Sigurd stood upright in his swaying skiff and laughed scornfully.
"Take care!" he echoed derisively. "It is you who should take care! You,--poor miserable moth on the edge of a mad storm! It is you to fear--not I! See how the light rains over the broad sky. All for me! Yes, all the light, all the glory for me; all the darkness, all the shame for you!"
Errington listened to these ravings with an air of patience and pitying gentleness, then he said with perfect coolness-"You are quite right, Sigurd! You are always right, I am sure. Come up here and see me; I won't hurt you! Come along!"
The friendly tone and gentle manner appeared to soothe the unhappy dwarf, for he stared doubtfully, then smiled,--and finally, as though acting under a spell, he took up an oar and propelled himself skillfully enough to the gangway, where Errington let down the ladder and with his own hand assisted his visitor to mount, not forgetting to fasten the boat safely to the steps as he did so. Once on deck, Sigurd gazed about him perplexedly. He had brought his bunch of pansies with him, and he fingered their soft leaves thoughtfully. Suddenly his eyes flashed.
"You are alone here?" he asked abruptly.
Fearing to scare his strange guest by the mention of his companions, Errington answered simply--"Yes, quite alone just now, Sigurd."
Sigurd took a step closer towards him. "Are you not afraid?" he said in an awe-struck, solemn voice.
Sir Philip smiled. "I never was afraid of anything in my life!" he answered.
The dwarf eyed him keenly. "You are not afraid," he went on, "that I shall kill you?"
"Not in the least," returned Errington calmly. "You would not do anything so foolish, my friend."
Sigurd laughed. "Ha ha! You call me 'friend.' You think that word a safeguard! I tell you, no! There are no friends now; the world is a great field of battle,--each man fights the other. There is no peace,--none anywhere! The wind fights with the forests; you can hear them slashing and slaying all night long--when it is night--the long, long night! The sun fights with the sky, the light with the dark, and life with death. It is all a bitter quarrel; none are satisfied, none shall know friendship any more; it is too late! We cannot be friends!"
"Well, have it your own way," said Philip good-naturedly, wishing that Lorimer were awake to interview this strange specimen of human wit gone astray; "we'll fight if you like. Anything to please you!"