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. 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 l