CHAPTER XIII.
"O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight! Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime Of all God's creatures! I am here to climb Thine upward steps, and daily and by night To gaze beyond them and to search aright The far-off splendor of thy track sublime." ERIC MACKAY'S _Love-letters of a Violinist_.
On the following morning the heat was intense,--no breath of wind stirred a ripple on the Fjord, and there was a heaviness in the atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive.

Such hot weather was unusual for that part of Norway, and according to Valdemar Svensen, betokened some change.

On board the _Eulalie_ everything was ready for the trip to Soroe,--steam was getting up prior to departure,--and a group of red-capped sailors stood prepared to weigh the anchor as soon as the signal was given.

Breakfast was over,--Macfarlane was in the saloon writing his journal, which he kept with great exactitude, and Duprez, who, on account of his wound, was considered something of an invalid, was seated in a lounge chair on deck, delightedly turning over a bundle of inflammatory French political journals received that morning.

Errington and Lorimer were pacing the deck arm in arm, keeping a sharp look-out for the first glimpse of the returning boat which had been sent off to fetch Thelma and her father.
Errington looked vexed and excited,--Lorimer bland and convincing.
"I can't help it, Phil!" he said.