Her eyes rested on the lovely scene before her. From the elevation at which she was, it appeared as if the ocean swelled up into the very sky, so high was the horizon line; and between lay a vast region of rock and river, hill and dale, forest, fiord, and town, part in golden sunlight, part in deep shadow, but all, though bright as the skies could make it, silent as became the hour. As Erica found that she could glance at the sun itself without losing sight of the cattle, which still lay within her indirect vision, she carefully watched the descent of the orb, anxious to observe precisely when it should disappear, and how soon its golden spark would kindle up again from the waves. When its lower rim was just touching the waters, its circle seemed to be of an enormous size, and its whole mass to be flaming. Its appearance was very unlike that of the comparatively small, compact, brilliant luminary which rides the sky at noon. Erica was just thinking so, when a rustle in the thicket, within the pine grove, made her involuntarily turn her head in that direction. Instantly remembering that it was a common device of the underground people for one of them to make the watcher look away, in order that others might drive off the cattle, she resumed her duty, and gazed steadfastly at the herd. They were safe—neither reduced to the size of mice, nor wandering off, though she had let her eye glance away from them.
The sky, however, did not look itself. There were two suns in it. Now Erica really did quite forget the herd for some time, even her dear white heifer—while she stared bewildered at the spectacle before her eyes. There was one sun, the sun she had always known—half sunk in the sea, while above it hung another, round and complete, somewhat less bright perhaps, but as distinct and plain before her eyes as any object in heaven or earth had ever been. Her work dropped from her hands, as she covered her eyes for a moment. She started to her feet, and then looked again. It was still there, though the lower sun was almost gone. As she stood gazing, she once more heard the rustle in the wood. Though it crossed her mind that the wood-demon was doubtless there making choice of his axe and his tree, she could not move, and had not even a wish to take refuge in the house, so wonderful was his spectacle—the clearest instance of enchantment she had ever seen. Was it meant for good—a token that the coming year was to be a doubly bright one? If not, how was she to understand it?
"Erica!" cried a voice at this moment from the wood—a voice which thrilled her whole frame. "My Erica!"
She not only looked towards the wood now, but sprang forwards; but her eyes were so dazzled by having gazed at the sun that she could see nothing. Then she remembered how many forms the cunning demon could assume, and she turned back thinking how cruel it was to delude her with her lover's voice, when instead of his form she should doubtless see some horrid monster. She turned in haste, and laid her hand on the latch of the door, glancing once more at the horizon.
There was now no sun at all. The burnish was gone from every point 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 Mid-summer Eve, and I felt so sure——"