"Listen!" she whispered. A low wailing, like the cry of a distressed
child, swept round and round the house, followed by a gust of wind and a
clattering shower of hailstones. A strange blue light leaped up from the
sparkling log fire, and cast an unearthly glow through the room. A deep
stillness ensued.
Then--steady and clear and resonant--a single sound echoed through the
air, like a long note played on an exceedingly sweet silver trumpet. It
began softly--swelled to a crescendo--then died delicately away. Gueldmar
raised his head--his face was full of rapt and expectant gravity,--his
action, too, was somewhat singular, for he drew the knife from his
girdle and kissed the hilt solemnly, returning it immediately to its
sheath. At the same moment Lovisa uttered a loud cry, and flinging the
coverings from her, strove to rise from her bed. Ulrika held her
firmly,--she struggled feebly yet determinedly, gazing the while with
straining, eager, glassy eyes into the gloom of the opposite corner.
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