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The old gods teach Sigurd all his
wisdom--the gods of the sea and the wind--the sleepy gods that lie in
the hearts of the flowers--the small spirits that sit in shells and sing
all day and all night." He paused, and his eyes filled with a wistful
look of attention. He drew closer.
"Come," he said earnestly, "come, you must listen to my music; perhaps
you can tell me what it means."
He picked up his smouldering torch and held it aloft again; then,
beckoning Errington to follow him, he led the way to a small grotto, cut
deeply into the wall of the cavern. Here there were no shell patterns.
Little green ferns grew thickly out of the stone crevices, and a minute
runlet of water trickled slowly down from above, freshening the delicate
frondage as it fell. With quick, agile fingers he removed a loose stone
from this aperture, and as he did so, a low shuddering wail resounded
through the arches--a melancholy moan that rose and sank, and rose again
in weird, sorrowful minor echoes.


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