rank--'tis only in
this world we are subject to error. This world! By the gods! . . . 'tis
but a puff of thistle-down--or a light mist floating from the sunset to
the sea!"

He made a vigorous attempt to raise himself from his pillow--though the
excruciating anguish caused by his movement, made him wince a little and
grow paler.

"Wine, Valdemar! Fill the horn cup to the brim and bring it to me--I
must have strength to speak--before I depart--on the last great
journey."

Obediently and in haste, Svensen filled the cup he asked for with old
Lacrima Christi, of which there was always a supply in this far Northern
abode, and gave it to him, watching him with a sort of superstitious
reverence as he drained off its contents and returned it empty.

"Ah! That warms this freezing blood of mine," he said, the lustre
flashing back into his eyes. "'Twill find fresh force to flow a brief
while longer. Valdemar--I have little time to spend with thee--I feel
death _here_"--and he slightly touched his chest--"cold--cold and heavy.
'Tis nothing--a passing, chilly touch that sweeps away the world! But
the warmth of a new, strong life awaits me--a life of never-ending
triumph! The doors of Valhalla stand wide open--I heard the trumpet-call
last night--I saw the dark-haired Valkyrie! All is well--and my soul is
full of rejoicing. Valdemar--there is but one thing now thou hast to do
for me,--the one great service thou hast sworn to render. _Fulfill thine
oath!_"

Valdemar's brown cheek blanched,--his lips quivered,--he flung up his
hands in wild appeal. The picturesque flow of his native speech gained
new fervor and eloquence as he spoke.

"Not yet--not yet, my lord!" he cried passionately. "Wait but a
little--there is time. Think for one moment--think! Would it not be well
for my lord to sleep the last sleep by the side of his beloved
Thelma--the star of the dark mountains--the moonbeam of the night of his
life? Would not peace enwrap him there as with a soft garment, and would
not his rest be lulled by the placid murmur of the sea? For the days of
old time and storm and victory are past--and the dead slumber as stones
in the silent pathways--why would my lord depart in haste as though he
were wrathful, from the land he has loved?--from the vassal who implores
his pardon for pleading against a deed he dares not do!"

"Dares not--dares not!" cried the _bonde_, springing up half-erect from
his couch, in spite of pain, and looking