is true, dear friend--good friend--it
is all true, is it not? For you the heavens are empty? You know it!"

Lorimer flushed hotly, and then grew strangely pale. After a pause, he
said in his usual indolent way--

"Look here, Sigurd; you're romantic! I'm not. I know nothing about elves
or empty heavens. I'm all right! Don't you bother yourself about me."

The dwarf studied his face attentively, and a smile of almost fiendish
cunning suddenly illumined his thin features. He laid his weak-looking
white hand on the young man's arm and said in a lower tone--

"I will tell you what to do. Kill him!"

The last two words were uttered with such intensity of meaning that
Lorimer positively recoiled from the accents, and the terrible look
which accompanied them.

"I say, Sigurd, this won't do," he remonstrated gravely. "You mustn't
talk about killing, you know! It's not good for you. People don't kill
each other nowadays so easily as you seem to think. It can't be done,
Sigurd! Nobody wants to do it."

"It _can_ be done!" reiterated the dwarf imperatively. "It _must_ be
done, and either you or I will do it! He shall not rob us,--he shall not
steal the treasure of the golden midnight. He shall not gather the rose
of all roses--"

"Stop!" said Lorimer suddenly. "Who are you talking about?"

"Who!" cried Sigurd excitedly. "Surely you know. Of him--that tall,
proud, grey-eyed Englishman,--your foe, your rival; the rich, cruel
Errington. . . ."

Lorimer's hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and his voice was very
stern.

"What nonsense, Sigurd! You don't know what you are talking about
to-day. Errington my foe! Good heavens! Why, he's my best friend! Do you
hear?"

Sigurd stared up at him in vacant surprise, but nodded feebly.

"Well, mind you remember it! The spirits tell lies, my boy, if they say
that he is my enemy. I would give my life to save his!"

He spoke quietly, and rose from his seat on the moss as he finished his
words, and his face had an expression that was both noble and resolute.

Sigurd still gazed upon him. "And you,--you do not love Thelma?" he
murmured.

Lorimer started, but controlled himself instantly. His frank English
eyes met the feverishly brilliant ones fixed so appealingly upon him.

"Certainly not!" he said calmly, with a serene smile. "What makes you
think of such a thing? Quite wrong, Sigurd,--the spirits have made a
mistake again! Come along,--let us join the others."

But Sigurd w