art of the valley where a small
footpath diverged from the main track which led to Ulf's dwelling. The
path ran in the direction of the hayfields that bordered the fiord.
Just as they reached it, Hilda observed that her father was labouring
there with his thralls.

"See," she exclaimed, stopping abruptly, and taking her pitcher from
Erling, "my father is in the hayfield."

The youth was about to remonstrate and insist on being allowed to carry
the pitcher to the house before going to the field; but on second
thoughts he resigned his slight burden, and, saying "farewell", turned
on his heel and descended the path with rapid step and a somewhat
burdened heart.

"She loves me not," he muttered to himself, almost sternly. "I am a
brother, nothing more."

Indulging in these and kindred gloomy reflections, he advanced towards a
rocky defile where the path diverged to the right. Before taking the
turn he looked back. Hilda was standing on the spot where they had
parted, but her face was not directed towards her late companion. She
was looking steadily up the valley. Presently the object which
attracted her attention appeared in view, and Erling felt a slight
sensation of anger, he scarce knew why, on observing the old man who had
been the subject of their recent conversation issue from among the
rocks. His first impulse was to turn back, but, checking himself, he
wheeled sharply round and hurried away.

Scarcely had he taken three steps, however, when he was arrested by a
sound that resembled a crash of thunder. Glancing quickly upwards, he
beheld an enormous mass of rock, which had become detached from the
mountain side, descending in shattered fragments into the valley.

The formation of Horlingdal at that particular point was peculiar. The
mountain ranges on either side, which rose to a height of at least four
thousand feet, approached each other abruptly, thus forming a dark
gloomy defile of a few hundred yards in width, with precipitous cliffs
on either side, and the river roaring in the centre of the pass. The
water rushed in white-crested billows through its rock-impeded bed, and
terminated in a splendid foss, or fall, forty or fifty feet high, which
plunged into a seething caldron, whence it issued in a troubled stream
to the plain that opened out below. It here found rest in the level
fields of Ulfstede, that lay at the head of the fiord. The open
amphitheatre above this pass, with its circlet of gr