People don't kill
each other nowadays so easily as you seem to think. It can't be done,
Sigurd! Nobody wants to do it."
"It _can_ be done!" reiterated the dwarf imperatively. "It _must_ be
done, and either you or I will do it! He shall not rob us,--he shall not
steal the treasure of the golden midnight. He shall not gather the rose
of all roses--"
"Stop!" said Lorimer suddenly. "Who are you talking about?"
"Who!" cried Sigurd excitedly. "Surely you know. Of him--that tall,
proud, grey-eyed Englishman,--your foe, your rival; the rich, cruel
Errington. . . ."
Lorimer's hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and his voice was very
stern.
"What nonsense, Sigurd! You don't know what you are talking about
to-day. Errington my foe! Good heavens! Why, he's my best friend! Do you
hear?"
Sigurd stared up at him in vacant surprise, but nodded feebly.
"Well, mind you remember it! The spirits tell lies, my boy, if they say
that he is my enemy. I would give my life to save his!"
He spoke quietly, and rose from his seat on the moss as he finished his
words, and his face had an expression that was both noble and resolute.
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