The sweet liquid notes were
those of an old Norwegian mountain melody, one of those wildly pathetic
_folk-songs_ that seem to hold all the sorrow, wonder, wistfulness, and
indescribable yearning of a heart too full for other speech than music.
He started to his feet and looked around him for the singer. There was
no one visible. The amber streaks in the sky were leaping into crimson
flame; the Fjord glowed like the burning lake of Dante's vision; one
solitary sea-gull winged its graceful, noiseless flight far above, its
white pinions shimmering like jewels as it crossed the radiance of the
heavens. Other sign of animal life there was none. Still the hidden
voice rippled on in a stream of melody, and the listener stood amazed
and enchanted at the roundness and distinctness of every note that fell
from the lips of the unseen vocalist.
"A woman's voice," he thought; "but where is the woman?"
Puzzled, he looked to the right and left, then out to the shining Fjord,
half expecting to see some fisher-maiden rowing along, and singing as
she rowed, but there was no sign of any living creature.
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