The bonde's face lightened with extraordinary rapture.
"I thank thee, old friend!" he said in low but glad accents. "Thou knowest I could not be at peace in any other grave. I have suffered in thine absence,—the sufferings of the body that, being yet strong in spite of age, is reluctant to take leave of life. But it is past! I am as one numbed with everlasting frost,—and now I feel no pain. And my mind is like a bird that poises for a while over past and present, ere soaring into the far future. There are things I must yet say to thee, Valdemar,—give me thy close hearing, for my voice is weak."
Svensen drew closer, and stood in the humble attitude of one who waits a command from some supreme chief.
"This letter," went on the old man, giving him a folded paper, "is to the child of my heart, my Thelma. Send it to her—when—I am gone. It will not grieve her, I hope—for, as far as I could find words, I have expressed therein nothing but joy—the joy of a prisoner set free. Tell her, that with all the strength of my perishing body and escaping soul, I blessed her! . . . her and the husband in whose arms she rests in safety." He raised his trembling hands solemnly—"The gods of my fathers and their attendant spirits have her young life in their glorious keeping!—the joy of love and purity and peace be on her innocent head for ever!"
He paused,—the wind wailed mournfully round the house and shook the lattice with a sort of stealthy clatter, like a forlorn wanderer striving to creep in to warmth and shelter.
"Here, Valdemar," continued the bonde presently, in fainter accents, at the same time handing him another paper. "Here are some scrawled lines—they are plainly set forth and signed—which make thee master of this poor place and all that it contains."
A low, choked sob broke from Valdemar's broad breast—he covered his face with his hands.
"Of what avail?" he murmured brokenly. "When my lord departs, I am alone and friendless!"
The bonde regarded him with kindly pity.
"Tears from the stout heart?" he inquired with a sort of grave wonder. "Weep for life, Valdemar—not for death! Alone and friendless? Not while the gods are in heaven! Cheer thee—thou art strong and in vigorous pride of manhood—why should not bright days come for thee—" He broke off with a gasp—a sudden access of pain convulsed him and rendered his breathing difficult. By sheer force of will he mastered the cruel agony, though great drops of sweat stood on his brow when he at last found voice to continue—