She stared vacantly at Gueldmar, whose picturesque
head was illumined by the ruddy glow of the fire--and feebly shaded her
eyes as though she saw something that hurt them. Ulrika raised her on
her tumbled pillow, and saying, in cold, unmoved tones--"Speak now, for
the time is short," she once more beckoned the _bonde_ imperatively.
He approached slowly.
"Lovisa Elsland," he began in distinct tones, addressing himself to
that ghastly countenance still partly shaded by one hand. "I am
here--Olaf Gueldmar. Dost thou know me?"
At the sound of his voice, a strange spasm contorted the withered
features of the dying woman. She bent her head as though to listen to
some far-off echo, and held up her skinny finger as though enjoining
silence.
"Know thee!" she babbled whisperingly. "How should I not know the
brown-haired Olaf! Olaf of the merry eye--Olaf, the pride of the Norse
maiden?" She lifted herself in a more erect attitude, and stretching out
her lean arms, went on as though chanting a monotonous recitative.
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