They spoke in undertones and threw
pitying glances at the bride. Then at length
Syvert Stein lost his patience.
"In sooth," cried he, springing up from his
seat, "where is to-day the cheer that is wont to
abide in the Norseman's breast? Methinks I
see but sullen airs and ill-boding glances. Ha,
fiddler, now move your strings lustily! None
of your funeral airs, my lad, but a merry tune
that shall sing through marrow and bone, and
make the heart leap in the bosom."
Truls heard the words, and in a slow,
mechanical way he took the violin out of its case and
raised it to his chin. Syvert in the mean while
put a huge silver beer-jug to his mouth, and,
pledging his guests, emptied it even to the
dregs. But the bride's cheek was pale; and it
was so still in the boat that every man could
hear his own breathing.
"Ha, to-day is Syvert Stein's wedding-day!"
shouted the bridegroom, growing hot with
wrath. "Let us try if the iron voice of the
cannon can wake my guests from their slumber."
He struck a match and put it to the touch-
hole of the cannon; a long boom rolled away
over the surface of the waters and startled the
echoes of the distant glaciers. A faint hurrah
sounded from the nearest craft, but there came
no response from the bridal boat. Syvert pulled
the powder-horn from his pocket, laughed a
wild laugh, and poured the whole contents of
the horn into the mouth of the cannon.
"Now may the devil care for his own," roared
he, and sprang up upon the row-bench.
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