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.