“’Trembles Yggdrasil’s ash yet standing; groans that ancient tree, and the Jotun Loki is loosed.  The shadows groan on the ways of Hel, until the fire of Surt has consumed the tree.  Hrym steers from the east, the waters rise, the mundane snake is coiled in jotun-rage.  The worm heats the water, and the eagle screams; the pale of beak tears carcases; the ship Naglfar is loosed.  Surt from the south comes with flickering flame; shines from his sword the Val-god’s sun.’”

Swaying there like a furred Valkyrie above the final carnage of men and gods, she touched his imagination, and the blood surged exultingly along unknown channels, thrilling and uplifting.

“’The stony hills are dashed together, the giantesses totter; men tread the path of Hel, and heaven is cloven.  The sun darkens, earth in ocean sinks, fall from heaven the bright stars, fire’s breath assails the all-nourishing tree, towering fire plays against heaven itself.’”

Outlined against the blazing air, her brows and lashes white with frost, the jewel-dust striking and washing against hair and face, and the south-sun lighting her with a great redness, the man saw her as the genius of the race.  The traditions of the blood laid hold of him, and he felt strangely at one with the white-skinned, yellow-haired giants of the younger world.  And as he looked upon her the mighty past rose before him, and the caverns of his being resounded with the shock and tumult of forgotten battles.  With bellowing of storm-winds and crash of smoking North Sea waves, he saw the sharp-beaked fighting galleys, and the sea-flung Northmen, great-muscled, deep-chested, sprung from the elements, men of sword and sweep, marauders and scourgers of the warm south-lands!  The din of twenty centuries of battle was roaring in his ear, and the clamor for return to type strong upon him.  He seized her hands passionately.

“Be the bright bride by me, Frona!  Be the bright bride by me on the couch!”

She started and looked down at him, questioningly.  Then the import of it reached her and she involuntarily drew back.  The sun shot a last failing flicker across the earth and vanished.  The fire went out of the air, and the day darkened.  Far above, the hearse-dogs howled mournfully.

“No,” he interrupted, as words formed on her lips.  “Do not speak.  I know my answer, your answer . . . now . . .  I was a fool . . .  Come, let us go down.”

It was not until they had left the mountain behind them, crossed the flat, and come out on the river by the saw-mill, that the bustle and skurry of human life made it seem possible for them to speak.  Corliss had walked with his eyes moodily bent to the ground; and Frona, with head erect and looking everywhere, stealing an occasional glance to his face.  Where the road rose over the log run-way of the mill the footing was slippery, and catching at her to save her from falling, their eyes met.