The Fisher Maiden/Chapter VII
CHAPTER VII.
In the darkness of night the vessel cast anchor in the harbor of Bergen. Half bewildered from sea-sickness, Petra was taken in the captain’s boat through a multiplicity of vessels, large and small, up to the throng of ferrymen on the wharves and of peasants and street-boys in the narrow by-ways through which their way led. They halted in front of a neat little cottage, where an old woman, at the captain’s request, cordially received her. She craved food and sleep, and had both wants satisfied. She awoke at noon the next day, refreshed and bright, to new sounds and an unfamiliar accent, and when the curtains were up, to a new surrounding nature, to strange faces and a strange town. She herself had become a new person, she thought, as she paused before the glass—this face was not the old familiar one. She could not well define the difference, not understanding that at her age any great sorrow and shock refines and spiritualizes; yet at sight of herself in the glass she was forced to recall the past nights, and as she did she shuddered. So she hastened to get ready to go down-stairs to all the new surroundings that awaited her. She met her hostess and several ladies who first surveyed her from head to foot and then promised to interest themselves in her behalf; as a beginning they offered to show her round the city. She desired to make a number of purchases, and so she ran up-stairs again after her pocket-book; but it seemed so thick and clumsy that, feeling ashamed to carry it down-stairs with her, she opened it in her room to take out the money. Instead of one hundred dollars, she found three hundred. Thus Pedro Ohlsen had again given her money contrary to her mother’s knowledge and consent. So little comprehension had she of its value, though, that the amount of the sum did not astonish her; and so it did not occur to her to reflect on the cause of his great liberality. Instead of a communication overflowing with joy and inquiries indicating a suspicion of the truth, Pedro Ohlsen received from Gunlaug a letter written to herself, in which her daughter with ill-concealed vexation betrayed her benefactor and asked what she was to do with this smuggled gift.
What first strongly impressed Petra was the natural scenery of the town. She could not get clear of the feeling that the mountain was so near her that she must beware of it. A sense of oppression came over her whenever she raised her eyes, and at the same time she felt an impulse to stretch forth her hand and knock to gain admission. There were moments, on the contrary, when it seemed to her that she could find no possible outlet. Sun-forsaken and gloomy stood the mountain; dense clouds hung above it or were driven over it; there was an incessant alternation of wind and rain coming from the mountain and sent by the mountain upon the town. There was no gloom, however, over the people around her. Soon she felt happy among them, for in their bustling activity there was a freedom, an ease, a cheerfulness, she had never known, and which, after what she had experienced, affected her like a smile of welcome. When at dinner the next day she remarked that she liked best to be where there were many people, she was told that if that were the case she should go to the theatre, where, in a single building, she would find hundreds of people. She thought she would like that, so a ticket was bought, and at the appointed hour she was taken to the theatre, which was close by, and was shown to a seat in the front row in the balcony. She sat in a dazzling blaze of light, among many hundred bright-faced people, and surrounded by gay colors and a buzz of voices that smote on her ear from every direction, rushing toward her like the roaring of the mighty ocean.
Petra had not the faintest conception of what she was to see here. She knew, indeed, nothing but what Ödegaard had taught her, and what she had learned from chance acquaintances. About the theatre, however, Ödegaard had never told her a word; the sailors had spoken of a theatre where there were wild beasts and equestrian performers, and it would never have occurred to the boys to speak of a play even if they had learned about it at school; the little town had no theatre, not even a house called by that name; traveling beast-tamers, rope-dancers, and clowns were in the habit of exhibiting either in some seaman’s warehouse or in the open commons. She was so ignorant that she did not even know what to ask; she sat there in high spirits waiting for the appearance of curiosities, such as camels or monkeys. Filled with this idea she came gradually to see animals in every face about her,—horses, dogs, foxes, cats, mice,—and it amused her. Thus the orchestra assembled without her noticing it. She started up in alarm, for with abrupt bewildering crash of kettle-drums, drums, bassoons, and horns, the overture began. In her whole life she had never heard more than a couple of violins, and perchance a flute, played at one time. The stormy grandeur of tone that now smote on her ear made her turn pale, so like it was to the cold, black billow that breaks on the sea. She sat lost in terror lest the next burst should be even more exciting; and yet she would have been loath to have the music cease. Soon gentler harmonies brought light, revealing vistas never dreamed of before, and toward these she was softly rocked by sweet melodies. Sportive life filled the air about her; a radiant throng was soaring upward with vigorous pinion strokes, and now it softly descended, majestically congregated together only to break apart in frolicsome gayety, until the pall of darkness descended, and all seemed to be whirled away in the boom of a great cataract. Then, above the din and roar rose a single strain, as from a bird on a bough wet by the spray from the depths below. Sadly, timidly, the song began, but the atmosphere above was purified thereby, the sun peeped forth, and once more the long blue vistas were filled with those marvelous fluttering, floating visions she had seen before. This had lasted but a brief period when, lo! it subsided into gentle peace, the exultant hosts passed farther and farther away, naught was visible save the sunbeams which were diffused through the air; above this infinite waste the sun alone held sway, calmly weaving its meshes of light over the scene, and amidst all this glory Petra sat dreaming. She involuntarily rose when the music ceased; for now the spell was broken. Ah, how wonderful! At that moment the beautiful painted curtain, right in front of her, went all the way up to the ceiling! She was in a church, a church with arches and pillars, a church filled with the swelling tones of an organ, and solemn grandeur, and people advanced toward her in costumes unknown to her, and they spoke, yes, they were talking in church, and in a language she did not understand. But how was this? They were talking behind her, too.
