"
In spite of the brave old pagan's declaration that tears would wrong his
memory, they dropped bright and fast from his daughter's eyes as she
kissed again and again the words his dying hand had pencilled,--while
Errington knew not which feeling gained the greater mastery over
him,--grief for a good man's loss, or admiration for the strong, heroic
spirit in which that good man had welcomed Death with rejoicing. He
could not help comparing the _bonde's_ departure from this life with
that of Sir Francis Lennox, the man of false fashion, who had let slip
his withered soul with an oath into the land of Nowhere. Presently
Thelma grew calmer, and began to speak in hushed, soft tones--
"Poor Valdemar!" she said meditatively. "His heart must ache very much,
Philip!"
Philip looked up inquiringly.
"You see, my father speaks of the 'crimson shroud,'" she went on. "That
means that he was buried like many of the ancient Norwegian sea
kings;--he was taken from his bed while dying and placed on board his
own ship to breathe his last; then the ship was set on fire and sent out
to sea.
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