“Yes, yes,” she said, “I know that ballad perfectly well: it was composed by the Baroness Hilda. My father found it among the papers that were seized at Stollborg, and left at our house by his predecessor. There were also several Scandinavian poems, which the poor lady had translated into verse and set to music, for she was a very skilful musician; a real artist, indeed. That was one of the things they brought against her to prove that she worshipped pagan gods. My father blamed the former minister very much for his conduct, and he has carefully preserved these precious manuscripts.”
“Now, Karine,” said M. Goefle to the seeress, who had fallen into a sort of quiet ecstasy, “have you nothing more to say?”
“Leave me,” answered Karine, who had entered into another phase of her trance; “leave me! I must go to the hogar, to meet him who is to return.”
“Who told you so?” inquired Christian.
“The stork who perches on the roof-top, and who bears to mothers, seated under the chimney-corner, news of their absent sons. That is why I put on the dress that my well-beloved gave me, so that he might at least see something of his mother. For three days I have been waiting for him, I have been singing to him to draw him hither; but at last he has come,—I feel him near me. Bring bluebells, bring violets, and call old Stenson, so that he may rejoice before he dies. Poor Stenson!”
“Why do you say poor Stenson?” cried Christian, terrified. “Do you see him in your vision?”
“Leave me,” replied Karine; “I have said,—now the vala sinks again into the night.”
Karine closed her eyes and tottered.
“That means that she wishes to sleep now,” said the danneman, receiving her in his arms. “I will seat her here, for she must sleep wherever she may be.”
“No, no,” said Margaret, “we will lead her into the other room, where there is a large sofa. Poor woman, she is burning with fever and exhausted with fatigue. Come!”