like a long note played on an exceedingly sweet silver trumpet. It began softly swelled to a crescendo then died delicately away. Gueldmar raised his head his face was full of rapt and expectant gravity, his action, too, was somewhat singular, for he drew the knife from his girdle and kissed the hilt solemnly, returning it immediately to its sheath. At the same moment Lovisa uttered a loud cry, and flinging the coverings from her, strove to rise from her bed. Ulrika held her firmly, she struggled feebly yet determinedly, gazing the while with straining, eager, glassy eyes into the gloom of the opposite corner.

“Darkness darkness!” she muttered hoarsely, “and the white faces of dead things! There there they lie! all still, at the foot of the black chasm their mouths move without sound what what are they saying? I cannot hear ask them to speak louder louder! Ah!” and she uttered a terrified scream that made the rafters ring. “They move! they stretch out their hands cold, cold hands! they are drawing me down to them down down to that darkness! Hold me hold me! don’t let me go to them Lord, Lord be merciful to me let me live live ” Suddenly she drew back in deadly horror, gesticulating with her tremulous lean hands as though it shut away the sight of some loathsome thing unveiled to her view. “Who is it” she asked in an awful, shuddering whisper “who is it that says there is no hell? I see it!” Still retreating backwards, backwards the clammy dew of death darkening her affrighted countenance, she turned her glazing eyes for the last time on Gueldmar. Her lips twitched into a smile of dreadful mockery.

“May thy gods reward thee Olaf Gueldmar even as mine are rewarding me!”

And with these words, her head dropped heavily on her breast. Ulrika laid her back on her pillow, a corpse. The stern, cruel smile froze slowly on her dead features gradually she became, as it were, a sort of ancient cenotaph, carved to resemble old age combined with unrepenting evil the straggling white hair that rested on her wrinkled forehead looking merely like snow fallen on sculptured stone.

“Good Lord, have mercy on her soul!” murmured Ulrika piously, as she closed the upward staring eyes, and crossed the withered hands.

“Good devil, claim thine own!” said Gueldmar, with proudly lifted arm and quivering, disdainful lips. “Thou foolish woman! Thinkest thou thy Lord makes place for murderers in His heaven? If so, ’tis well I am not bound there! Only the just can tread the pathway to Valhalla, ’tis a better creed!”

Ulrika looked at his superb, erect figure and lofty head, and a strangely anxious expression flitted across her dull countenance.

“Nay, bonde, we do not believe that the Lord accepteth murderers, without they repent themselves of their backslidings, but if with penitence they turn to Him even at the eleventh hour, haply they may be numbered among the elect.”

Gueldmar’s eyes flashed. “I know not thy creed, woman, nor care to learn it! But, all the same, thou art deceived in thy vain imaginings. The Eternal Justice cannot err call that justice Christ or Odin as thou wilt. I tell you, the soul of the innocent bird that perishes in the drifting snow is near and dear to its Creator but the tainted soul that had yonder vile body for its tenement, was but a flame of the evil one, and accursed from the beginning, it must return to him from whom it came. A heaven for such as she? Nay rather the lowest circle of the furthest and fiercest everlasting fires and thither do I commend her! Farewell!”

Rapidly muffling himself up in his wraps, he strode out of the house. He sprang into his sledge, throwing a generous gratuity to the small Laplander who had taken charge of it, and who now ventured to inquire

“Has the good Lovisa left us?”

Gueldmar burst into a hard laugh. “Good! By my soul! The folks of Talvig take up murderers for saints and criminals for guides! ’Tis a wild world! Yes she has gone where all such blessed ones go to heaven!” He shook his clenched fist in the air then hastily gathering up the reins, prepared to start.

The Lapp, after the manner of his race, was easily frightened, and cowered back, terrified at the bonde’s menacing gesture and fierce tone, but quickly bethinking himself of the liberal fee he clutched in his palm, he volunteered a warning to this kingly old man with the streaming white hair and beard, and his keen eyes that were already fixed on the dark sweep of the rough, uneven road winding towards the Altenfjord.

“There is a storm coming, Jarl Gueldmar!” he stammered.

Gueldmar turned his head. “Why call me Jarl?” he demanded half angrily. “’Tis a name I wear not.”

