each fell a blood-stain upon
Helgi's breast.' 'Then I will weep no more,' she cried; 'but will rest
upon your heart, as I did in life.' 'You will remain in the mound with
me, in the arms of the dead, though you still live,' cried Helgi,
exultingly.

"You will remain in the mound, in the arms of the dead, though you
still live," Eugenia repeated.

"But the legend relates that when Sigrun also died, both were born
again: he a victorious hero, but she a Valkyrie. This is the ballad of
how a woman's true love, a widow's true anguish, conquers death, and,
in omnipotent yearning, even forces a passage into the grave to the
beloved one."

"And in omnipotent yearning forces a passage into the grave to the
beloved one."

Hilda looked up suddenly. "Child, what is the matter?" The Princess had
spoken with such enthusiasm that at last she paid no heed to her
listener. But now she heard a low sob, and, in bewilderment, saw the
Greek kneeling on the floor, bending forward over the stool, hiding her
lovely face in both hands; tears were streaming between the slender
fingers.

"Eugenia!"

"O Hilda, it is so beautiful. It must be so blissful to be loved! And
it is also happiness to love unto death. Oh, happy Gibamund's Hilda!
Oh, happy Helgi's Sigrun! How this song makes the heart ache and yet
rejoice! How beautiful and, alas, how true it is, that love conquers
all things, and draws the loving woman to her beloved, even to his
grave! They are united in death, if no longer in life. That thought
possesses stronger power than spell or magnet."

"O sister, does this little heart love so strongly, so fervently, so
genuinely? Speak freely at last. Not a single word during all these
days have you--"

"I could not! I was so ashamed for myself, and, alas! for him. And I
dare not speak of my love! It is a disgrace and shame. For he, my
bridegroom,--no, my husband,--does not love me!"

"Indeed he does love you, or why should the reckless noble have wooed
you so humbly?"

"Alas, I do not know. Hundreds of times during the last few days have
I asked myself that question. I do not know. True, I believed--until
the day before yesterday--it was from love. And often this foolish
heart believes it still. But, no, it was not love. Caprice
weariness--perhaps," and now she trembled wrathfully, "a wager,--a game
that he desired to win and which lost its charm as soon as he
succeeded."

"No, my little dove! Thrasaric is incapable of that."