Petra had seated herself at the piano in the dining room, and now they heard her singing:
"The morning has dawned, and joy to awaken,
--The forts of despondency stormed and taken,--
Over the glowing mountain tops,
The host of the king of daylight drops.
'Up, up, up,' little birds of the wood,
'Up, up, up,' little children good,
And up, my hope with the sun!"
And then a storm swept over the instrument, and out of it burst the following song:
"In vain you may plead,
For my boat I must lead,
Through the breakers rough,
To the tempest tough.
And should it be proved the last push from the shore,
I must venture what never I ventured before.
Not for fancy or boast
Do I leave your coast;--
I must reach the deep sea,
And the waves ride free.
I must e'en see the keel, as she cuts through the wave,
And thus prove if my vessel knows how to behave!"
No, this was too much for the dean, he snatched the book from Signe's hand, and rushed to the door; this time she did not hold him back. He went straight to Petra, threw the book on the piano before her, turned, and strode across the room; when he came back, she had risen, and pressing the book to her heart, she looked all round with a confused expression. He stopped to give her his full mind, but his anger at the thought that for more than two years he had been made use of by this wily girl, and especially that his warm-hearted, affectionate daughter had been duped by her, came so forcibly before him, that he did not at once find words,--and when he did find them, he felt they were too hard. After striding once more across the floor, and once more coming opposite to her, his face scarlet, he turned his back, and without a word walked into his study. When he came there, Signe was gone.
All that day they kept to their own rooms. The dean dined alone, neither of the girls appeared. Petra was in the housekeeper's room, which had been alloted to her since the fire; she sought all over for Signe to explain to her, but in vain: she could not be at home.