Lovisa looked at him mockingly. "And is thine so strong a prop to thy pride?" she asked disdainfully. "Has Odin so endowed thee that thou shouldst boast of him? Listen to me, Olaf Güldmar—I have but little strength remaining, and I must speak briefly. Thy wife—"
"What of her?" said the bonde hastily. "Thou knewst her not."
"I knew her," said Lovisa steadily, "as the lightning knows the tree it withers—as the sea knows the frail boat it wrecks for sport on a windy day. Thou haughty Olaf! I knew her well even as the broken heart knows its destroyer!"
Güldmar looked perplexedly at Ulrika. "Surely she raves again?" he said. Ulrika was silent.
"Rave? Tell him I do not rave!" cried Lovisa rising in her bed to utter her words with more strength and emphasis. "May be I have raved, but that is past! The Lord, who will judge and condemn my soul, bear witness that I speak the truth! Olaf Güldmar, rememberest thou the days when we were young?"
"'Tis long ago, Lovisa!" replied the bonde with brief gentleness.
"Long ago? It seems but yesterday! But yesterday I saw the world all radiant with hope and joy and love—love that to you was a mere pastime—but with me—" She shuddered and seemed to lose herself in a maze of dreary recollections. "Love!" she presently muttered—"'love is strong as death,—jealousy is cruel as the grave—the coals thereof are coals of fire which hath a most vehement flame!' Even so! You, Olaf Güldmar, have forgotten what I remember,—that once in that yesterday of youth, you called me fair,—once your lips branded mine! Could I forget that kiss? Think you a Norse woman, bred in a shadow of the constant mountains, forgets the first thrill of passion waked in her soul? Light women of those lands where the sun ever shines on fresh follies, may count their loves by the score,—but with us of the North, one love suffices to fill a lifetime. And was not my life filled? Filled to overflowing with bitterness and misery! For I loved you, proud Olaf!—I loved you—" The bonde uttered an exclamation of incredulous astonishment. Lovisa fixed her eyes on him with a dark scorn. "Yes, I loved you,—scoffer and unbeliever as you were and are!—accursed of God and man! I loved you in spite of all that was said against you—nay, I would have forsaken my creed for yours, and condemned my soul to the everlasting burning for your sake! I loved you as she—that pale, fair, witch-like thing you wedded, could never love—" Her voice died away in a sort of despairing wail, and she paused.
"By my soul!" said the bonde, astounded, and stroking his white beard in some embarrassment. "I never knew of this! It is true that in the hot days of youth, mischief is often done unwittingly. But why trouble yourself with these memories, Lovisa? If it be any comfort,—believe me, I am sorry harm ever came to you through my thoughtless jesting—"
"It matters not!" and Lovisa regarded him with a strange and awful smile. "I have had my revenge!" She stopped abruptly,—then went on—"'Twas a fair bride you chose, Olaf Güldmar—child of an alien from these shores,—Thelma, with the treacherous laughter and light of the South in her eyes and smile! And I, who had known love, made friends with hate—" She checked herself, and looked full at the bonde with a fiendish joy sparkling in her eyes. "She whom you wedded—she whom you loved so well,—how soon she died!"
There was something so suggestive and dreadful in the expression of her face as she said this, that the stout heart of the old bonde, pulsated more quickly with a sudden vague distrust and dread. She gave him no time to speak, but laying one yellow, claw-like hand on his arm, and raising her voice to a sort of yell, exclaimed triumphantly—