gleam of the shining shells on the walls, the mournful figure of the
ivory Christ stretched on the cross among all those pagan emblems,--
the intense silence broken only by the slow drip, drip of water
trickling somewhere behind the cavern,--and more than these outward
things,--his own impressive conviction that he was with the imperial
Dead--imperial because past the sway of empire--all made a powerful
impression on his mind. Overcoming by degrees his first sensations
of awe, he approached the sarcophagus and examined it. It was
solidly closed and mortared all round, so that it might have been
one compact coffin-shaped block of stone so far as its outward
appearance testified. Stooping more closely, however, to look at the
brilliant poppy-wreath, he started back with a slight exclamation.
Cut deeply in the hard granite he read for the second time that odd
name--

THELMA

It belonged to some one dead, then--not to the lovely living woman
who had so lately confronted him in the burning glow of the midnight
sun? He felt dismayed at his unthinking precipitation,--he had, in
his fancy, actually associated HER, so full of radiant health and
beauty, with what was probably a mouldering corpse in that
hermetically sealed tenement of stone! This idea was unpleasant, and
jarred upon his feelings. Surely she, that golden-haired nymph of
the Fjord, had nothing to do with death! He had evidently found his
way into some ancient tomb. "Thelma" might be the name or title of
some long-departed queen or princess of Norway, yet, if so, how came
the crucifix there,--the red lamp, the flowers?

He lingered, looking curiously about him, as if he fancied the