It was early morning. So early, indeed, that although it was sweet
summer-time--and summer can he as sweet in Iceland as in any other part
of the world--the birds had hardly yet uttered a note. Only the robin
shook the dew from his wings [the American, not the English robin], and
uttered a peevish twitter; and far away up among those wild hills, with
their strange jagged peaks, you might have heard an occasional plaintive
whistle or scream, the cry of the golden plover. Yet, early though it
was, though the stars had not yet all fled from the west, sea-fowl were
gracefully circling round--the gull, the tern, and the thievish skua.
There was no wind, not a breath, but the dew lay heavy on the moss, on
the green heather and stunted shrubs, and draggled the snow-white plumes
of the lovely cotton grass. The wild flowers had not yet opened their
beautiful petals when poor Claude Alwyn opened his eyes. Languidly, yet
painfully, he raised himself on his elbow, and gazed dreamily around
him. Where was he? How had he come here? These were questions that he
asked himself. What is that on a stone yonder? A snow-bird gazing at
him with one beautiful eye, and seeming to pity him. A snow-bird? His
snow-bird?
"Alba! Alba!" he calls it; but the bird flies away. He was not at
home, then, in bonnie Scotland, by the green banks of the Nith, as he
had almost thought he was.
No, no; for look, yonder is his horse at the foot of the cliff--dead.
Dead? Surely not dead. He tries to crawl towards it. The movement
gives him intense agony. He himself is wounded. And now he remembers
all. How he left his yacht at Reykjavik a week ago; how he had been
travelling ever since in search of incident and adventure, making
sketches, gathering wild flowers, and enjoying the scenery of this
strange, weird island; and how he was belated the evening before, and
fell headlong over a cliff. That was all, but a dreadful all. He
closes his eyes again and tries to think. Must he lie here and die? He
shudders with cold and dread, starts up, and, despite the pain, staggers
to his feet. He slowly passes the poor horse. Yes, there is death in
that glazed eye, death in the drooping neck and stiffened limbs.
It takes Claude nearly an hour to drag himself to a neighbouring knoll,
for one limb is smashed, and he has lost blood. He throws himself down
now, or rather he falls, and when next he becomes conscious the sun is
shining down warm on him from a bright blue sky; birds are singing near,
and the wild flowers are open and nodding to a gentle breeze.
And yonder--oh, joy!--down there in the hollow, there is smoke curling
up from an Icelandic farm. He shouts till hoarse, but no one appears.
Wearily he leans back, and once again his eyes are closed, and he is
back once more in his own room at Dunallan Towers. No pain now, for his
sad-eyed but beautiful mother is bending over him, and soothing him.
Is it so? Not quite.
"Jarl! jarl! Wake, jarl, wake?"
The jarl wakes. The jarl looks up.
Over him is bending a huge male figure, dressed in a long-sleeved
waistcoat and lofty nightcap. Pained though he is, Claude cannot help
thinking he is the ugliest man he ever saw. He is a giant in stature.
He kneels beside young Alwyn, and there is a kindness visible in his
little grey eyes, as he strokes Claude's face, just as if he had been a
colt. Byarnie, for such is this giant's name, soon finds out how
matters stand, and gently he lifts Claude in his arms and places him on
his shoulder, and then marches off.
Preposterous and humorous thoughts will often pass through the mind,
even when the body is in agony; and now, Claude could not help recalling
the story of Jack the Giant-killer, and fancied himself Jack being
carried away on the shoulders of Blunderbore. But not to a castle with
a lawn littered with skulls and bones was Claude borne.
He had probably fainted with pain, and when he again became sensible he
was no longer on Byarnie's back, but in a comfortable warm bed in an
antique but well-furnished room, and being attended to by a couple of
old dames, both dressed alike, in gowns of dark rustling silk, and
elevated steeple-like skull-caps of white net. And both, too, were
alike wrinkled and ugly. They had almost finished dressing his leg.
"Thou must not speak, dear; thou must lie still and sleep."
Good enough English, but spoken in a strange monotone--no rising or
falling of the voice.
In a few minutes the work was done, and poor Claude found infinite
relief. Then they brought him coffee and milk, and made him drink, and
a little dram of schnapps which he also had to swallow. They evidently
thought him a child, and stroked his face as Byarnie had done. One left
the room, and the other took her seat beside the bed, and, still gently
passing her hand downwards over Claude's face, began to "croon" over
that beautiful English lullaby--
"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed;
Countless blessings without number,
Gently falling on thy head."
The voice was quavering, but the music was sweet. How soft the pillows
felt--they were eider-down. How light the quilt--that also was of the
same. Under such circumstances it is little wonder that Claude soon
forgot everything and fell into a deep and childlike slumber.
The scenes, it seemed to Claude, were continually shifting. He did not
_feel_ that he had slept, only that he had just closed his eyes and
opened them again, when lo! the crones were gone, the sunlight was no
longer shimmering in through the crimson and yellow flowers in the
little window as he had last seen it. The room was lighted by a lofty
lamp that stood on an ancient high-backed oaken piano, throwing a flood
of light over all the apartment. A great grey cat was singing herself
to sleep on the piano stool, a fire was burning on the low hearth--a
fire of peat and wood, that looked very cheerful--and above the window,
in a tiny wicker cage, hung a tiny and miserable-looking snow-flea.
Claude took all this in at a glance. But none of these things
interested him. His eyes were riveted on the only figure now in the
room. A beautiful young girl, almost spirit-like she looked. So
thought Claude. She stood leaning against the piano reading a tiny
gilt-edged book. She was dressed in a long flowing robe of crimson
adorned with snow-white fur. Her fair hair floated free over her
shoulders, and her sweet face seemed very sad as she read, all
unconscious of Claude's wondering gaze. But presently she became aware
of it. A slight tint of crimson suffused her face, but next moment she
advanced boldly towards the bed, and laid her hand--such a tiny hand--on
his brow.
Claude would have spoken, but she lifted a finger and beckoned him to
lie silent.
Lie silent? Yes. Claude would not have disobeyed the behests of so
sweet a nurse whatever they might have been.
There was food to be partaken of; he took it. Nauseous brown medicine
also; he quaffed it.
Presently, however, there was a change of nurses. One of the droll old
ladies came back, and remained an hour. Claude thought it ten, and felt
in the third heaven when his young nurse again returned.
She seated herself at a little table facing Claude, and without even
knocking at the door, Byarnie the giant stepped in, and placed a zither
in front of her. It was a strange household, but, altogether, Iceland
is a strange place.
She was going to play to soothe her patient. And sweetly she played
too. Old-world airs, but how delicate the touch, how tasteful the
fingering. And now she sings. "_Who_," thought Claude, "can have
taught her that wild sad song? Can a girl so young as she have loved
and lost?"
"She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing;
But coldly she turns to his grave and weeps,
For her heart with her hero is lying."
But Claude's sorrow was to come. Inflammation was succeeded by high
fever, and for days he lay in a state of delirium--dreamful, racking,
burning delirium.
Then came peace and calmness.