There was now no sun at all. The burnish was gone from every part of the landscape, and a mild twilight reigned.
One good omen had vanished; but there was still enchantment around; for again she heard the thrilling “Erica.”
There was no huge beast glaring through the pine stems, and trampling down the thicket; but, instead, there was the figure of a man advancing from the shadow into the pasture.
“Why do you take that form?” said the trembling girl, sinking down on the bench. “I had rather have seen you as a bear. Did you not find the axe? I laid it for you. Pray,—pray, come no nearer.”
“I must, my love, to show you that it is your own Rolf. Erica, do not let your superstition come for ever between us.”
She held out her arms;—she could not rise, though she strove to do so. Rolf sat beside her,—she felt his kisses on her forehead,—she felt his heart beat,—she felt that not even a spirit could assume the very tones of that voice.
“Do forgive me,” she murmured; “but it is Midsummer Eve; and I felt so sure—”
“As sure of my being the demon as I am sure there is no cruel spirit here, though it is Midsummer Eve. Look, love! See how the day smiles upon us!”
And he pointed to where a golden star seemed to kindle on the edge of the sea. It was the sun again, rising after its few minutes of absence.
“I saw two just now,” cried Erica,—“two suns. Where are we, really? And how is all this? And where do you come from?”