He touched the reindeer lightly with his long whip the sensitive beast started and sprang forward.

Once more the Lapp exclaimed, with increased excitement and uncouth gestures

“Storm is coming! wide dark, deep! See how the sky stoops with the hidden snow!”

He pointed to the north, and there, low on the horizon, was a lurid red gleam like a smouldering fire, while just above it a greenish blackness of cloud hung heavy and motionless. Towards the central part of the heaven two or three stars shone with frosty brightness, and through a few fleecy ribbons of greyish mist limmered the uncertain promise of a faint moon.

Gueldmar smiled slightly. “Storm coming?” he answered almost gaily. “That is well! Storm and I are old friends, my lad! Good night!”

Once more he touched his horned steeds, and with a jingle-jangle of musical bells and a scudding, slippery hissing across the hard snow, the sledge sped off with fairy-like rapidity, and in a few moments its one little guiding lantern disappeared in the darkness like a suddenly extinguished candle.

The Lapp stood pondering and gazing after it, with the bonde’s money in his palm, till the cold began to penetrate even his thick skin-clothing and his fat little body, well anointed with whale-oil though it was, and becoming speedily conscious of this, he scampered with extraordinary agility, considering the dimensions of his snow-shoes, into the hut where he had his dwelling, relating to all who choose to hear, the news of old Lovisa Elsland’s death, and the account of his brief interview with the dreaded but generous pagan.

Ulrika, watching by the corpse of her aged friend, was soon joined by others bent on sharing her vigil, and the house was presently filled with woman’s religious wailings and prayers for the departed. To all the curious inquiries that were made concerning the cause of Lovisa’s desire to see the bonde before she died, Ulrika vouchsafed no reply, and the villagers, who stood somewhat in awe of her as a woman of singular godliness and discreet reputation, soon refrained from asking any more questions. An ambitious young Lutheran preacher came, and, addressing himself to all assembled, loudly extolled the superhuman virtues of the dead “Mother of the village,” as Lovisa had been called, amid the hysterical weeping and moaning of the mourners, he begged them to look upon her “venerated face” and observe “the smile of God’s own peace engraven there,” and amid all his eloquence, and the shrieking excitement of his fanatical hearers, Ulrika alone was silent.

She sat stern and absorbed, with set lips and lowered eyelids at the head of the bed whereon the corpse was now laid out, grimly rigid, with bound-up jaws, and clasped fingers like stiff, dried bones. Her thoughts dwelt gloomily and intently on Gueldmar’s words “The Eternal Justice cannot err.” Eternal Justice! What sentence would Eternal Justice pass upon the crime of murder? or attempt to murder? “I am guilty,” the unhappy woman reflected, with a strong shudder chilling her veins, “guilty even as Lovisa! I tried to kill my child I thought, I hoped it was dead! It was not my meaning that it should live. And this Eternal Justice, may be, will judge the intention more than the crime. O Lord, Lord! save my soul! Teach me how to escape from the condemning fires of Thine anger!” Thus she prayed and wrestled with, her accusing self in secret despair and fear raging in her heart, though not a flicker of her inward agitation betrayed itself outwardly on her stolid, expressionless features.

Meanwhile the wind rose to a tearing, thunderous gale, and the night, already so dark, darkened yet more visibly. Olaf Gueldmar, driving swiftly homewards, caught the first furious gust of the storm that came rushing onward from the North Cape, and as it swooped sideways against his light sledge, he was nearly hurled from his seat by the sudden violence of the shock. He settled himself more firmly, encouraging with a cheery word the startled reindeer, who stopped short, stretching out their necks and sniffing the air, their hairy sides heaving with the strain of trotting against the blast, and the smoke of their breath steaming upwards in the frosty air like white vapor. The way lay now through a narrow defile bordered with tall pines, and as the terrified animals, recovering, shook the tinkling bells on their harness, and once more resumed their journey, the road was comparatively sheltered, and the wind seemed to sink as suddenly as it rose. There was a hush an almost ominous silence.

