night air would do him good. The thought breathes more briskly in God's
free nature, under the broad canopy of heaven. The white mist rose from
the fields, and made the valley below appear like a white sea whose
nearness you feel, even though you do not see it. And out of the mist
the dark pines stretched their warning hands against the sky, and the
moon was swimming, large and placid, between silvery islands of cloud.
Truls began to beat his arms against his sides, and felt the warm blood
spreading from his heart and thawing the numbness of his limbs. Not
caring whither he went, he struck the path leading upward to the
mountains. He took to humming an old air which happened to come into his
head, only to try if there was life enough left in him to sing. It was
the ballad of Young Kirsten and the Merman:

 "The billows fall and the billows swell,
   In the night so lone,
   In the billows blue doth the merman dwell,
   And strangely that harp was sounding."

He walked on briskly for a while, and, looking back upon the pain he had
endured but a moment ago, he found it quite foolish and irrational. An
absurd merriment took possession of him; but all the while he did
not know where his foot stepped; his head swam, and his pulse beat
feverishly. About midway between the forest and the mansion, where the
field sloped more steeply, grew a clump of birch-trees, whose slender
stems glimmered ghostly white in the moonlight. Something drove Truls to
leave the beaten road, and, obeying the impulse, he steered toward the
birches. A strange sound fell upon his ear, like the moan of one in
distress. It did not startle him; indeed, he was in a mood when nothing
could have caused him wonder. If the sky had suddenly tumbled down upon
him, with moon and all, he would have taken it as a matter of course.
Peering for a moment through the mist, he discerned the outline of a
human figure. With three great strides he reached the birch-tree; at
his feet sat Borghild rocking herself to and fro and weeping piteously.
Without a word he seated himself at her side and tried to catch a
glimpse of her face; but she hid it from him and went on sobbing. Still
there could be no doubt that it was Borghild--one hour ago so merry,
reckless, and defiant, now cowering at his feet and weeping like a
broken-hearted child.

"Borghild," he said, at last, putting his arm gently about her waist,
"you and I, I think, played together when we were children."

"So we did, Truls," answered she, struggling with her tears.

"And as we grew up, we spent many a pleasant hour with each other."

"Many a pleasant hour."

She raised her head, and he drew her more closely to him.

"But since then I have done you a great wrong," began she, after a
while.

"Nothing done that cannot yet be undone," he took heart to answer.

It was long before her thoughts took shape, and, when at length they
did, she dared not give them utterance. Nevertheless, she was all the
time conscious of one strong desire, from which her conscience shrank as
from a crime; and she wrestled ineffectually with her weakness until her
weakness prevailed.

"I am glad you came," she faltered. "I knew you would come. There was
something I wished to say to you."

"And what was it, Borghild?"

"I wanted to ask you to forgive me--"

"Forgive you--"

He sprang up as if something had stung him.

"And why not?" she pleaded, piteously.

"Ah, girl, you know not what you ask," cried he, with a sternness which
startled her. "If I had more than one life to waste--but you caress with
one hand and stab with the other. Fare thee well, Borghild, for here our
paths separate."

He turned his back upon her and began to descend the slope.

"For God's sake, stay, Truls," implored she, and stretched her arms
appealingly toward him; "tell me, oh, tell me all."

With a leap he was again at her side, stooped down over her, and, in a
hoarse, passionate whisper, spoke the secret of his life in her ear. She
gazed for a moment steadily into his face, then, in a few hurried words,
she pledged him her love, her faith, her all. And in the stillness of
that summer night they planned together their flight to a greater and
freer land, where no world-old prejudice frowned upon the union of two
kindred souls. They would wait in patience and silence until spring;
then come the fresh winds from the ocean, and, with them, the birds of
passage which awake the longings in the Norsemen's breasts, and the
American vessels which give courage to many a sinking spirit, strength
to the wearied arm, hope to the hopeless heart.

During that winter Truls and Borghild seldom saw each other. The parish
was filled with rumors, and after the Christmas holiday it was told for
certain that the proud maiden of Skogli had been promised in marriage to
Syvert Stein. It was the general belief that the families had made the
match, and that Borghild, at least, had hardly had any voice in the
matter. Another report was that she had flatly refused to listen to any
proposal from that quarter, and that, when she found that resistance was
vain, she had cried three days and three nights, and refused to take any
food. When this rumor reached the pastor's ear, he pronounced it an
idle tale; "for," said he, "Borghild has always been a proper and
well-behaved maiden, and she knows that she must honor father and
mother, that it may be well with her, and she live long upon the land."

But Borghild sat alone in her gable window and looked longingly toward
the ocean. The glaciers glittered, the rivers swelled, the buds of the
forest burst, and great white sails began to glimmer on the far western
horizon.

If Truls, the Nameless, as scoffers were wont to call him, had been a
greater personage in the valley, it would, no doubt, have shocked the
gossips to know that one fine morning he sold his cow, his gun and his
dog, and wrapped sixty silver dollars in a leathern bag, which he sewed
fast to the girdle he wore about his waist. That same night some one was
heard playing wildly up in the birch copse above the Skogli mansion; now
it sounded like a wail of distress, then like a fierce, defiant laugh,
and now again the music seemed to hush itself into a heart-broken,
sorrowful moan, and the people crossed themselves, and whispered: "Our
Father;" but Borghild sat at her gable window and listened long to the
weird strain. The midnight came, but she stirred not. With the hour
of midnight the music ceased. From the windows of hall and kitchen the
light streamed out into the damp air, and the darkness stood like a wall
on either side; within, maids and lads were busy brewing, baking, and
washing, for in a week there was to be a wedding on the farm.

The week went and the wedding came. Truls had not closed his eyes all
that night, and before daybreak he sauntered down along the beach and
gazed out upon the calm fjord, where the white-winged sea-birds whirled
in great airy surges around the bare crags. Far up above the noisy
throng an ospray sailed on the blue expanse of the sky, and quick as
thought swooped down upon a halibut which had ventured to take a peep
at the rising sun. The huge fish struggled for a moment at the water's
edge, then, with a powerful stroke of its tail, which sent the spray
hissing through the air, dived below the surface. The bird of prey gave
a loud scream, flapped fiercely with its broad wings, and for several
minutes a thickening cloud of applauding ducks and seagulls and
showers of spray hid the combat from the observer's eye. When the birds
scattered, the ospray had vanished, and the waters again glittered
calmly in the morning sun. Truls stood long, vacantly staring out upon
the scene of the conflict, and many strange thoughts whirled through his
head.

"Halloo, fiddler!" cried a couple of lads who had come to clear the
wedding boats, "you are early on foot to-day. Here is a scoop. Come on
and help us bail the boats."

