or struggling body anywhere visible. And while they kept an
eager look-out, the light in the heavens slowly changed. From burning
crimson it softened to a tender amethyst hue, as smooth and delicate as
the glossy pale tint of the purple clematis,--and with it the rosy foam
of the Fall graduated to varying tints of pink, from pink to tender
green, and lastly, it became as a shower of amber wine. Gueldmar spoke
first in a voice broken by deep emotion.

"'Tis all over with him, poor lad!" he said, and tears glittered thickly
in his keen old eyes. "And--though the gods, of a surety, know
best--this is an end I looked not for! A mournful home-returning shall
we have--for how to break the news to Thelma is more than I can tell!"

And he shook his head sorrowfully while returning the warm and
sympathizing pressure of Errington's hand.

"You see," he went on, with a wistful look at the grave and
compassionate face of his accepted son-in-law--"the boy was no boy of
mine, 'tis true--and the winds had more than their share of his
wits--yet--we knew him from a baby--and my wife loved him for his sad
estate, which he was not to blame for. Thelma, too--he was her first
playmate--"

The _bonde_ could trust himself to say no more, but turned abruptly
away, brushing one hand across his eyes, and was silent for many
minutes. The young men, too, were silent,--Sigurd's determined suicide
had chilled and sickened them. Slowly they returned to the hut to pass
the remaining hours of the night--though sleep was, of course, after
what they had witnessed, impossible. They remained awake, therefore,
talking in low tones of the fatal event, and listening to the solemn
_sough_ of the wind through the pines, that sounded to Errington's ears
like a monotonous forest dirge. He thought of the first time he had ever
seen the unhappy creature whose wandering days had just ended,--of that
scene in the mysterious shell cavern,--of the wild words he had then
uttered--how strangely they came back to Philip's memory now!

"You have come as a thief in the golden midnight, and the thing you seek
is the life of Sigurd! Yes--yes! it is true--the spirit cannot lie! You
must kill, you must steal--see how the blood drips, drop by drop, from
the heart of Sigurd! and the jewel you steal,--ah! what a jewel! You
shall not find such another in Norway!" Was not the hidden meaning of
these incoherent phrases rendered somewhat clear now? though how the
poor lad's diso