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.
"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!"