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"That is well, Britta," said Gueldmar, speaking in English, and assisting
her to place the glasses. "Now, quick! . . . run after thy mistress to
the shore,--her boat cannot yet have left the creek,--bid her return and
come to me,--tell her there are friends here who will be glad of her
presence."
Britta hurried away at once, but Errington's heart sank. Thelma had
gone!--gone, most probably, for one of those erratic journeys across the
Fjord to the cave where he had first seen her. She would not come back,
he felt certain; not even at her father's request would that beautiful,
proud maiden consent to alter her plans. What an unlucky destiny was
his! Absorbed in disappointed reflections, he scarcely heard the
enthusiastic praises Lorimer was diplomatically bestowing on the
_bonde's_ wine. He hardly felt its mellow flavor on his own palate,
though it was in truth delicious, and fit for the table of a monarch.
Gueldmar noticed the young baronet's abstraction, and addressed him with
genial kindness.


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