Truls took the scoop, and looked at it as if he had never seen such a
thing before; he moved about heavily, hardly knowing what he did, but
conscious all the while of his own great misery. His limbs seemed half
frozen, and a dull pain gathered about his head and in his breast--in
fact, everywhere and nowhere.

About ten o'clock the bridal procession descended the slope to the
fjord. Syvert Stein, the bridegroom, trod the earth with a firm, springy
step, and spoke many a cheery word to the bride, who walked, silent and
with downcast eyes, at his side. She wore the ancestral bridal crown on
her head, and the little silver disks around its edge tinkled and shook
as she walked. They hailed her with firing of guns and loud hurrahs
as she stepped into the boat; still she did not raise her eyes, but
remained silent. A small cannon, also an heir-loom in the family, was
placed amidships, and Truls, with his violin, took his seat in the prow.
A large solitary cloud, gold-rimmed but with thunder in its breast,
sailed across the sky and threw its shadow over the bridal boat as it
was pushed out from the shore, and the shadow fell upon the bride's
countenance too; and when she lifted it, the mother of the bridegroom,
who sat opposite her, shrank back, for the countenance looked hard, as
if carved in stone--in the eyes a mute, hopeless appeal; on the lips a
frozen prayer. The shadow of thunder upon a life that was opening--it
was an ill omen, and its gloom sank into the hearts of the wedding
guests. They spoke in undertones and threw pitying glances at the bride.
Then at length Syvert Stein lost his patience.

"In sooth," cried he, springing up from his seat, "where is to-day the
cheer that is wont to abide in the Norseman's breast? Methinks I see but
sullen airs and ill-boding glances. Ha, fiddler, now move your strings
lustily! None of your funeral airs, my lad, but a merry tune that shall
sing through marrow and bone, and make the heart leap in the bosom."

Truls heard the words, and in a slow, mechanical way he took the violin
out of its case and raised it to his chin. Syvert in the mean while put
a huge silver beer-jug to his mouth, and, pledging his guests, emptied
it even to the dregs. But the bride's cheek was pale; and it was so
still in the boat that every man could hear his own breathing.

"Ha, to-day is Syvert Stein's wedding-day!" shouted the bridegroom,
growing hot with wrath. "Let us try if the iron voice of the cannon can
wake my guests from their slumber."

He struck a match and put it to the touch-hole of the cannon; a long
boom rolled away over the surface of the waters and startled the echoes
of the distant glaciers. A faint hurrah sounded from the nearest craft,
but there came no response from the bridal boat. Syvert pulled the
powder-horn from his pocket, laughed a wild laugh, and poured the whole
contents of the horn into the mouth of the cannon.

"Now may the devil care for his own," roared he, and sprang up upon the
row-bench. Then there came a low murmuring strain as of wavelets that
ripple against a sandy shore. Borghild lifted her eyes, and they met
those of the fiddler.

"Ah, I think I should rather be your bridegroom," whispered she, and a
ray of life stole into her stony visage.

And she saw herself as a little rosy-cheeked girl sitting at his side
on the beach fifteen years ago. But the music gathered strength from
her glance, and onward it rushed through the noisy years of boyhood,
shouting with wanton voice in the lonely glen, lowing with the cattle
on the mountain pastures, and leaping like the trout at eventide in the
brawling rapids; but through it all there ran a warm strain of boyish
loyalty and strong devotion, and it thawed her frozen heart; for she
knew that it was all for her and for her only. And it seemed such a
beautiful thing, this long faithful life, which through sorrow and joy,
through sunshine and gloom, for better for worse, had clung so fast to
her. The wedding guests raised their heads, and a murmur of applause ran
over the waters.

"Bravo!" cried the bridegroom. "Now at last the tongues are loosed."

Truls's gaze dwelt with tender sadness on the bride. Then came from the
strings some airy quivering chords, faintly flushed like the petals of
the rose, and fragrant like lilies of the valley; and they swelled with
a strong, awakening life, and rose with a stormy fullness until they
seemed on the point of bursting, when again they hushed themselves and
sank into a low, disconsolate whisper. Once more the tones stretched
out their arms imploringly, and again they wrestled despairingly with
themselves, fled with a stern voice of warning, returned once more,
wept, shuddered, and were silent.

"Beware that thou dost not play with a life!" sighed the bride, "even
though it be a worthless one."

The wedding guests clapped their hands and shouted wildly against the
sky. The bride's countenance burned with a strange feverish glow. The
fiddler arose in the prow of the boat, his eyes flamed, he struck the
strings madly, and the air trembled with melodious rapture. The voice
of that music no living tongue can interpret. But the bride fathomed its
meaning; her bosom labored vehemently, her lips quivered for an instant
convulsively, and she burst into tears. A dark suspicion shot through
the bridegroom's mind. He stared intently upon the weeping Borghild then
turned his gaze to the fiddler, who, still regarding her, stood playing,
with a half-frenzied look and motion.

"You cursed wretch!" shrieked Syvert, and made a leap over two benches
to where Truls was standing. It came so unexpectedly that Truls had
no time to prepare for defense; so he merely stretched out the hand in
which he held the violin to ward off the blow which he saw was coming;
but Syvert tore the instrument from his grasp and dashed it against
the cannon, and, as it happened, just against the touch-hole. With a
tremendous crash something black darted through the air and a white
smoke brooded over the bridal boat. The bridegroom stood pale and
stunned. At his feet lay Borghild--lay for a moment still, as if
lifeless, then rose on her elbows, and a dark red current broke from her
breast. The smoke scattered. No one saw how it was done; but a moment
later Truls, the Nameless, lay kneeling at Borghild's side.

"It WAS a worthless life, beloved," whispered he, tenderly. "Now it is
at an end."

And he lifted her up in his arms as one lifts a beloved child, pressed
a kiss on her pale lips, and leaped into the water. Like lead they fell
into the sea. A throng of white bubbles whirled up to the surface. A
loud wail rose from the bridal fleet, and before the day was at an end
it filled the valley; but the wail did not recall Truls, the Nameless,
or Borghild his bride.

What life denied them, would to God that death may yield them!

ASATHOR'S VENGEANCE.

I.

IT was right up under the steel mountain wall where the farm of Kvaerk
lay. How any man of common sense could have hit upon the idea of
building a house there, where none but the goat and the hawk had easy
access, had been, and I am afraid would ever be, a matter of wonder to
the parish people. However, it was not Lage Kvaerk who had built
the house, so he could hardly be made responsible for its situation.
Moreover, to move from a place where one's life has once struck deep
root, even if it be in the chinks and crevices of stones and rocks, is
about the same as to destroy it. An old tree grows but poorly in a new
soil. So Lage Kvaerk thought, and so he said, too, whenever his wife
Elsie spoke of her sunny home at the river.

