And, growing more and more convinced of this in
his dreamy and imaginative mind,--he had sworn a sort of mystic
friendship and allegiance, which Gueldmar had accepted, imposing on him,
however, only one absolute command. This was that he should be given the
"crimson shroud" and sea-tomb of his war-like ancestors,--for the idea
that his body might be touched by strange hands, shut in a close coffin,
and laid in the earth to moulder away to wormy corruption,--had been the
one fantastic dread of the sturdy old pagan's life. And he had taken
advantage of Svensen's devotion and obedience to impress on him the
paramount importance of his solitary behest.
"Let no hypocritical prayers be chanted over my dumb corpse," he had
said. "My blood would ooze from me at every pore were I touched by the
fingers of a Lutheran! Save this goodly body that has served me so well
from the inferior dust,--let the bright fire wither it, and the glad sea
drown it,--and my soul, beholding its end afar off, shall rejoice and be
satisfied.
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