Then
there came a low murmuring strain as of wavelets
that ripple against a sandy shore. Borghild
lifted her eyes, and they met those of the fiddler.
"Ah, I think I should rather be your
bridegroom," whispered she, and a ray of life stole
into her stony visage.
And she saw herself as a little rosy-cheeked
girl sitting at his side on the beach fifteen years
ago. But the music gathered strength from
her glance, and onward it rushed through the
noisy years of boyhood, shouting with wanton
voice in the lonely glen, lowing with the cattle
on the mountain pastures, and leaping like the
trout at eventide in the brawling rapids; but
through it all there ran a warm strain of boyish
loyalty and strong devotion, and it thawed her
frozen heart; for she knew that it was all for
her and for her only. And it seemed such a
beautiful thing, this long faithful life, which
through sorrow and joy, through sunshine and
gloom, for better for worse, had clung so fast
to her. The wedding guests raised their heads,
and a murmur of applause ran over the waters.
"Bravo!" cried the bridegroom. "Now at
last the tongues are loosed."
Truls's gaze dwelt with tender sadness on the
bride. Then came from the strings some airy
quivering chords, faintly flushed like the petals
of the rose, and fragrant like lilies of the valley;
and they swelled with a strong, awakening
life, and rose with a stormy fullness until they
seemed on the point of bursting, when again
they hushed themselves and sank into a low,
disconsolate whisper.
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