Gloomy as Lage usually was, he had his brighter moments, and people
noticed that these were most likely to occur when Aasa, his daughter,
was near. Lage was probably also the only being whom Aasa's presence
could cheer; on other people it seemed to have the very opposite effect;
for Aasa was--according to the testimony of those who knew her--the most
peculiar creature that ever was born. But perhaps no one did know her;
if her father was right, no one really did--at least no one but himself.

Aasa was all to her father; she was his past and she was his future, his
hope and his life; and withal it must be admitted that those who judged
her without knowing her had at least in one respect as just an opinion
of her as he; for there was no denying that she was strange, very
strange. She spoke when she ought to be silent, and was silent when it
was proper to speak; wept when she ought to laugh, and laughed when it
was proper to weep; but her laughter as well as her tears, her speech
like her silence, seemed to have their source from within her own soul,
to be occasioned, as it were, by something which no one else could see
or hear. It made little difference where she was; if the tears came, she
yielded to them as if they were something she had long desired in vain.
Few could weep like her, and "weep like Aasa Kvaerk," was soon also
added to the stock of parish proverbs. And then her laugh! Tears may
be inopportune enough, when they come out of time, but laughter is far
worse; and when poor Aasa once burst out into a ringing laughter in
church, and that while the minister was pronouncing the benediction, it
was only with the greatest difficulty that her father could prevent
the indignant congregation from seizing her and carrying her before the
sheriff for violation of the church-peace. Had she been poor and homely,
then of course nothing could have saved her; but she happened to be both
rich and beautiful, and to wealth and beauty much is pardoned. Aasa's
beauty, however, was also of a very unusual kind; not the tame sweetness
so common in her sex, but something of the beauty of the falcon, when it
swoops down upon the unwatchful sparrow or soars round the lonely
crags; something of the mystic depth of the dark tarn, when with bodeful
trembling you gaze down into it, and see its weird traditions rise from
its depth and hover over the pine-tops in the morning fog. Yet, Aasa was
not dark; her hair was as fair and yellow as a wheat-field in August,
her forehead high and clear, and her mouth and chin as if cut with a
chisel; only her eyes were perhaps somewhat deeper than is common in the
North, and the longer you looked at them the deeper they grew, just like
the tarn, which, if you stare long enough into it, you will find is as
deep as the heavens above, that is, whose depth only faith and fancy can
fathom. But however long you looked at Aasa, you could never be quite
sure that she looked at you; she seemed but to half notice whatever went
on around her; the look of her eye was always more than half inward,
and when it shone the brightest, it might well happen that she could not
have told you how many years she had lived, or the name her father gave
her in baptism.

Now Aasa was eighteen years old, and could knit, weave, and spin, and it
was full time that wooers should come. "But that is the consequence of
living in such an out-of-the-way place," said her mother; "who will risk
his limbs to climb that neck-breaking rock? and the round-about way over
the forest is rather too long for a wooer." Besides handling the loom
and the spinning-wheel, Aasa had also learned to churn and make cheese
to perfection, and whenever Elsie grieved at her strange behavior she
always in the end consoled herself with the reflection that after all
Aasa would make the man who should get her an excellent housewife.

The farm of Kvaerk was indeed most singularly situated. About a hundred
feet from the house the rough wall of the mountain rose steep and
threatening; and the most remarkable part of it was that the rock itself
caved inward and formed a lofty arch overhead, which looked like a huge
door leading into the mountain. Some short distance below, the slope of
the fields ended in an abrupt precipice; far underneath lay the other
farm-houses of the valley, scattered like small red or gray dots, and
the river wound onward like a white silver stripe in the shelter of the
dusky forest. There was a path down along the rock, which a goat or a
brisk lad might be induced to climb, if the prize of the experiment were
great enough to justify the hazard. The common road to Kvaerk made a
large circuit around the forest, and reached the valley far up at its
northern end.

It was difficult to get anything to grow at Kvaerk. In the spring all
the valley lay bare and green, before the snow had begun to think of
melting up there; and the night-frost would be sure to make a visit
there, while the fields along the river lay silently drinking the summer
dew. On such occasions the whole family at Kvaerk would have to stay
up during all the night and walk back and forth on either side of the
wheat-fields, carrying a long rope between them and dragging it slowly
over the heads of the rye, to prevent the frost from settling; for as
long as the ears could be kept in motion, they could not freeze. But
what did thrive at Kvaerk in spite of both snow and night-frost was
legends, and they throve perhaps the better for the very sterility of
its material soil. Aasa of course had heard them all and knew them
by heart; they had been her friends from childhood, and her only
companions. All the servants, however, also knew them and many others
besides, and if they were asked how the mansion of Kvaerk happened to be
built like an eagle's nest on the brink of a precipice, they would tell
you the following:

Saint Olaf, Norway's holy king, in the time of his youth had sailed as
a Viking over the wide ocean, and in foreign lands had learned the
doctrine of Christ the White. When he came home to claim the throne of
his hereditary kingdom, he brought with him tapers and black priests,
and commanded the people to overthrow the altars of Odin and Thor and
to believe alone in Christ the White. If any still dared to slaughter
a horse to the old gods, he cut off their ears, burned their farms,
and drove them houseless from the smoking ruins. Here in the valley old
Thor, or, as they called him, Asathor, had always helped us to vengeance
and victory, and gentle Frey for many years had given us fair and
fertile summers. Therefore the peasants paid little heed to King Olaf's
god, and continued to bring their offerings to Odin and Asathor. This
reached the king's ear, and he summoned his bishop and five black
priests, and set out to visit our valley. Having arrived here, he called
the peasants together, stood up on the Ting-stone, told them of the
great things that the White Christ had done, and bade them choose
between him and the old gods. Some were scared, and received baptism
from the king's priests; others bit their lips and were silent; others
again stood forth and told Saint Olaf that Odin and Asathor had always
served them well, and that they were not going to give them up for
Christ the White, whom they had never seen and of whom they knew
nothing. The next night the red cock crew [9] over ten farms in the
valley, and it happened to be theirs who had spoken against King Olaf's
god. Then the peasants flocked to the Ting-stone and received the
baptism of Christ the White. Some few, who had mighty kinsmen in the
North, fled and spread the evil tidings. Only one neither fled nor
was baptized, and that one was Lage Ulfson Kvaerk, the ancestor of
the present Lage. He slew his best steed before Asathor's altar, and
promised to give him whatever he should ask, even to his own life, if he
would save him from the vengeance of the king. Asathor heard his prayer.
As the sun set, a storm sprung up with thick darkness and gloom, the
earth shook, Asathor drove his chariot over the heavens with deafening
thunder and swung his hammer right and left, and the crackling lightning
flew through the air like a hail-storm of fire. Then the peasants
trembled, for they knew that Asathor was wroth. Only the king sat calm
and fearless with his bishop and priests, quaffing the nut-brown mead.
The tempest raged until morn. When the sun rose, Saint Olaf called his
hundred swains, sprang into the saddle and rode down toward the river.
Few men who saw the angry fire in his eye, and the frown on his royal
brow, doubted whither he was bound. But having reached the ford, a
wondrous sight met his eye. Where on the day before the highway had
wound itself up the slope toward Lage Kvaerk's mansion, lay now a wild
ravine; the rock was shattered into a thousand pieces, and a deep gorge,
as if made by a single stroke of a huge hammer, separated the king from
his enemy. Then Saint Olaf made the sign of the cross, and mumbled the
name of Christ the White; but his hundred swains made the sign of the
hammer under their cloaks, and thought, Still is Asathor alive.

