"Set sail!" he cried, pointing with a majestic motion of his arm to the
diadem glittering in the sky. "Why do we linger? The wind favors us, and
the tide sweeps forward--forward! See how the lights beckon from the
harbor!"
He bent his brows and looked almost angrily at Svensen. "Do what thou
hast to do!" and his tones were sharp and imperious. "I must press on!"
An expression of terror, pain, and pity passed over the sailor's
countenance--for one instant he hesitated--the next, he descended into
the hold of the vessel. He was absent for a very little space,--but when
he returned his eyes were wild as though he had been engaged in some
dark and criminal deed. Olaf Gueldmar was still gazing at the brilliancy
in the heavens, which seemed to increase in size and lustre as the wind
rose higher. Svensen took his hand--it was icy cold, and damp with the
dew of death.
"Let me go with thee!" he implored, in broken accent. "I fear nothing!
Why should I not venture also on the last voyage?"
Gueldmar made a faint but decided sign of rejection.
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