The sledge glided more slowly between the even lines of upright giant trees, crowned with icicles and draped in snow, the bonde involuntarily loosened the reins of his elfin steeds, and again returned to those painful and solemn musings, from which the stinging blow of the tempest had for a moment roused him. The proud heart of the old man ached bitterly. What! All these years had passed, and he, the descendant of a hundred Vikings, had been cheated of justice! He had seen his wife, the treasured darling of his days, suffering, dying, inch by inch, year by year, with all her radiant beauty withered, and he had never known her destroyer! Her fall from the edge of the chasm had been deemed by them both an accident, and yet this wretched Lovisa Elsland mad with misplaced, disappointed passion, jealousy, and revenge, had lived on to the extreme of life, triumphant and unsuspected.

“I swear the gods have played me false in this!” he muttered, lifting his eyes in a sort of fierce appeal to the motionless pinetops stiff with frost. The mystery of the old hag’s hatred of his daughter was now made clear she resembled her mother too closely to escape Lovisa’s malice. He remembered the curse she had called down upon the innocent girl, how it was she who had untiringly spread abroad the report among the superstitious people of the place, that Thelma was a witch whose presence was a blight upon the land, how she had decoyed her into the power of Mr. Dyceworthy all was plain and, notwithstanding her deliberate wickedness, she had lived her life without punishment! This was what made Gueldmar’s blood burn, and pulses thrill. He could not understand why the Higher Powers had permitted this error of justice, and, like many of his daring ancestors, he was ready to fling defiance in the very face of Odin, and demand “Why, O thou drowsy god, nodding over thy wine-cups, why didst thou do this thing?”

Utter fearlessness, bodily and spiritual, fearlessness of past, present, or future, life or death, was Gueldmar’s creed. The true Norse warrior spirit was in him had he been told, on heavenly authority, that the lowest range of the “Nastrond” or Scandinavian Hell, awaited him, he would have accepted his fate with unflinching firmness. The indestructibility of the soul, and the certainty that it must outlive even centuries of torture, and triumph gloriously in the end, was the core of the faith he professed. As he glanced upwards, the frozen tree-tops, till then rigidly erect, swayed slightly from side to side with a crackling sound but he paid no heed to this slight warning of a fresh attack from the combative storm that was gathering together and renewing its scattered forces. He began to think of his daughter, and the grave lines on his face relaxed and softened.

“’Tis all fair sailing for the child,” he mused. “For that I should be grateful! The world has been made a soft nest for my bird, I should not complain, my own time is short.” His former anger calmed a little the brooding irritation of his mind became gradually soothed.

“Rose of my heart!” he whispered, tenderly apostrophizing the memory of his wife, that lost jewel of love, whose fair body lay enshrined in the king’s tomb by the Fjord. “Wrongfully done to death as thou wert, and brief time as we had for loving; in spite of thy differing creed, I feel that I shall meet thee soon! Yes in the world beyond the stars, they will bring thee to me in Valhalla, wheresoever thou art, thou wilt not refuse to come! The gods themselves cannot unfasten the ties of love between us!”

As he half thought, half uttered, these words, the reindeer again stopped abruptly, rearing their antlered heads and panting heavily. Hark! what was that? A clear, far-reaching note of music seemingly wakened from the waters of the Fjord and rising upwards, upwards, with bell-like distinctness! Gueldmar leaned from his motionless sledge and listened in awe it was the same sound he had before heard as he stood by Lovisa Elsland’s death-bed and was in truth nothing but a strong current of wind blowing through the arched and honeycombed rocks by the sea, towards the higher land, creating the same effect as though one should breathe forcibly through a pipe-like instrument of dried and hollow reeds, and being rendered more resonant by the intense cold, it bore a striking similarity to the full blast of a war-trumpet. For the worshipper of Odin, it had a significant and supernatural meaning, and he repeated his former action that of drawing the knife from his girdle and kissing the hilt. “If Death is near me,” he said in a loud voice, “I bid it welcome! The gods know that I am ready!”