That same night Lage Ulfson Kvaerk slew a black ram, and thanked Asathor
for his deliverance; and the Saga tells that while he was sprinkling
the blood on the altar, the thundering god himself appeared to him,
and wilder he looked than the fiercest wild Turk. Rams, said he, were
every-day fare; they could redeem no promise. Brynhild, his daughter,
was the reward Asathor demanded. Lage prayed and besought him to ask
for something else. He would gladly give him one of his sons; for he had
three sons, but only one daughter. Asathor was immovable; but so long
Lage continued to beg, that at last he consented to come back in a
year, when Lage perchance would be better reconciled to the thought of
Brynhild's loss.

In the mean time King Olaf built a church to Christ the White on the
headland at the river, where it stands until this day. Every evening,
when the huge bell rumbled between the mountains, the parishioners
thought they heard heavy, half-choked sighs over in the rocks at Kvaerk;
and on Sunday mornings, when the clear-voiced chimes called them to
high-mass, a suppressed moan would mingle with the sound of the bells,
and die away with the last echo. Lage Ulfson was not the man to be
afraid; yet the church-bells many a time drove the blood from his
cheeks; for he also heard the moan from the mountain.

The year went, and Asathor returned. If he had not told his name,
however, Lage would not have recognized him. That a year could work so
great a change in a god, he would hardly have believed, if his own eyes
had not testified to it. Asathor's cheeks were pale and bloodless, the
lustre of his eye more than half quenched, and his gray hair hung in
disorder down over his forehead.

"Methinks thou lookest rather poorly to-day," said Lage.

"It is only those cursed church-bells," answered the god; "they leave me
no rest day or night."

"Aha," thought Lage, "if the king's bells are mightier than thou, then
there is still hope of safety for my daughter."

"Where is Brynhild, thy daughter?" asked Asathor.

"I know not where she is," answered the father; and straightway he
turned his eyes toward the golden cross that shone over the valley from
Saint Olaf's steeple, and he called aloud on the White Christ's name.
Then the god gave a fearful roar, fell on the ground, writhed and foamed
and vanished into the mountain. In the next moment Lage heard a hoarse
voice crying from within, "I shall return, Lage Ulfson, when thou shalt
least expect me!"

Lage Ulfson then set to work clearing a way through the forest; and when
that was done, he called all his household together, and told them of
the power of Christ the White. Not long after he took his sons and his
daughter, and hastened with them southward, until he found King Olaf.
And, so the Saga relates, they all fell down on their knees before him,
prayed for his forgiveness, and received baptism from the king's own
bishop.

So ends the Saga of Lage Ulfson Kvaerk.

II.

Aasa Kvaerk loved her father well, but especially in the winter. Then,
while she sat turning her spinning-wheel in the light of the crackling
logs, his silent presence always had a wonderfully soothing and calming
effect upon her. She never laughed then, and seldom wept; when she felt
his eyes resting on her, her thoughts, her senses, and her whole being
seemed by degrees to be lured from their hiding-place and concentrate on
him; and from him they ventured again, first timidly, then more boldly,
to grasp the objects around him. At such times Aasa could talk and
jest almost like other girls, and her mother, to whom "other girls"
represented the ideal of womanly perfection, would send significant
glances, full of hope and encouragement, over to Lage, and he would
quietly nod in return, as if to say that he entirely agreed with her.
Then Elsie had bright visions of wooers and thrifty housewives, and even
Lage dreamed of seeing the ancient honor of the family re-established.
All depended on Aasa. She was the last of the mighty race. But when
summer came, the bright visions fled; and the spring winds, which to
others bring life and joy, to Kvaerk brought nothing but sorrow. No
sooner had the mountain brooks begun to swell, than Aasa began to laugh
and to weep; and when the first birches budded up in the glens, she
could no longer be kept at home. Prayers and threats were equally
useless. From early dawn until evening she would roam about in forests
and fields, and when late at night she stole into the room and slipped
away into some corner, Lage drew a deep sigh and thought of the old
tradition.

Aasa was nineteen years old before she had a single wooer. But when she
was least expecting it, the wooer came to her.

