"The fact is," said Errington, while Güldmar gazed from one to the other in speechless amazement, "Thelma hasn't told you because she knew how angry you'd be--but Dyceworthy asked her to marry him. Of course she refused him, and I doubt if he's taken his rejection very resignedly."

The face of the old farmer as he heard these words was a study. Wonder, contempt, pride, and indignation struggled for the mastery on his rugged features.

"Asked--her--to--marry--him!" he repeated slowly. "By the sword of Odin! Had I known it I would have throttled him!" His eyes blazed and he clenched his hand. "Throttled him, lads! I would! Give me the chance and I'll do it now! I tell you, the mere look of such a man as that is a desecration to my child,--liar and hypocrite as he is! may the gods confound him!" He paused--then suddenly bracing himself up, added. "I'll away to Bosekop at once--they've been afraid of me there for no reason--I'll teach them to be afraid of me in earnest! Who'll come with me?"

All eagerly expressed their desire to accompany him with the exception of one,--Pierre Duprèz,--he had disappeared.

"Why, where has he gone?" demanded Lorimer in some surprise.

"I canna tell," replied Macfarlane. "He just slipped awa' while ye were haverin' about Dyceworthy--he'll maybe join us at the shore."

To the shore they at once betook themselves, and were soon busied in unmooring Güldmar's own rowing-boat, which, as it had not been used for some time, was rather a tedious business,--moreover they noted with concern that the tide was dead against them.

Duprèz did not appear,--the truth is, that he had taken into his head to start off for Talvig on foot without waiting for the others. He was fond of an adventure and here was one that suited him precisely--to rescue distressed damsels from the grasp of persecutors. He was tired, but he managed to find the road,--and he trudged on determinedly, humming a song of Beranger's as he walked to keep him cheerful. But he had not gone much more than a mile when he discerned in the distance a carriole approaching him,--and approaching so swiftly that it appeared to swing from side to side of the road at imminent risk of upsetting altogether. There seemed to be one person in it--an excited person too, who lashed the stout little pony and urged it on to fresh exertions with gesticulations and cries. That plump buxom figure--that tumbled brown hair streaming wildly on, the breeze,--that round rosy face--why! it was Britta! Britta, driving all alone, with the reckless daring of a Norwegian peasant girl accustomed to the swaying, jolting movement of the carriole as well as the rough roads and sharp turnings. Nearer she came and nearer--and Duprèz hailed her with a shout of welcome. She saw him, answered his call, and drove still faster,--soon she came up beside him, and without answering his amazed questions, she cried breathlessly-"Jump in--jump in! We must go on as quickly as possible to Bosekop! Quick--quick! Oh my poor Fröken! The old villain! Wait till I get at him!"




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