He waited as though expecting some answer but there was a brief, absolute silence. Then, with a wild shriek and riotous uproar, the circling tempest, before uncertain and vacillating in its wrath, pounced, eagle-like, downward and grasped the mountains in its talons, the strong pines rocked backwards and forwards as though bent by Herculean hands, crashing their frosted branches madly together: the massive clouds in the sky opened and let fall their burden of snow. Down came the large fleecy flakes, twisting dizzily round and round in a white waltz to the whirl of the wind faster faster heavier and thicker, till there seemed no clear space in the air. Gueldmar urged on the reindeer, more anxious for their safety than his own the poor beasts were fatigued, and the blinding snow confused them, but they struggled on patiently, encouraged by their master’s voice and the consciousness that they were nearing home. The storm increased in fury and a fierce gust of frozen sleet struck the sledge like a strong hammer-stroke as it advanced through the rapidly deepening snow-drifts its guiding lantern was extinguished. Gueldmar did not stop to relight it he knew he was approaching his farm, and he trusted to the instinct and sagacity of his steeds.

There was indeed but a short distance to go, the narrow wooded defile opened out on two roads, one leading direct to Bosekop the other, steep and tortuous, winding down to the shore of the Fjord this latter passed the bonde’s gate. Once out of the shadow of the pines, the way would be more distinctly seen, the very reindeer seemed to be conscious of this, for they trotted more steadily, shaking their bells in even and rhythmical measure. As they neared the end of the long dark vista, a sudden bright blue glare quivered and sprang wave-like across the snow a fantastic storm-aurora that flashed and played among the feathery falling flakes of white till they looked like knots and closters of sparkling jewels. The extreme point of the close defile was reached at last, and here the landscape opened up wide, rocky and desolate a weird picture, with the heavy clouds above repeatedly stabbed through and through by the needle-pointed beams of the aurora borealis, and the blank whiteness of the ground below. Just as the heads of the reindeer were turned into the homeward road, half of the aurora suddenly faded, leaving the other half still beating out its azure brilliance against the horizon. At the same instant, with abrupt swiftness, a dark shadow, so dark as to seem almost palpable, descended and fell directly in front of the advancing sledge a sort of mist that appeared to block the way.

Gueldmar leaned forward and gazed with eager, straining eyes into that drooping gloom a shadow? a mere vapor, with the Northern Lights glimmering through its murky folds? Ah no no! For him it was something very different, a heavenly phantasm, beautiful and grand, with solemn meaning! He saw a Maiden, majestically tall, of earnest visage and imperial mien, her long black hair streamed loose upon the wind in one hand she held a shining shield in the other a lifted spear! On her white brow rested a glittering helmet, her bosom heaved beneath a corslet of pale gold she fixed her divine, dark eyes full upon his face and smiled! With a cry of wonder and ecstacy the old man fell back in his sledge, the reins dropped from his hands, “The Valkyrie! the Valkyrie!” he exclaimed.

A mere breathing space, and the shadow vanished, the aurora came out again in unbroken splendor and the reindeer, feeling no restraint upon them, and terrified by something in the air, or the ceaseless glitter, of the lights in the sky, started off precipitately at full gallop. The long reins trailed loosely over their backs, lashing their sides as they ran Gueldmar, recovering from his momentary awe and bewilderment, strove to seize them, but in vain. He called, he shouted, the frightened animals were utterly beyond control, and dashed madly down the steep road, swinging the sledge from side to side, and entangling themselves more and more with the loose reins, till, irritated beyond endurance, confused and blinded by the flash of the aurora and the dizzy whirl of the swiftly falling snow, they made straight for a steep bank, and before the bonde had time to realize the situation and jump from the sledge crash! down they went with a discordant jangle of bells, their hoofs splitting a thin, sharp shelf of ice as they leaped forward, dragging the light vehicle after them, and twisting it over and over till it was a mere wreck, and throwing out its occupant head foremost against a jagged stone.

Then more scared than ever, they strove to clamber out of the gully into which they had recklessly sprung, but, foiled in these attempts, they kicked, plunged, and reared, trampling heedlessly over the human form lying helpless among the shattered fragments of the sledge, till tired out at last, they stood motionless, panting with terror. Their antlered heads cast fantastic patterns on the snow in the varying rose and azure radiance that rippled from the waving ribbons of the aurora, and close to them, his slowly trickling life-blood staining the white ground, his hair and beard glittering in the light like frosted silver, his eyes fast closed as though he slept, lay Olaf Gueldmar unconscious dying. The spear of the Valkyrie had fallen!