"Child," continued Bjarne, and his voice
assumed a more natural tone, "why dost thou
not speak? They have lied about thee, child,
because thou art fair, they have envied thee."
Then, almost imploringly, "Open thy mouth,
Brita, and tell thy father that thou art pure--
pure as the snow, child--my own--my beautiful child."
There was a long and painful pause, in which
the crackling of the brand, and the heavy
breathing of the old man were the only sounds
to break the silence. Pale like a marble image
stood she before him; no word of excuse, no
prayer for forgiveness escaped her; only a
convulsive quivering of the lips betrayed the life
that struggled within her. With every moment
the hope died in Bjarne's bosom. His visage
was fearful to behold. Terror and fierce
indomitable hatred had grimly distorted his features,
and his eyes burned like fire-coals beneath his bushy brows.
"Harlot," he shrieked, "harlot!"
A cold gust of wind swept through the room.
The windows shook, the doors flew open, as if
touched by a strong invisible hand--and the old
man stood alone, holding the flickering brand
above his head.
It was after midnight, the wind had abated,
but the snow still fell, thick and silent, burying
paths and fences under its cold white mantle.
Onward she fled--onward and ever onward.
And whither, she knew not. A cold numbness
had chilled her senses, but still her feet drove
her irresistibly onward. A dark current seemed
to have seized her, she only felt that she was
adrift, and she cared not whither it bore her.
Pages:
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91