Claude took all this in at a glance. But none of these things interested him. His eyes were riveted on the only figure now in the room. A beautiful young girl, almost spirit-like she looked. So thought Claude. She stood leaning against the piano reading a tiny gilt-edged book. She was dressed in a long flowing robe of crimson adorned with snow-white fur. Her fair hair floated free over her shoulders, and her sweet face seemed very sad as she read, all unconscious of Claude’s wondering gaze. But presently she became aware of it. A slight tint of crimson suffused her face, but next moment she advanced boldly towards the bed, and laid her hand—such a tiny hand—on his brow.
Claude would have spoken, but she lifted a finger and beckoned him to lie silent.
Lie silent? Yes. Claude would not have disobeyed the behests of so sweet a nurse whatever they might have been.
There was food to be partaken of; he took it. Nauseous brown medicine also; he quaffed it.
Presently, however, there was a change of nurses. One of the droll old ladies came back, and remained an hour. Claude thought it ten, and felt in the third heaven when his young nurse again returned.
She seated herself at a little table facing Claude, and without even knocking at the door, Byarnie the giant stepped in, and placed a zither in front of her. It was a strange household, but, altogether, Iceland is a strange place.
She was going to play to soothe her patient. And sweetly she played too. Old-world airs, but how delicate the touch, how tasteful the fingering. And now she sings. “Who,” thought Claude, “can have taught her that wild sad song? Can a girl so young as she have loved and lost?”
“She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing;
But coldly she turns to his grave and weeps,
For her heart with her hero is lying.”
But Claude’s sorrow was to come. Inflammation was succeeded by high fever, and for days he lay in a state of delirium—dreamful, racking, burning delirium.
Then came peace and calmness.