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It was an ugly little
creature--a newly born infant deformity--and on its chest there was a
horrible scar in the shape of a cross, as though it had been gashed
deeply with a pen-knife. I thought it was dead, and was for throwing it
back into the Fjord, but my wife,--a tender-hearted angel--took the poor
wretched little wet body in her arms, and found that it breathed. She
warmed it, dried it, and wrapped it in her shawl,--and after awhile the
tiny monster opened its eyes and stared at her. Well! . . . somehow,
neither of us could forget the look it gave us,--such a solemn, warning,
pitiful, appealing sort of expression! There was no resisting it,--so we
took the foundling and did the best we could for him. We gave him the
name of Sigurd,--and when Thelma was born, the two babies used to play
together all day, and we never noticed anything wrong with the boy,
except his natural deformity, till he was about ten or twelve years old.
Then we saw to our sorrow that the gods had chosen to play havoc with
his wits.


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