you long before that, and you knew me; for I was your King, and you
were my vassal, wild and rebellious--not the proud, rich Englishman
you are to-day."

Errington startled. How could this Sigurd, as he called himself, be
aware of either his wealth or nationality?

The dwarf observed his movement of surprise with a cunning smile.

"Sigurd is wise,--Sigurd is brave! Who shall deceive him? He knows
you well; he will always know you. The old gods teach Sigurd all his
wisdom--the gods of the sea and the wind--the sleepy gods that lie
in the hearts of the flowers--the small spirits that sit in shells
and sing all day and all night." He paused, and his eyes filled with
a wistful look of attention. He drew closer.

"Come," he said earnestly, "come, you must listen to my music;
perhaps you can tell me what it means."

He picked up his smouldering torch and held it aloft again; then,
beckoning Errington to follow him, he led the way to a small grotto,
cut deeply into the wall of the cavern. Here there were no shell
patterns. Little green ferns grew thickly out of the stone crevices,
and a minute runlet of water trickled slowly down from above,
freshening the delicate frondage as it fell. With quick, agile
fingers he removed a loose stone from this aperture, and as he did
so, a low shuddering wail resounded through the arches--a melancholy
moan that rose and sank, and rose again in weird, sorrowful minor
echoes.