"This letter," went on the old man, giving him a folded paper, "is to
the child of my heart, my Thelma. Send it to her--when--I am gone. It
will not grieve her, I hope--for, as far as I could find words, I have
expressed therein nothing but joy--the joy of a prisoner set free. Tell
her, that with all the strength of my perishing body and escaping soul,
I blessed her! . . . her and the husband in whose arms she rests in
safety." He raised his trembling hands solemnly--"The gods of my fathers
and their attendant spirits have her young life in their glorious
keeping!--the joy of love and purity and peace be on her innocent head
for ever!"
He paused,--the wind wailed mournfully round the house and shook the
lattice with a sort of stealthy clatter, like a forlorn wanderer
striving to creep in to warmth and shelter.
"Here, Valdemar," continued the _bonde_ presently, in fainter accents,
at the same time handing him another paper. "Here are some scrawled
lines--they are plainly set forth and signed--which make thee master of
this poor place and all that it contains.
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