In that brief moment a loud triumphant cry rang through the air. Olaf
Gueldmar leaped upright on the deck as though lifted by some invisible
hand, and confronted his terrified servants, who gazed at him in
fascinated amazement and awe. His white hair gleamed like spun
silver--his face was transfigured, and wore a strange, rapt look of pale
yet splendid majesty--the dark furs that clung about him trailed in
regal folds to his feet.
"Hark!" he cried, and his voice vibrated with deep and mellow clearness.
"Hark to the thunder of the galloping hoofs!--see--see the glitter of
the shield and spear! She comes-ah! Thelma! Thelma!" He raised his arms
as though in ecstacy. "Glory!--joy!--Victory!"
And, like a noble tree struck down by lightning, he fell--dead!
Even as he fell, the _Valkyrie_ plunged forward, driven forcibly by a
swooping gust of wind, and scudded out to the Fjord like a wild bird
flying before a tempest,--and, while she thus fled, a sheet of flame
burst through her sides and blazed upwards, mingling a lurid, smoky glow
with the clear crimson radiance of the still brilliant and crown-like
aurora.
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