Any way, they
thought very little about it,--they had had excitement of another kind
in the arrival of Ulrika from Talvig, bringing accounts of the godly
Lovisa Elsland's death.
Moreover, an English steam cargo-boat, bound for the North Cape, had,
just an hour previously, touched at their harbor, to land a
passenger,--a mysterious woman closely veiled, who immediately on
arrival had hired a sledge, and had bidden the driver to take her to the
house of Olaf Gueldmar, an eight miles journey through the drifted snow.
All this was intensely interesting to the good, stupid, gossiping
fisher-folks of Bosekop,--so much so, indeed, that they scarcely paid
any heed to the spectacle of the fiery ship swaying suggestively on the
heaving water, and drifting rapidly away--away towards the frosted peaks
of Seiland.
Further and further she receded,--the flames around her waving like
banners in a battle--further and further still--till Valdemar Svensen,
from his station on the pier, began to lose sight of her blazing
timbers,--and, starting from his reverie, he ran rapidly from the shore,
up through the garden paths to the farm-house, in order to gain the
summit, and from that point of vantage, watch the last glimmering spark
of the Viking's burial.
Pages:
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006