The aurora borealis faded by gradual degrees, and the flaming ship was more than ever distinctly visible. She was seen from the shore of Bosekop, by a group of the inhabitants, who, rubbing their dull eyes, could not decide whether what they beheld was fire, or a new phase of the capricious, ever-changing Northern Lights,—the rapidly descending snow rendering their vision bewildered and uncertain. 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 Güldmar, 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. As he reached the house, he stopped short and uttered a wild exclamation. There,—under the porch hung with sparkling icicles,—stood Thelma! . . . Thelma,—her face pale and weary, yet smiling faintly,—Thelma with the glint of her wondrous gold hair escaping from under her hat, and glittering on the folds of her dark fur mantle.
"I have come home, Valdemar!" said the sweet, rich, penetrating voice. "Where is my father?"
As a man distraught, or in some dreadful dream, Valdemar approached her—the strangeness of his look and manner filled her with sudden fear,—he caught her hand and pointed to the dark Fjord—to the spot where gleamed a lurid waving wreath of flames.
"Fröken Thelma—he is there!" he gasped in choked, hoarse tones. "there—where the gods have called him!"
With a faint shriek of terror, Thelma's blue eyes turned toward the shadowy water,—as she looked, a long up-twisting snake of fire appeared to leap from the perishing Valkyrie,—a snake that twined its glittering coils rapidly round and round on the wind, and as rapidly sank—down—down—to one glimmering spark which glowed redly like a floating lamp for a brief space,—and was then quenched for ever! The ship had vanished! Thelma needed no explanation,—she knew her father's creed—she understood all. Breaking loose from Valdemar's grasp, she rushed a few steps forward with arms outstretched on the bitter, snowy air.
"Father! father!" she cried aloud and sobbingly. "Wait for me!—it is I Thelma!—I am coming—Father!"
The white world around her grew black—and, shuddering like a shot bird, she fell senseless.
Instantly Valdemar raised her from the ground, and holding her tenderly and reverently in his strong arms, carried her, as though she were a child, into the house . . . clouds darkened—the snow-storm thickened—the mountain-peaks, stern giants, frowned through their sleety veils at the arctic desolation of the land below them,—and over the charred and sunken corpse of the departed servant of Odin, sounded the solemn De Profundis of the sea.