The whole landscape was transformed--the tall trees, rustling and swaying in the now boisterous wind, took all flickering tints of color on their trunks and leaves,--the grey stones and pebbles turned to lumps of gold and heaps of diamonds, and on the other side of the rapids, a large tuft of heather in a cleft of the rocks glowed with extraordinary vividness and warmth, like a suddenly kindled fire. A troop of witches dancing wildly on the sward,--a ring of fairies,--kelpies tripping from crag to crag,--a sudden chorus of sweet-voiced water-nymphs--nothing unreal or fantastical would have surprised Errington at that moment. Indeed, he almost expected something of the kind--the scene was so eminently fitted for it.
"Positively, I must wake Lorimer," he thought to himself. "He oughtn't to miss such a gorgeous spectacle as this."
He moved a little more in position to view the Fall. What was that small dark object running swiftly yet steadily along on the highest summit of those jutting crags? He rubbed his eyes amazedly--was it--could it be Sigurd? He watched it for a moment,--then uttered a loud cry as he saw it pause on the very ledge of rock from which but a short while since, he himself had been so nearly precipitated. The figure was now distinctly visible, outlined in black against the flaming crimson of the sky,--it stood upright and waved its arms with a frantic gesture. There was no mistaking it--it was Sigurd!
Without another second's hesitation Errington rushed back to the hut and awoke, with clamorous alarm, the rest of the party. His brief explanation sufficed--they all hurried forth in startled excitement. Sigurd still occupied his hazardous position, and as they looked at him he seemed to dance wildly nearer the extreme edge of the rocky platform. Old Güldmar turned pale. "The gods preserve him!" he muttered in his beard--then turning he began resolutely to make the ascent of the rocks with long, rapid strides--the young men followed him eager and almost breathless, each and all bent upon saving Sigurd from the danger in which he stood, and trying by different ways to get more quickly near the unfortunate lad and call, or draw him back by force from his point of imminent deadly peril. They were more than half-way up, when a piercing cry rang clearly above the thunderous din of the fall--a cry that made them pause for a moment.
Sigurd had caught sight of the figures advancing to his rescue, and was waving them back with eloquent gesture of anger and defiance. His small misshapen body was alive with wrath,--it seemed as though he were some dwarf king ruling over the glittering crimson torrent, and grimly forbidding strangers to enter on the boundaries of his magic territory. They, however, pressed on with renewed haste,--and they had nearly reached the summit when another shrill cry echoed over the sunset-colored foam.