26 Harold Harrung. (June, 
The last notes of the song, and the applauding shouts that followed it, 
-had died away, and Harold sought the bridal-chamber. There, pure 
and lovely as the moonbeams that streamed through the rude windows 
of the apartment, he found his beloved Ulla. He advanced to fold her 
in his embrance ; but, suddenly, a fearful cry rang in his ear—a shadow 
darkened in the flood of moonlight—and Druda stood before him. 
“ Child of Odin!” she exclaimed, “ behold, I break no promises.” 
—It was the same bitter voice and smile with which she had bid him 
farewell on the frozen deserts of the north ; and Harold felt that all was 
lost.—* Child of Odin!’ she went on, “ I swore to be with you in your 
marriage-hour. Lo! I am here to add to its delights! But, methinks,” 
—and she seized the half-lifeless Ulla as she spoke,—‘ methinks your 
faith this morning Was not fairly plighted.” With irresistible force, she 
dragged the right hand of the hero from his breast, and folded it in that 
of Ulla.—“< Thus—thus, fond lovers! I unite ye !” 
At the touch of his fatal hand, Ulla sank dead at her husband’s feet. 
He stood, with fixed and stony eye, incapable of speech or motion, 
gazing on that form, so beautiful in death! But the fell enchantress 
did not long permit him to remain. 
“ Away! away!” she cried; “thou canst not choose but follow 
me !” 
Unconscious and unresisting, he went forth with her from that 
chamber, and followed her quick footsteps to the shore. There a tall 
ship appeared waiting their approach ; the crew stood ready at each oar 
and sail—and strange, indeed, that crew !—for the chief beheld the eyes 
of those, whom he had deemed long dead amid the arctic frosts, gleam- 
ing on him with supernatural light. 
“ Aboard! aboard!” shouted the fiendish enchantress. A _ wild 
laugh arose from those fearful mariners, as Harold, in desperate mad- 
ness, leaped upon the deck. He was seen no more in Norway. 
OLD PICTURES. 
TuE noble and wealthy projectors and supporters of the British Insti- 
tution fancy, in the simplicity of their hearts, that, by opening every 
year a mart for the sale of a few paltry modern pictures (or pretty ones, 
as the case may be) they are promoting the interests of art to such a 
pitch, that, ere long, “your Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,’ will 
become a dead letter. In the mean time, however, they take good care 
to confine their active patronage, for the most part, to the promoting of 
the sale of modern pictures: for as to purchasing them, that is quite 
another matter, they leave that for those patrons of art, who have 
amassed their wealth east of Temple Bar. And the reason they would 
probably give is, that, to say nothing of the various other channels into 
which a man of rank is compelled to divert his income, they already 
possess collections by the “old masters ;” and that to mix the modern 
and the ancient together, would be an act of injustice to both parties. 
The truth is, the instinct of the privileged persons in question is very 
considerably more shrewd and well-informed than their tastes ; and, in 
consequence, though they admire modern pictures, they buy only ancient 
ones. They will lay you out their five or ten thousand pounds in a year 
