"What in the world, Herr von Wegen, are we doing?" cried Olga, to whom the adventure began to appear serious, because in his sound senses a sleigh conductor could hardly wander from the proper course. For a moment she actually looked searchingly at Wegen, whether the colour in his cheeks could be called forth honestly by the north wind, or if it owed its origin to a bottle of champagne. "As chance has so ordained it, that we are alone, hear then, dear Olga, hear what it is that I have had so long at heart." A turbulent gust of wind swept through the top loose piles of snow and whirled them about so that Romeo and Juliet must simultaneously wipe the snow out of their eyes. "I love you, Olga!" Olga started back in alarm, making the little bells on her fur rug tinkle; it is true it was sweet alarm, but she was not prepared for a declaration of love with the thermometer so low. Wegen waited for the result, while alternately stamping his feet and beating himself with his arms, so as to impart some warmth to his body. "Yes, I have always loved you, that is to say," added he in his love of truth, "after Cäcilie--but you know it? Why waste so many words? My breath freezes upon my lips, but my heart is all the warmer. Will you belong to me for ever?" Olga drew one hand out of her muff and extended it as if in protestation: "So suddenly, dear friend? And here in the snow?" "Here we are undisturbed." "Then it was base treachery?" "Yes, I will confess it, my compass would not have failed me, but to be able to say to you at last what fills my whole--" Wegen stopped, his teeth chattered, it was internal emotion mingled with a shiver, called forth by the low temperature of Boreas, who was blowing with inflated cheeks. "It is indeed weather in which only the Lapland youth can stammer about love to a Lapland maiden," added Wegen dejectedly, "but the circumstances, the conditions--Olga, tell yourself that it is a favourable moment. I do not mean the weather, but that we are alone, quite alone. I will make you happy--we have little time, I do not mean for your happiness, for that we have our whole lives; but now to arrange matters. It is indeed barbarously cold. A glass of negus or mulled ale will do us good. But speak then, will you be mine?" "I must consider it, weigh--" "And the result you have seen in Cäcilie's case. Those are words as cold as ice; it is enough to freeze one's soul. My Olga, dear sweet girl, you know my circumstances, they are affluent, my people approve of my choice. Your mamma had already given her consent when I proposed to Cäcilie, and, of course, it is immaterial which of the two daughters--I mean--that is to say, immaterial to your mamma. And now once more may I claim my sleighing rights?" Olga nodded pleasantly, and withdrew her other hand from her muff. Wegen pressed a glowing kiss upon her lips, the ice upon his fair beard melted in the fervour of his love.