lower and lower. Then he rose and looked down at Gudrun, still as a corpse.
“Did I slay her? Christ, Thou knowest I would not have harmed her. I would she had slain me before I could see and know whose hand was giving me the bitter blow.”
He moved towards her, and stooped as though to lift her, but shrank back.
“No! no! lie there. I would to the Christ thou wert dead before I knew thee as false and cruel. I would not touch thee now, even as I could not touch the serpent that had striven to sting me. And I would have laid thee on my breast, thou viper! Thou wouldst only come near me to sting me. Lie thou there! Thou livest!—I see by the quiver of the eyes that I thought were the stars of my life, and they were the false lights to lure me to destruction. Lie thou there! The women of the household will see to thee, and to-morrow will I send for thy mother to take back the daughter who shows too well of whose base blood she is. O Gudrun! my wife! What did I thee ever but give thee the whole heart of me, loving thee better than life?” and Olaf flung himself out of the room, leaving Gudrun and the stainless dagger, under the mellow lamp-light and the glow of the red hearth.
In the silence and solitude of the room, Gudrun lifted her head and gazed around her. A wild look was in her dark eyes like a hunted fawn brought to
