Truls still followed them with his eyes; suddenly he leaped up, and a wild thought burned in his breast. But with an effort he checked himself, grasped his violin, and struck a wailing chord of lament. Then he laid his ear close to the instrument, as if he were listening to some living voice hidden there within, ran warily with the bow over the strings, and warbled, and caroled, and sang with maddening glee, and still with a shivering undercurrent of woe. And the dusk which slept upon the black rafters was quickened and shook with the weird sound; every pulse in the wide hall beat more rapidly, and every eye kindled with a bolder fire. Pressently{sic} a Strong male voice sang out to the measure of the violin: “Come, fairest maid, tread the dance with me; O heigh ho!” And a clear, tremulous treble answered: “So gladly tread I the dance with thee; O heigh ho!” Truls knew the voices only too well; it was Syvert Stein and Borghild who were singing a stave. [8] Syvert--Like brier-roses thy red cheeks blush, Borghild--And thine are rough like the thorny bush; Both--An’ a heigho! Syvert--So fresh and green is the sunny lea; O heigh ho! Borghild--The fiddle twangeth so merrily; O heigh ho! Syvert--So lightly goeth the lusty reel, Borghild--And round we whirl like a spinning-wheel; Both--An’ a heigho! Syvert--Thine eyes are bright like the sunny fjord; O heigh ho! Borghild--And thine do flash like a Viking’s sword; O heigh ho! Syvert--So lightly trippeth thy foot along, Borghild--The air is teeming with joyful song; Both--An’ a heigh ho! Syvert--Then fairest maid, while the woods are green, O heigh ho! Borghild--And thrushes sing the fresh leaves between; O heigh ho! Syvert--Come, let us dance in the gladsome day, Borghild--Dance hate, and sorrow, and care away; Both--An’ a heigh ho! The stave was at an end. The hot and flushed dancers straggled over the floor by twos and threes, and the big beer-horns were passed from hand to hand. Truls sat in his corner hugging his violin tightly to his bosom, only to do something, for he was vaguely afraid of himself--afraid of the thoughts that might rise--afraid of the deed they might prompt. He ran his fingers over his forehead, but he hardly felt the touch of his own hand. It was as if something was dead within him--as if a string had snapped in his breast, and left it benumbed and voiceless. Presently he looked up and saw Borghild standing before him; she held her arms akimbo, her eyes shone with a strange light, and her features wore an air of recklessness mingled with pity.