"Hear her," murmured Sigurd plaintively. "She is always complaining;
it is a pity she cannot rest! She is a spirit, you know. I have
often asked her what troubles her, but she will not tell me; she
only weeps!"

His companion looked at him compassionately. The sound that so
affected his disordered imagination was nothing but the wind blowing
through the narrow hole formed by the removal of the stone; but it
was useless to explain this simple fact to one in his condition.

"Tell me," and Sir Philip spoke very gently, "is this your home?"

The dwarf surveyed him almost scornfully. "MY home!" he echoed. "My
home is everywhere--on the mountains, in the forests, on the black
rocks and barren shores! My soul lives between the sun and the sea;
my heart is with Thelma!"

Thelma! Here was perhaps a clue to the mystery.

"Who is Thelma?" asked Errington somewhat hurriedly.

Sigurd broke into violent and derisive laughter. "Do you think I
will tell YOU?" he cried loudly. "YOU,--one of that strong, cruel
race who must conquer all they see; who covet everything fair under
heaven, and will buy it, even at the cost of blood and tears! Do you
think I will unlock the door of my treasure to YOU? No, no;
besides," and his voice sank lower, "what should you do with Thelma?
She is dead!"

And, as if possessed by a sudden access of frenzy, he brandished his