Suddenly--could he trust his own ears?--the
church-bell gave a slow, solemn, quivering
stroke, and the fogs rolled in thick masses to
the east and to the west, as if blown by the
breath of the sound. Lage seized his torch,
sprang to his feet, and saw--Vigfusson. He
stretched his arm with the blazing torch closer
to the young man's face, stared at him with
large eyes, and his lip quivered; but he could
not utter a word.
"Vigfusson?" faltered he at last.
"It is I;" and the second stroke followed,
stronger and more solemn than the first. The
same fierce, angry voices chorused forth from
every nook of the rock and the woods. Then
came the third--the noise grew; fourth--and it
sounded like a hoarse, angry hiss; when the
twelfth stroke fell, silence reigned again in the
forest. Vigfusson dropped the bell-rope, and
with a loud voice called Lage Kvaerk and his
men. He lit a torch, held it aloft over his head,
and peered through the dusky night. The men
spread through the highlands to search for the
lost maiden; Lage followed close in Vigfusson's
footsteps. They had not walked far when they
heard the babbling of the brook only a few feet
away. Thither they directed their steps. On
a large stone in the middle of the stream the
youth thought he saw something white, like a
large kerchief. Quick as thought he was at
its side, bowed down with his torch, and--fell
backward. It was Aasa, his beloved, cold and
dead; but as the father stooped over his dead
child the same mad laugh echoed wildly throughout
the wide woods, but madder and louder
than ever before, and from the rocky wall came
a fierce, broken voice:
"I came at last.
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