"Stay, stay!" she cried in penetrating accents. "Who comes from the South with Olaf? The clouds drive fast before the wind—clouds rest on the edge of the dark Fjord—sails red as blood flash against the sky—who comes with Olaf? Fair hair ripples against his breast like streaming sunbeams; eyes blue as the glitter of the northern lights, are looking upon him—lips crimson and heavy with kisses for Olaf—ah!" She broke off with a cry, and beat the air with her hands as though to keep some threatening thing away from her. "Back, back! Dead bride of Olaf, torment me no more—back, I say! See,"—and she pointed into the darkness before her—"The pale, pale face—the long glittering hair twisted like a snake of gold,—she glides along the path across the mountains,—the child follows!—the child! Why not kill the child as well—why not?"
She stopped suddenly with a wild laugh. The bonde had listened to her ravings with something of horror, his ruddy cheeks growing paler.
"By the gods, this is strange!" he muttered. "She seems to speak of my wife,—yet what can she know of her?"
For some moments there was silence. Lovisa seemed to have exhausted her strength. Presently, however, she put aside her straggling white hairs from her forehead, and demanded fiercely—
"Where is my grandchild? Where is Britta?"
Neither Güldmar nor Ulrika made any reply. But Britta's name recalled the old woman to herself, and when she spoke again it was quite collectedly, and in her usual harsh voice. She seemed to forget all that she had just uttered, for she turned her eyes upon the bonde, as though she had but then perceived him.
"So you are come, Olaf Güldmar!" she said. "It is well—for the hand of Death is upon me."
"It is well, indeed, if I can be of service, Lovisa Elsland," responded Güldmar, "though I am but a sorry consoler, holding as I do, that death is the chief blessing, and in no way to be regretted at any time. Moreover, when the body grows too weak to support the soul, 'tis as well to escape from it with what speed we may."
"Escape—escape? Where?" asked Lovisa. "From the worm that dieth not? From the devouring fame that is never quenched? From the torturing thirst and heat and darkness of hell, who shall escape?"
"Nay, if that is all the comfort thy creed can give thee," said the bonde, with a half-smile, "'tis but a poor staff to lean on!"