“Borghild,” he said, at last, putting his arm gently about her waist, “you and I, I think, played together when we were children.” “So we did, Truls,” answered she, struggling with her tears. “And as we grew up, we spent many a pleasant hour with each other.” “Many a pleasant hour.” She raised her head, and he drew her more closely to him. “But since then I have done you a great wrong,” began she, after a while. “Nothing done that cannot yet be undone,” he took heart to answer. It was long before her thoughts took shape, and, when at length they did, she dared not give them utterance. Nevertheless, she was all the time conscious of one strong desire, from which her conscience shrank as from a crime; and she wrestled ineffectually with her weakness until her weakness prevailed. “I am glad you came,” she faltered. “I knew you would come. There was something I wished to say to you.” “And what was it, Borghild?” “I wanted to ask you to forgive me--” “Forgive you--” He sprang up as if something had stung him. “And why not?” she pleaded, piteously. “Ah, girl, you know not what you ask,” cried he, with a sternness which startled her. “If I had more than one life to waste--but you caress with one hand and stab with the other. Fare thee well, Borghild, for here our paths separate.” He turned his back upon her and began to descend the slope. “For God’s sake, stay, Truls,” implored she, and stretched her arms appealingly toward him; “tell me, oh, tell me all.” With a leap he was again at her side, stooped down over her, and, in a hoarse, passionate whisper, spoke the secret of his life in her ear. She gazed for a moment steadily into his face, then, in a few hurried words, she pledged him her love, her faith, her all. And in the stillness of that summer night they planned together their flight to a greater and freer land, where no world-old prejudice frowned upon the union of two kindred souls. They would wait in patience and silence until spring; then come the fresh winds from the ocean, and, with them, the birds of passage which awake the longings in the Norsemen’s breasts, and the American vessels which give courage to many a sinking spirit, strength to the wearied arm, hope to the hopeless heart.