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. . then we shall love each other and talk of such
strange, strange things!" He paused and laughed wildly. Then his voice
sank again into melancholy monotony--and he added: "Mistress, you are
killing poor Sigurd!"
Thelma's face grow very earnest and anxious. "Are you vexed with me,
dear?" she asked soothingly. "Tell me what it is that troubles you?"
Sigurd met her eyes with a look of speechless despair and shook his
head.
"I cannot tell you!" he muttered. "All my thoughts have gone to drown
themselves one by one in the cold sea! My heart was buried yesterday,
and I saw it sealed down into its coffin. There is something of me
left,--something that dances before me like a flame,--but it will not
rest, it does not obey me. I call it, but it will not come! And I am
getting tired, mistress--very, very tired!" His voice broke, and a low
sob escaped him,--he hid his face in the folds of her dress. Gueldmar
looked at the poor fellow compassionately.
"The wits wander further and further away!" he said to his daughter in a
low tone.


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