It was late one summer night; the young maiden was sitting on the brink
of the ravine, pondering on the old legend and peering down into the
deep below. It was not the first time she had found her way hither,
where but seldom a human foot had dared to tread. To her every alder and
bramble-bush, that clothed the naked wall of the rock, were as familiar
as were the knots and veins in the ceiling of the chamber where from
her childhood she had slept; and as she sat there on the brink of the
precipice, the late summer sun threw its red lustre upon her and upon
the fogs that came drifting up from the deep. With her eyes she followed
the drifting masses of fog, and wondered, as they rose higher and
higher, when they would reach her; in her fancy she saw herself dancing
over the wide expanse of heaven, clad in the sun-gilded evening fogs;
and Saint Olaf, the great and holy king, came riding to meet her,
mounted on a flaming steed made of the glory of a thousand sunsets; then
Saint Olaf took her hand and lifted her up, and she sat with him on the
flaming steed: but the fog lingered in the deep below, and as it rose
it spread like a thin, half-invisible gauze over the forests and the
fields, and at last vanished into the infinite space. But hark! a huge
stone rolls down over the mountain-side, then another, and another; the
noise grows, the birches down there in the gorge tremble and shake.
Aasa leaned out over the brink of the ravine, and, as far as she could
distinguish anything from her dizzying height, thought she saw something
gray creeping slowly up the neck-breaking mountain path; she watched
it for a while, but as it seemed to advance no farther she again took
refuge in her reveries. An hour might have passed, or perhaps more, when
suddenly she heard a noise only a few feet distant, and, again stooping
out over the brink, saw the figure of a man struggling desperately to
climb the last great ledge of the rock. With both his hands he clung to
a little birch-tree which stretched its slender arms down over the black
wall, but with every moment that passed seemed less likely to accomplish
the feat. The girl for a while stood watching him with unfeigned
curiosity, then, suddenly reminding herself that the situation to him
must be a dangerous one, seized hold of a tree that grew near the brink,
and leaned out over the rock to give him her assistance. He eagerly
grasped her extended hand, and with a vigorous pull she flung him up
on the grassy level, where he remained lying for a minute or two,
apparently utterly unable to account for his sudden ascent, and gazing
around him with a half-frightened, half-bewildered look. Aasa, to whom
his appearance was no less strange than his demeanor, unluckily hit
upon the idea that perhaps her rather violent treatment had momentarily
stunned him, and when, as answer to her sympathizing question if he was
hurt, the stranger abruptly rose to his feet and towered up before her
to the formidable height of six feet four or five, she could no longer
master her mirth, but burst out into a most vehement fit of laughter.
He stood calm and silent, and looked at her with a timid but strangely
bitter smile. He was so very different from any man she had ever seen
before; therefore she laughed, not necessarily because he amused her,
but because his whole person was a surprise to her; and there he stood,
tall and gaunt and timid, and said not a word, only gazed and gazed. His
dress was not the national costume of the valley, neither was it like
anything that Aasa had ever known. On his head he wore a cap that hung
all on one side, and was decorated with a long, heavy silk tassel. A
threadbare coat, which seemed to be made expressly not to fit him, hung
loosely on his sloping shoulders, and a pair of gray pantaloons, which
were narrow where they ought to have been wide, and wide where it was
their duty to be narrow, extended their service to a little more than
the upper half of the limb, and, by a kind of compromise with the tops
of the boots, managed to protect also the lower half. His features were
delicate, and would have been called handsome had they belonged to a
proportionately delicate body; in his eyes hovered a dreamy vagueness
which seemed to come and vanish, and to flit from one feature to
another, suggesting the idea of remoteness, and a feeling of hopeless
strangeness to the world and all its concerns.

"Do I inconvenience you, madam?" were the first words he uttered, as
Aasa in her usual abrupt manner stayed her laughter, turned her back on
him, and hastily started for the house.

"Inconvenience?" said she, surprised, and again slowly turned on her
heel; "no, not that I know."

"Then tell me if there are people living here in the neighborhood, or if
the light deceived me, which I saw from the other side of the river."

"Follow me," answered Aasa, and she naïvely reached him her hand; "my
father's name is Lage Ulfson Kvaerk; he lives in the large house you see
straight before you, there on the hill; and my mother lives there too."

And hand in hand they walked together, where a path had been made
between two adjoining rye-fields; his serious smile seemed to grow
milder and happier, the longer he lingered at her side, and her eye
caught a ray of more human intelligence, as it rested on him.

"What do you do up here in the long winter?" asked he, after a pause.

"We sing," answered she, as it were at random, because the word came
into her mind; "and what do you do, where you come from?"

"I gather song."

"Have you ever heard the forest sing?" asked she, curiously.

"That is why I came here."

And again they walked on in silence.

It was near midnight when they entered the large hall at Kvaerk. Aasa
went before, still leading the young man by the hand. In the twilight
which filled the house, the space between the black, smoky rafters
opened a vague vista into the region of the fabulous, and every object
in the room loomed forth from the dusk with exaggerated form and
dimensions. The room appeared at first to be but the haunt of the
spirits of the past; no human voice, no human footstep, was heard; and
the stranger instinctively pressed the hand he held more tightly; for he
was not sure but that he was standing on the boundary of dream-land,
and some elfin maiden had reached him her hand to lure him into her
mountain, where he should live with her forever. But the illusion was of
brief duration; for Aasa's thoughts had taken a widely different course;
it was but seldom she had found herself under the necessity of making a
decision; and now it evidently devolved upon her to find the stranger
a place of rest for the night; so instead of an elf-maid's kiss and a
silver palace, he soon found himself huddled into a dark little alcove
in the wall, where he was told to go to sleep, while Aasa wandered over
to the empty cow-stables, and threw herself down in the hay by the side
of two sleeping milkmaids.

III.

There was not a little astonishment manifested among the servant-maids
at Kvaerk the next morning, when the huge, gaunt figure of a man was
seen to launch forth from Aasa's alcove, and the strangest of all was,
that Aasa herself appeared to be as much astonished as the rest. And
there they stood, all gazing at the bewildered traveler, who indeed was
no less startled than they, and as utterly unable to account for his
own sudden apparition. After a long pause, he summoned all his courage,
fixed his eyes intently on the group of the girls, and with a few rapid
steps advanced toward Aasa, whom he seized by the hand and asked, "Are
you not my maiden of yester-eve?"

She met his gaze firmly, and laid her hand on her forehead as if to
clear her thoughts; as the memory of the night flashed through her mind,
a bright smile lit up her features, and she answered, "You are the man
who gathers song. Forgive me, I was not sure but it was all a dream; for
I dream so much."

Then one of the maids ran out to call Lage Ulfson, who had gone to the
stables to harness the horses; and he came and greeted the unknown man,
and thanked him for last meeting, as is the wont of Norse peasants,
although they had never seen each other until that morning. But when the
stranger had eaten two meals in Lage's house, Lage asked him his name
and his father's occupation; for old Norwegian hospitality forbids the
host to learn the guest's name before he has slept and eaten under his
roof. It was that same afternoon, when they sat together smoking their
pipes under the huge old pine in the yard,--it was then Lage inquired
about the young man's name and family; and the young man said that his
name was Trond Vigfusson, that he had graduated at the University of
Christiania, and that his father had been a lieutenant in the army; but
both he and Trond's mother had died, when Trond was only a few years
old. Lage then told his guest Vigfusson something about his family, but
of the legend of Asathor and Saint Olaf he spoke not a word. And while
they were sitting there talking together, Aasa came and sat down at
Vigfusson's feet; her long golden hair flowed in a waving stream down
over her back and shoulders, there was a fresh, healthful glow on her
cheeks, and her blue, fathomless eyes had a strangely joyous, almost
triumphant expression. The father's gaze dwelt fondly upon her, and
the collegian was but conscious of one thought: that she was wondrously
beautiful. And still so great was his natural timidity and awkwardness
in the presence of women, that it was only with the greatest difficulty
he could master his first impulse to find some excuse for leaving her.
She, however, was aware of no such restraint.

"You said you came to gather song," she said; "where do you find it? for
I too should like to find some new melody for my old thoughts; I have
searched so long."

"I find my songs on the lips of the people," answered he, "and I write
them down as the maidens or the old men sing them."

She did not seem quite to comprehend that. "Do you hear maidens sing
them?" asked she, astonished. "Do you mean the troll-virgins and the
elf-maidens?"

