This young girl was of the purest Scandinavian type, with cheeks of rose
pink upon a face of pure whiteness, and long waving tresses, so fair and
so silky that the finest wheat straw would hardly bear comparison with
it. Her figure was tall and slender, and her blue eyes beamed with
inexpressible sweetness.
Maitre Bernard stood a few moments in rapt admiration, and the woodman,
kindly addressing the young girl, said--
"I am glad to see you, Fuldrade. Irmengarde is still asleep. What a storm
it is! Is it coming to an end yet?"
"Yes, the wind is driving it down to the plain. It will be over before
daylight."
Then, without looking at Maitre Bernard, she went to sit before the old
woman, who now seemed to revive.
"Fuldrade," she murmured, "is the great tower yet standing?"
"Yes."
The aged woman bowed her head, and her lips moved.
After the last thunderclaps the rain fell in torrents. All down the
valley was heard an incessant loud beating of falling sheets of rain,
and the rushing of the swollen stream, then, at intervals, after a brief
cessation of rain, again the heavier dashing of repeated and more violent
showers.
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