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