"By troll-virgins and elf-maidens, or what the legends call so, I
understand the hidden and still audible voices of nature, of the dark
pine forests, the legend-haunted glades, and the silent tarns; and this
was what I referred to when I answered your question if I had ever heard
the forest sing."

"Oh, oh!" cried she, delighted, and clapped her hands like a child;
but in another moment she as suddenly grew serious again, and sat
steadfastly gazing into his eye, as if she were trying to look into his
very soul and there to find something kindred to her own lonely heart. A
minute ago her presence had embarrassed him; now, strange to say, he met
her eye, and smiled happily as he met it.

"Do you mean to say that you make your living by writing songs?" asked
Lage.

"The trouble is," answered Vigfusson, "that I make no living at all; but
I have invested a large capital, which is to yield its interest in the
future. There is a treasure of song hidden in every nook and corner of
our mountains and forests, and in our nation's heart. I am one of the
miners who have come to dig it out before time and oblivion shall
have buried every trace of it, and there shall not be even the
will-o'-the-wisp of a legend to hover over the spot, and keep alive the
sad fact of our loss and our blamable negligence."

Here the young man paused; his eyes gleamed, his pale cheeks flushed,
and there was a warmth and an enthusiasm in his words which alarmed
Lage, while on Aasa it worked like the most potent charm of the ancient
mystic runes; she hardly comprehended more than half of the speaker's
meaning, but his fire and eloquence were on this account none the less
powerful.

"If that is your object," remarked Lage, "I think you have hit upon the
right place in coming here. You will be able to pick up many an odd bit
of a story from the servants and others hereabouts, and you are welcome
to stay here with us as long as you choose."

Lage could not but attribute to Vigfusson the merit of having kept Aasa
at home a whole day, and that in the month of midsummer. And while he
sat there listening to their conversation, while he contemplated the
delight that beamed from his daughter's countenance and, as he thought,
the really intelligent expression of her eyes, could he conceal from
himself the paternal hopes that swelled his heart? She was all that was
left him, the life or the death of his mighty race. And here was one who
was likely to understand her, and to whom she seemed willing to yield
all the affection of her warm but wayward heart. Thus ran Lage Ulfson's
reflections; and at night he had a little consultation with Elsie, his
wife, who, it is needless to add, was no less sanguine than he.

"And then Aasa will make an excellent housewife, you know," observed
Elsie. "I will speak to the girl about it to-morrow."

"No, for Heaven's sake, Elsie!" exclaimed Lage, "don't you know your
daughter better than that? Promise me, Elsie, that you will not say a
single word; it would be a cruel thing, Elsie, to mention anything to
her. She is not like other girls, you know."

"Very well, Lage, I shall not say a single word. Alas, you are right,
she is not like other girls." And Elsie again sighed at her husband's
sad ignorance of a woman's nature, and at the still sadder fact of her
daughter's inferiority to the accepted standard of womanhood.

IV.

Trond Vigfusson must have made a rich harvest of legends at Kvaerk, at
least judging by the time he stayed there; for days and weeks passed,
and he had yet said nothing of going. Not that anybody wished him to
go; no, on the contrary, the longer he stayed the more indispensable he
seemed to all; and Lage Ulfson could hardly think without a shudder of
the possibility of his ever having to leave them. For Aasa, his only
child, was like another being in the presence of this stranger; all that
weird, forest-like intensity, that wild, half supernatural tinge in her
character which in a measure excluded her from the blissful feeling of
fellowship with other men, and made her the strange, lonely creature
she was,--all this seemed to vanish as dew in the morning sun when
Vigfusson's eyes rested upon her; and with every day that passed, her
human and womanly nature gained a stronger hold upon her. She followed
him like his shadow on all his wanderings, and when they sat down
together by the wayside, she would sing, in a clear, soft voice, an
ancient lay or ballad, and he would catch her words on his paper, and
smile at the happy prospect of perpetuating what otherwise would
have been lost. Aasa's love, whether conscious or not, was to him an
everlasting source of strength, was a revelation of himself to himself,
and a clearing and widening power which brought ever more and more of
the universe within the scope of his vision. So they lived on from
day to day and from week to week, and, as old Lage remarked, never had
Kvaerk been the scene of so much happiness. Not a single time during
Vigfusson's stay had Aasa fled to the forest, not a meal had she missed,
and at the hours for family devotion she had taken her seat at the big
table with the rest and apparently listened with as much attention and
interest. Indeed, all this time Aasa seemed purposely to avoid the dark
haunts of the woods, and, whenever she could, chose the open highway;
not even Vigfusson's entreaties could induce her to tread the tempting
paths that led into the forest's gloom.

"And why not, Aasa?" he would say; "summer is ten times summer there
when the drowsy noonday spreads its trembling maze of shadows between
those huge, venerable trunks. You can feel the summer creeping into your
very heart and soul, there!"

"Oh, Vigfusson," she would answer, shaking her head mournfully, "for a
hundred paths that lead in, there is only one that leads out again, and
sometimes even that one is nowhere to be found."

He understood her not, but fearing to ask, he remained silent.

His words and his eyes always drew her nearer and nearer to him; and the
forest and its strange voices seemed a dark, opposing influence, which
strove to take possession of her heart and to wrest her away from him
forever; she helplessly clung to him; every thought and emotion of
her soul clustered about him, and every hope of life and happiness was
staked on him.

One evening Vigfusson and old Lage Ulfson had been walking about the
fields to look at the crop, both smoking their evening pipes. But as
they came down toward the brink whence the path leads between the two
adjoining rye-fields, they heard a sweet, sad voice crooning some old
ditty down between the birch-trees at the precipice; they stopped to
listen, and soon recognized Aasa's yellow hair over the tops the
rye; the shadow as of a painful emotion flitted over the father's
countenance, and he turned his back on his guest and started to go; then
again paused, and said, imploringly, "Try to get her home if you can,
friend Vigfusson."

Vigfusson nodded, and Lage went; the song had ceased for a moment, now
it began again:

  "Ye twittering birdlings, in forest and glen
    I have heard you so gladly before;
    But a bold knight hath come to woo me,
    I dare listen to you no more.
  For it is so dark, so dark in the forest.

   "And the knight who hath come a-wooing to me,
    He calls me his love and his own;
    Why then should I stray through the darksome woods,
    Or dream in the glades alone?
  For it is so dark, so dark in the forest."

Her voice fell to a low unintelligible murmur; then it rose, and the
last verses came, clear, soft, and low, drifting on the evening breeze:

   "Yon beckoning world, that shimmering lay
     O'er the woods where the old pines grow,
     That gleamed through the moods of the summer day
     When the breezes were murmuring low
  (And it is so dark, so dark in the forest);

   "Oh let me no more in the sunshine hear
     Its quivering noonday call;
     The bold knight's love is the sun of my heart--
     Is my life, and my all in all.
  But it is so dark, so dark in the forest."

