eet-voiced water-nymphs--nothing
unreal or fantastical would have surprised Errington at that moment.
Indeed, he almost expected something of the kind--the scene was so
eminently fitted for it.

"Positively, I must wake Lorimer," he thought to himself. "He oughtn't
to miss such a gorgeous spectacle as this."

He moved a little more in position to view the Fall. What was that small
dark object running swiftly yet steadily along on the highest summit of
those jutting crags? He rubbed his eyes amazedly--was it--could it be
_Sigurd_? He watched it for a moment,--then uttered a loud cry as he saw
it pause on the very ledge of rock from which but a short while since,
he himself had been so nearly precipitated. The figure was now
distinctly visible, outlined in black against the flaming crimson of the
sky,--it stood upright and waved its arms with a frantic gesture. There
was no mistaking it--it _was_ Sigurd!

Without another second's hesitation Errington rushed back to the hut and
awoke, with clamorous alarm, the rest of the party. His brief
explanation sufficed--they all hurried forth in startled excitement.
Sigurd still occupied his hazardous position, and as they looked at him
he seemed to dance wildly nearer the extreme edge of the rocky platform.
Old Gueldmar turned pale. "The gods preserve him!" he muttered in his
beard--then turning he began resolutely to make the ascent of the rocks
with long, rapid strides--the young men followed him eager and almost
breathless, each and all bent upon saving Sigurd from the danger in
which he stood, and trying by different ways to get more quickly near
the unfortunate lad and call, or draw him back by force from his point
of imminent deadly peril. They were more than half-way up, when a
piercing cry rang clearly above the thunderous din of the fall--a cry
that made them pause for a moment.

Sigurd had caught sight of the figures advancing to his rescue, and was
waving them back with eloquent gesture of anger and defiance. His small
misshapen body was alive with wrath,--it seemed as though he were some
dwarf king ruling over the glittering crimson torrent, and grimly
forbidding strangers to enter on the boundaries of his magic territory.
They, however, pressed on with renewed haste,--and they had nearly
reached the summit when another shrill cry echoed over the
sunset-colored foam.

Once more they paused--they were in full view of the distraught Sigurd,
and he turned his head to