“See,” he said at length, as they sat down to rest on one of the moss-covered boulders, “I will give you now, while we are quiet and alone, the money for your passage. Here is a check for fifty pounds, you will have time to get it cashed in Christiania”; then as she protested that it was far too much, “No, no; you will need it all in England. It may prove a long illness; and, in any case,” he added awkwardly, “there must be expenses.” Sigrid, with a horrible choking in her throat, thanked him for his help, but that “in any case” rang in her ears all through the drive, all through the waiting at the hotel at Lille-elvedal, all through that weary journey in the train. Yet it was not until she stood on board the _Angelo_ that tears came to her relief. A great crowd had collected on the quays, for a number of emigrants were crossing over to England _en route_ for America. Sigrid, standing there all alone, watched many a parting, saw strong men step on to the deck sobbing like children, saw women weeping as though their hearts would break. And when the crowd of those left behind on the quay began to sing the songs of the country, great drops gathered in her eyes and slowly fell. They sung with subdued voices. “For Norge, Kjaempers Foderland,” and “Det Norske Flagg.” Last of all, as the great steamer moved off, they sung, with a depth of pathos which touched even the unconcerned foreigners on board, “Ja, vi elsker dette landet.” The bustle and confusion on the steamer, the busy sailors, the weeping emigrants, the black mass of people on shore waving their hats and handkerchiefs, some sobbing, some singing to cheer the travelers, and behind the beautiful city of Christiania with its spires and towers, all this had to Sigrid the strangest feeling of unreality; yet it was a scene that no one present could ever forget. Bravely the friends on shore sung out, their voices bridging over the widening waters of the fjord, the sweet air well suiting the fervor of the words: “Yes, we love with fond devotion Norway’s mountain domes, Rising storm-lashed o’er the ocean, with their thousand homes— Love our country when we’re bending thoughts to fathers grand, And to saga night that’s sending dreams upon our land. Harald on its throne ascended by his mighty sword; Hakon Norway’s rights defended, helped by Oyvind’s sword; From the blood of Olaf sainted, Christ’s red cross arose.” But there the distance became too great for words to traverse it, only the wild beauty of the music floated after the outward-bound vessel, and many a man strained his ears to listen to voices which should never again be heard by him on earth, and many a woman hid her face and sobbed with passionate grief. CHAPTER XVIII.