The young man felt the blood rushing to his face--his heart beat
violently. There was a keen sense of guilt in the blush on his cheek, a
loud accusation in the throbbing pulse and the swelling heart-beat. Had
he not stood there behind the maiden's back and cunningly peered into
her soul's holy of holies? True, he loved Aasa; at least he thought he
did, and the conviction was growing stronger with every day that passed.
And now he had no doubt that he had gained her heart. It was not so much
the words of the ballad which had betrayed the secret; he hardly knew
what it was, but somehow the truth had flashed upon him, and he could no
longer doubt.

Vigfusson sat down on the moss-grown rock and pondered. How long he
sat there he did not know, but when he rose and looked around, Aasa
was gone. Then remembering her father's request to bring her home, he
hastened up the hill-side toward the mansion, and searched for her in
all directions. It was near midnight when he returned to Kvaerk, where
Aasa sat in her high gable window, still humming the weird melody of the
old ballad.

By what reasoning Vigfusson arrived at his final conclusion is difficult
to tell. If he had acted according to his first and perhaps most
generous impulse, the matter would soon have been decided; but he was
all the time possessed of a vague fear of acting dishonorably, and it
was probably this very fear which made him do what, to the minds of
those whose friendship and hospitality he had accepted, had something
of the appearance he wished so carefully to avoid. Aasa was rich; he had
nothing; it was a reason for delay, but hardly a conclusive one. They
did not know him; he must go out in the world and prove himself worthy
of her. He would come back when he should have compelled the world to
respect him; for as yet he had done nothing. In fact, his arguments were
good and honorable enough, and there would have been no fault to find
with him, had the object of his love been as capable of reasoning as he
was himself. But Aasa, poor thing, could do nothing by halves; a nature
like hers brooks no delay; to her love was life or it was death.

The next morning he appeared at breakfast with his knapsack on his back,
and otherwise equipped for his journey. It was of no use that Elsie
cried and begged him to stay, that Lage joined his prayers to hers, and
that Aasa stood staring at him with a bewildered gaze. Vigfusson
shook hands with them all, thanked them for their kindness to him,
and promised to return; he held Aasa's hand long in his, but when he
released it, it dropped helplessly at her side.

V.

Far up in the glen, about a mile from Kvaerk, ran a little brook; that
is, it was little in summer and winter, but in the spring, while the
snow was melting up in the mountains, it overflowed the nearest land
and turned the whole glen into a broad and shallow river. It was easy to
cross, however; a light foot might jump from stone to stone, and be over
in a minute. Not the hind herself could be lighter on her foot than Aasa
was; and even in the spring-flood it was her wont to cross and recross
the brook, and to sit dreaming on a large stone against which the water
broke incessantly, rushing in white torrents over its edges.

Here she sat one fair summer day--the day after Vigfusson's departure.
It was noon, and the sun stood high over the forest. The water murmured
and murmured, babbled and whispered, until at length there came a sudden
unceasing tone into its murmur, then another, and it sounded like a
faint whispering song of small airy beings. And as she tried to listen,
to fix the air in her mind, it all ceased again, and she heard but
the monotonous murmuring of the brook. Everything seemed so empty and
worthless, as if that faint melody had been the world of the moment. But
there it was again; it sung and sung, and the birch overhead took up the
melody and rustled it with its leaves, and the grasshopper over in the
grass caught it and whirred it with her wings. The water, the trees, the
air, were full of it. What a strange melody!

Aasa well knew that every brook and river has its Neck, besides hosts
of little water-sprites. She had heard also that in the moonlight at
midsummer, one might chance to see them rocking in bright little
shells, playing among the pebbles, or dancing on the large leaves of the
water-lily. And that they could sing also, she doubted not; it was their
voices she heard through the murmuring of the brook. Aasa eagerly bent
forward and gazed down into the water: the faint song grew louder,
paused suddenly, and sprang into life again; and its sound was so sweet,
so wonderfully alluring! Down there in the water, where a stubborn
pebble kept chafing a precipitous little side current, clear tiny
pearl-drops would leap up from the stream, and float half-wonderingly
downward from rapid to rapid, until they lost themselves in the whirl
of some stronger current. Thus sat Aasa and gazed and gazed, and in one
moment she seemed to see what in the next moment she saw not. Then a
sudden great hush stole through the forest, and in the hush she could
hear the silence calling her name. It was so long since she had been in
the forest, it seemed ages and ages ago. She hardly knew herself; the
light seemed to be shining into her eyes as with a will and purpose,
perhaps to obliterate something, some old dream or memory, or to impart
some new power--the power of seeing the unseen. And this very thought,
this fear of some possible loss, brought the fading memory back, and she
pressed her hands against her throbbing temples as if to bind and chain
it there forever; and it was he to whom her thought returned. She heard
his voice, saw him beckoning to her to follow him, and she rose to obey,
but her limbs were as petrified, and the stone on which she was sitting
held her with the power of a hundred strong arms. The sunshine smote
upon her eyelids, and his name was blotted out from her life; there was
nothing but emptiness all around her. Gradually the forest drew nearer
and nearer, the water bubbled and rippled, and the huge, bare-stemmed
pines stretched their long gnarled arms toward her. The birches waved
their heads with a wistful nod, and the profile of the rock grew into a
face with a long, hooked nose, and a mouth half open as if to speak.
And the word that trembled on his lips was, "Come." She felt no fear nor
reluctance, but rose to obey. Then and not until then she saw an old man
standing at her side; his face was the face of the rock, his white beard
flowed to his girdle, and his mouth was half open, but no word came from
his lips. There was something in the wistful look of his eye which she
knew so well, which she had seen so often, although she could not
tell when or where. The old man extended his hand; Aasa took it, and
fearlessly or rather spontaneously followed. They approached the steep,
rocky wall; as they drew near, a wild, fierce laugh rang through the
forest. The features of the old man were twisted as it were into a grin;
so also were the features of the rock; but the laugh blew like a mighty
blast through the forest.

Aasa clung to the old man's hand and followed him--she knew not whither.

