Surely she, that golden-haired nymph of the Fjord, had nothing to do with death! He had evidently found his way into some ancient tomb.
"Thelma" might be the name or title of some long-departed queen or princess of Norway, yet, if so, how came the crucifix there,--the red lamp, the flowers?
He lingered, looking curiously about him, as if he fancied the shell-embroidered walls might whisper some answer to his thoughts.

The silence offered no suggestions.

The plaintive figure of the tortured Christ suspended on the cross maintained an immovable watch over all things, and there was a subtle, faint odor floating about as of crushed spices or herbs.

While he still stood there absorbed in perplexed conjectures, he became oppressed by want of air.

The red hue of the poppy-wreath mingled with the softer glow of the lamp on the altar,--the moist glitter of the shells and polished pebbles, seemed to dazzle and confuse his eyes.