But now it was too late. The girl's inner eye had already seen the vision in its first form, and the preacher's exciting interpretation had etched in that first delusion. He had toyed with the spirits of nature, conjured a foe to help him, as he believed, and then all had gone over to the foe so that he now stood alone.
While Mary's glances were still riveted to the preacher on the rock, he turned, as a trial, to the mother and whispered:
"Help us out of this. Follow me out to the skerry and see that it is only a plaything, a birthday joke."
"I cannot judge in these things," answered the mother, "and will not judge. But I believe ... that you should be married soon."
It was an advice, sober, prosaic, but from this old lady, who was herself a mother, it sounded so prudent, especially as it agreed with his own sharp understanding, he found, however, the explanation somewhat simplified. And after the hint he had received he went straight to the girl, and placing his arm round her waist, looked into her eyes with a smile, which she could not fail to understand, and kissed her lips.
At the same moment the girl seemed released from the wizard up on the rock, and without resistance she clung to her friend's arm and followed him almost dancing to her mother's cottage.
"Thanks," whispered she as she glanced into his eyes, "I thank you that you—how shall I say it?"
"Delivered you from the hobgoblin," filled in Borg.
"Yes, from the goblins!"
And she turned to look at the passed danger.