At home in the large sitting-room at Kvaerk sat Lage, brooding over the
wreck of his hopes and his happiness. Aasa had gone to the woods again
the very first day after Vigfusson's departure. What would be the end of
all this? It was already late in the evening, and she had not returned.
The father cast anxious glances toward the door, every time he heard the
latch moving. At last, when it was near midnight, he roused all his
men from their sleep, and commanded them to follow him. Soon the dusky
forests resounded far and near with the blast of horns, the report of
guns, and the calling and shouting of men. The affrighted stag crossed
and recrossed the path of the hunters, but not a rifle was leveled at
its head. Toward morning--it was before the sun had yet risen--Lage,
weary and stunned, stood leaning up against a huge fir. Then suddenly a
fierce, wild laugh rang through the forest. Lage shuddered, raised his
hand slowly and pressed it hard against his forehead, vainly struggling
to clear his thoughts. The men clung fearfully together; a few of the
more courageous ones drew their knives and made the sign of the cross
with them in the air. Again the same mad laugh shook the air, and swept
over the crowns of the pine-trees. Then Lage lifted his eyes toward
heaven and wrung his hands: for the awful truth stood before him. He
remained a long while leaning against that old fir as in a dead stupor;
and no one dared to arouse him. A suppressed murmur reached the men's
ears. "But deliver us from evil" were the last words they heard.

When Lage and his servants came home to Kvaerk with the mournful tidings
of Aasa's disappearance, no one knew what to do or say. There could be
no doubt that Aasa was "mountain-taken," as they call it; for there were
Trolds and dwarfs in all the rocks and forests round about, and they
would hardly let slip the chance of alluring so fair a maiden as Aasa
was into their castles in the mountains. Elsie, her mother, knew a good
deal about the Trolds, their tricks, and their way of living, and
when she had wept her fill, she fell to thinking of the possibility of
regaining her daughter from their power. If Aasa had not yet tasted of
food or drink in the mountain, she was still out of danger; and if the
pastor would allow the church-bell to be brought up into the forest and
rung near the rock where the laugh had been heard, the Trolds could be
compelled to give her back. No sooner had this been suggested to Lage,
than the command was given to muster the whole force of men and horses,
and before evening on the same day the sturdy swains of Kvaerk were seen
climbing the tower of the venerable church, whence soon the huge old
bell descended, to the astonishment of the throng of curious women and
children who had flocked together to see the extraordinary sight. It was
laid upon four large wagons, which had been joined together with ropes
and planks, and drawn away by twelve strong horses. Long after the
strange caravan had vanished in the twilight, the children stood gazing
up into the empty bell-tower.

It was near midnight, when Lage stood at the steep, rocky wall in the
forest; the men were laboring to hoist the church-bell up to a staunch
cross-beam between two mighty fir-trees, and in the weird light of their
torches, the wild surroundings looked wilder and more fantastic. Anon,
the muffled noise and bustle of the work being at an end, the laborers
withdrew, and a strange, feverish silence seemed to brood over the
forest. Lage took a step forward, and seized the bell-rope; the clear,
conquering toll of the metal rung solemnly through the silence, and from
the rocks, the earth, and the tree-tops, rose a fierce chorus of howls,
groans, and screams. All night the ringing continued; the old trees
swayed to and fro, creaked, and groaned, the roots loosened their holds
in the fissures of the rock, and the bushy crowns bowed low under their
unwonted burden.

It was well-nigh morn, but the dense fog still brooded over the woods,
and it was dark as night. Lage was sitting on the ground, his head
leaning on both his elbows; at his side lay the flickering torch, and
the huge bell hung dumb overhead. In the dark he felt a hand touch
his shoulder; had it happened only a few hours before, he would have
shuddered; now the physical sensation hardly communicated itself to his
mind, or, if it did, had no power to rouse him from his dead, hopeless
apathy. Suddenly--could he trust his own ears?--the church-bell gave a
slow, solemn, quivering stroke, and the fogs rolled in thick masses to
the east and to the west, as if blown by the breath of the sound. Lage
seized his torch, sprang to his feet, and saw--Vigfusson. He stretched
his arm with the blazing torch closer to the young man's face, stared
at him with large eyes, and his lip quivered; but he could not utter a
word.

"Vigfusson?" faltered he at last.

"It is I;" and the second stroke followed, stronger and more solemn than
the first. The same fierce, angry voices chorused forth from every
nook of the rock and the woods. Then came the third--the noise grew;
fourth--and it sounded like a hoarse, angry hiss; when the twelfth
stroke fell, silence reigned again in the forest. Vigfusson dropped the
bell-rope, and with a loud voice called Lage Kvaerk and his men. He
lit a torch, held it aloft over his head, and peered through the dusky
night. The men spread through the highlands to search for the lost
maiden; Lage followed close in Vigfusson's footsteps. They had not
walked far when they heard the babbling of the brook only a few feet
away. Thither they directed their steps. On a large stone in the middle
of the stream the youth thought he saw something white, like a large
kerchief. Quick as thought he was at its side, bowed down with his
torch, and--fell backward. It was Aasa, his beloved, cold and dead;
but as the father stooped over his dead child the same mad laugh echoed
wildly throughout the wide woods, but madder and louder than ever
before, and from the rocky wall came a fierce, broken voice:

"I came at last."

When, after an hour of vain search, the men returned to the place whence
they had started, they saw a faint light flickering between the birches
not fifty feet away; they formed a firm column, and with fearful hearts
drew nearer. There lay Lage Kvaerk, their master, still bending down
over his child's pale features, and staring into her sunken eyes as if
he could not believe that she were really dead. And at his side stood
Vigfusson, pale and aghast, with the burning torch in his hand. The
footsteps of the men awakened the father, but when he turned his face on
them they shuddered and started back. Then Lage rose, lifted the maiden
from the stone, and silently laid her in Vigfusson's arms; her rich
yellow hair flowed down over his shoulder. The youth let his torch
fall into the waters, and with a sharp, serpent-like hiss its flame
was quenched. He crossed the brook; the men followed, and the dark
pine-trees closed over the last descendant of Lage Ulfson's mighty race.

Footnotes:

[1] "I am a Dane. I speak Danish."

[2] Examen artium is the entrance examination to the Norwegian
University, and philosophicum the first degree. The ranks given at these
are Laudabilis prae ceteris (in student's parlance, prae), laudabilis or
laud, haud illaudabilis, or haud, etc.

[3] Free translation of a Swedish serenade, the name of whose author I
have forgotten. H. H. B.

[4] Translation, from "Exotics. By J. F. C. & C. L."

[5] In the country districts of Norway Saturday evening is regarded as
"the wooer's eve."

[6] The saeter is a place in the mountains where the Norwegian peasants
spend their summers pasturing their cattle. Every large farm has its own
saeter, consisting of one or more chalets, hedged in by a fence of stone
or planks.

[7] Katzenjammer is the sensation a man has the morning after a
carousal.

[8] A stave is an improvised responsive song. It is an ancient
pastime in Norway, and is kept up until this day, especially among
the peasantry. The students, also, at their social gatherings, throw
improvised rhymes to each other across the table, and the rest of the
company repeat the refrain.

[9] "The red cock crew" is the expression used in the old Norwegian
Fagas for incendiary fire.