The fiddler nodded.
* * * * *
Olof walked up to a young girl and bowed. The fiddler broke off, and struck up a polka at such a furious pace that the dancers stopped and looked at one another in surprise.
But Olof went off in wild career with his partner, and several other pairs followed. These, however, soon fell out, and all stood watching the bridegroom, who danced like a man bewitched. His eyes blazed, a strange smile played about his lips, and his head was lifted defiantly.
The onlookers were filled with admiration and wonder—never had they seen such a dance! Olof took a second partner, then a third; danced a couple of rounds with each, and took a new. He did not lead them to their places after, but slipped each lightly, bowed to another, and whirled her off at the same furious pace.
"What's come over him now?" whispered the guests.
"He's going to dance with them all—for the last time, it seems."
"Ay, it looks like it!" And they laughed and watched the extraordinary scene—after all, it would have been strange if something out of the common had not happened at Olof's wedding.
Once more Olof set his partner down and bowed to another. Formally this time, as if with emphasis: it was Kyllikki he had chosen now. The girl stood dismayed, uneasy, not knowing what to think.
The fiddler, noting who was the latest choice, pressed his instrument closer under his chin, and put his whole fire into the work. The music swelled and sank, the bridal pair danced lightly and gracefully—sight to see. Once, twice, three times, four times round, and still they danced.