Once more the tones
stretched out their arms imploringly, and again
they wrestled despairingly with themselves, fled
with a stern voice of warning, returned once
more, wept, shuddered, and were silent.
"Beware that thou dost not play with a life!"
sighed the bride, "even though it be a worthless one."
The wedding guests clapped their hands and
shouted wildly against the sky. The bride's
countenance burned with a strange feverish
glow. The fiddler arose in the prow of the
boat, his eyes flamed, he struck the strings
madly, and the air trembled with melodious
rapture. The voice of that music no living
tongue can interpret. But the bride fathomed
its meaning; her bosom labored vehemently,
her lips quivered for an instant convulsively,
and she burst into tears. A dark
suspicion shot through the bridegroom's mind.
He stared intently upon the weeping Borghild
then turned his gaze to the fiddler, who, still
regarding her, stood playing, with a half-frenzied
look and motion.
"You cursed wretch!" shrieked Syvert, and
made a leap over two benches to where Truls was
standing. It came so unexpectedly that Truls
had no time to prepare for defense; so he merely
stretched out the hand in which he held the
violin to ward off the blow which he saw was
coming; but Syvert tore the instrument from
his grasp and dashed it against the cannon, and,
as it happened, just against the touch-hole.
With a tremendous crash something black
darted through the air and a white smoke
brooded over the bridal boat.
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