His neighbors followed his example,--and,
save for two or three red glimmers of light here and there, the little
village looked as though it had been deserted long ago--a picture of
frost-bound silence and solitude.
Meanwhile, in Lovisa Elsland's close and comfortless dwelling, stood
Olaf Gueldmar. His strong, stately figure, wrapped in furs, seemed almost
to fill the little place--he had thrown aside the thick scarf of wadmel
in which he had been wrapped to the eyes while driving in the teeth of
the wind,--and he now lifted his fur cap, thus displaying his silvery
hair, ruddy features, and open, massive brow. At that moment a woman who
was busying herself in putting fresh pine-logs on the smouldering fire,
turned and regarded him intently.
"Lord, Lord!" she muttered--"'tis a man of men,--he rejoiceth in his
strength, even as the lion,--and of what avail shall the curse of the
wicked avail against the soul that is firmly established!"
Gueldmar heard her not--he was looking towards a low pallet bed, on which
lay, extended at full length, an apparently insensible form.
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