As she spoke, the old man looked at her with dim blue eyes, and seemed to listen as one in a dream. When she ceased, he appeared for a moment lost in thought; then he said slowly and dreamily:
“Yes, thou shalt learn it, Aino; thou shalt hear of the birth of the harp, of the magic fish and of the mighty hero Wainamoinen, little Aino.”
“’Tis our own little maid, Aino, that we lost so long ago!” whispered the old dame to Elsa, as the tears streamed down her face; “thou art so like her!”
But she hushed her whisper, as suddenly the old peasant began to sing in a weak, quavering voice that seemed to grow stronger as he sang, the beautiful lines telling how the ancient Wainamoinen fashioned the first harp, and how he sang till all the birds forsook their nests, the fishes their deep sea homes, and all the creatures of the woods, nay, the very trees themselves, trooped forth from the forests that they might listen to his enchanting music.
As Elsa heard, the tears came into her own eyes, for she was a poetic little soul and quickly touched by anything beautiful. When the peasant Ulricborg had almost finished the rune, he suddenly broke off and lay back on his pillow exhausted. He lay for so long a while with closed eyes, that both the dame and Elsa grew frightened; but presently he again looked at them, his vision becoming brighter; in a little while all seemed to grow clear to him. He gazed kindly at Elsa, for something about the little girl seemed strangely to soften the old man. He noticed her little kantele, and it seemed to interest him, as he motioned her to lay it beside him. He looked at it a while, and tried once or twice to touch its strings to music, but his strength failed him.
Presently, he said feebly:
“Ah, I thought thou wert Aino come back for me!—but never mind—the rune thou wishest, I can not show thee its music now,”—here he looked sadly at his stiffened fingers, “but the rune itself, yes, thou shalt have it, little one!” Then he added slowly, as he gazed dreamily into Elsa’s shining eyes:
“For thou, too, wilt love it truly!”
Here, as he paused a while, Dame Ulricborg could scarcely hide her amazement, knowing how often before he had wilfully refused the same request from others. Indeed, the peasant Ulricborg had all his life loved poetry with a singular passion; and this particular rune, which had come down in his family, he seemed to set apart as something almost sacred; he treasured its verses as misers hoard gold pieces. Whether he thought it too beautiful to be made overcommon, or for what reason, no one knew; that was his oddity. So, while he sang it sometimes to those he considered worthy, he would teach it to none.