But there, most certainly, Olaf
Gueldmar lay,--his pallid face upturned, his hair and beard as white as
the snow that clung to the masts of his vessel--his hand clenched on the
fur garment that enwrapped him as with a robe of royalty.
Dropping on his knees beside him, Valdemar felt his heart--it still
throbbed fitfully and feebly. Watching the intense calm of the grand,
rugged face, this stern, weather-worn sailor--this man of superstitious
and heathen imaginations--gave way to womanish tears--tears that were
the outcome of sincere and passionate grief. His love was of an
exceptional type,--something like that of a faithful dog that refuses to
leave the grave of its master,--he could contemplate death for himself
with absolute indifference,--but not for the _bonde_, whose sturdy
strength and splendid physique had seemed to defy all danger.
As he knelt and wept unrestrainedly, a soft change, a delicate
transparency, swept over the dark bosom of the sky. Pale pink streaks
glittered on the dusky horizon--darts of light began to climb upward
into the clouds, and to plunge downward into the water,--the radiance
spread, and gradually formed into a broad band of deep crimson, which
burned with a fixed and intense glow--topaz-like rays flickered and
streamed about it, as though uncertain what fantastic shape they should
take to best display their brilliancy.
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