"Hear her," murmured Sigurd plaintively. "She is always complaining; it
is a pity she cannot rest! She is a spirit, you know. I have often asked
her what troubles her, but she will not tell me; she only weeps!"
His companion looked at him compassionately. The sound that so affected
his disordered imagination was nothing but the wind blowing through the
narrow hole formed by the removal of the stone; but it was useless to
explain this simple fact to one in his condition.
"Tell me," and Sir Philip spoke very gently, "is this your home?"
The dwarf surveyed him almost scornfully. "_My_ home!" he echoed. "My
home is everywhere--on the mountains, in the forests, on the black rocks
and barren shores! My soul lives between the sun and the sea; my heart
is with Thelma!"
Thelma! Here was perhaps a clue to the mystery.
"Who is Thelma?" asked Errington somewhat hurriedly.
Sigurd broke into violent and derisive laughter. "Do you think I will
tell _you_?" he cried loudly. "_You_,--one of that strong, cruel race
who must conquer all they see; who covet everything fair under heaven,
and will buy it, even at the cost of blood and tears! Do you think I
will unlock the door of my treasure to _you_? No, no; besides," and his
voice sank lower, "what should you do with Thelma? She is dead!"
And, as if possessed by a sudden access of frenzy, he brandished his
pine-torch wildly above his head till it showered a rain of bright
sparks above him, and exclaimed furiously--"Away, away, and trouble me
not! The days are not yet fulfilled,--the time is not yet ripe.
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