faring to Walhalla. When an owl hooted, a wolf howled far off, or a loon
cried from the water below; the solemn fantasy took on the aspect of the
unreal.

Valmond watched like one in a dream, and twice or thrice he turned faint,
and drew his cloak about him as if he were cold; for a sickly air,
passing by, seemed to fill his lungs with poison.

At last the grave was dug, and, sprinkling its depth with leaves and soft
branches of spruce, the dwarf drew the body over, and lowered it slowly,
awkwardly, into the grave. Then he covered all but the huge, unlovely
face, and, kneeling, peered down at it pitifully.

"Gabriel, Gabriel," he cried, "surely thy soul is better without its
harness! I killed thee, and thou didst kill, and those we love die by
our own hands. But no, I lie; I did not love thee, thou wert so ugly and
wild and cruel. Poor boy! Thou wast a fool, and thou wast a murderer.
Thou wouldst have slain my prince, and so I slew thee--I slew thee."

He rocked to and fro in abject sorrow, and cried again: "Hast thou no one
in all the world to mourn thee, save him who killed thee? Is there no
one to wish thee speed to the Ancient House? Art thou tossed away like
an old shoe, and no one to say, The Shoemaker that made thee must see to
it if thou wast ill-shapen, and walked crookedly, and did evil things?
Ah, is there no one to mourn thee, save him that killed thee?"

He leaned back, and cried out into the high hills like a remorseful,
tortured soul.

Valmond, no longer able to watch this grief in silence, stepped quickly