Book 1 The Land of the Midnight Sun Chapter 17

"Do not, I pray you, think evilly of so holy a man! He has a sore combat against the flesh and the devil!"--The Maid of Honor.

The horror-stricken spectators of the catastrophe stood for a minute inert and speechless,--stupefied by its suddenness and awful rapidity. Then with one accord they hurried down to the level shore of the torrent, moved by the unanimous idea that they might possibly succeed in rescuing Sigurd's frail corpse from the sharp teeth of the jagged rocks, that, piercing upwards through the foam of the roaring rapids, were certain to bruise, tear, and disfigure it beyond all recognition. But even this small satisfaction was denied them. There was no sign of a floating or struggling body anywhere visible. And while they kept an eager look-out, the light in the heavens slowly changed. From burning crimson it softened to a tender amethyst hue, as smooth and delicate as the glossy pale tint of the purple clematis,--and with it the rosy foam of the Fall graduated to varying tints of pink, from pink to tender green, and lastly, it became as a shower of amber wine. Güldmar spoke first in a voice broken by deep emotion.

"'Tis all over with him, poor lad!" he said, and tears glittered thickly in his keen old eyes. "And--though the gods, of a surety, know best--this is an end I looked not for! A mournful home-returning shall we have--for how to break the news to Thelma is more than I can tell!"