“Sit down!” said they; but there were no seats in the church, so of course the two people she saw there remained standing as well as she, and the longer she looked at them the clearer it became to her that these costumes were the same she had seen in a picture of Olaf the Saint—and there, they were actually mentioning St. Olaf’s name.
“Sit down!” she again heard behind her; “sit down!” exclaimed several voices.
“There is, perhaps, something to be seen back there, too,” thought Petra, and turned quickly.
A multitude of angry faces, some actually threatening, met hers.
“There must be something amiss here,” thought Petra, and she was about to leave, but an old lady who sat beside her gently pulled her dress.
“Why do you not sit down, then, child?” whispered she. “The people behind us cannot see.”
In an instant Petra was in her seat. “Why, of course, it is the theatre in there, and we are looking on—yes, to be sure, it is the theatre!” and she kept repeating the word to impress it fully on her mind.
Once more she gazed into the church, but in spite of every effort she failed to understand him who was speaking there. Not until she had fully comprehended that he was a handsome young man did she here and there gather the import of his words, and when she found that he was speaking of love and was himself in love, she understood almost everything he said. Her attention was suddenly drawn from him by the entrance of a third, whom she knew, from pictures she had seen, must be a monk, and she had longed very much to see a monk. How softly he stepped about, and how quiet he was! He seemed, indeed, to be a pious man, and he spoke so distinctly and slowly that Petra could follow every word. But suddenly he turns and says just the opposite of what he has been saying. Good heavens! this is a villain! Listen, he is a villain! Even his face shows plainly that he is one! Why cannot that handsome young man discover it? He surely must have heard what he said!
“He is deceiving you!” she whispered, half aloud.
“Hush!” said the old lady.
Ah! the young man did not hear; in his perilous trust he leaves the church. They all withdraw, and presently an old man enters. Why, how is this? When the old man speaks, it seems as if the young man was speaking, and yet this surely is an old man. But look! look! A shining procession of white-clad maidens, walking two and two, are passing noiselessly and slowly through the church. Petra saw them long after they had gone, and before her mind’s eye floated a similar memory from her childhood. She had gone with her mother across the mountains one winter: as they waded along through the new-fallen snow, they inadvertently startled a brood of ptarmigans, who suddenly filled the air before them; they were white; white was the snow; the forest was white—for a long time afterward all her visions were white. So, too, it was now for a while.
But now one of these white-robed women advances, rosary in hand, and kneels; the old man, too, has knelt down, and she speaks to him. He bears her a message and a letter from foreign lands. He hands her the letter, and it is quite evident that it is from some one very dear to her. Ah, how delightful this is! They all love one another here! She opens it; why, it is no letter—it is full of music! But see, ah, see! he is himself the letter. The old man is the young one, and it is he whom she loves. They embrace. Good heavens! they kiss! Petra felt herself growing fiery red, and buried her face in her hands, while she listened further. Hark! he is telling her that they must marry immediately, and she pulls his beard, laughing, and saying he has become a barbarian, and he tells her how beautiful she has become. He gives her a ring, and he promises her robes of scarlet and velvet, golden shoes, and a girdle of gold; then merrily taking leave, he goes to the king to speak of the wedding. His bride gazes after him, with beaming face; but when she turns, the place seems empty without him.
Then swiftly the wall glides down again. Can it be over now? Why, it seemed to be only just beginning! Blushing deeply, Petra turned to the old lady and inquired,—
“Is it over?”
“No, no, child; this is only the first act. There are five such, yes, there are, indeed,” she repeated, with a sigh; “there are five of them.”
“About the same?” asked Petra.
“What you mean by that?”
“Do the same people come back again, and does it all go on?”
“Have you never seen a play before?”
“No.”
“Ah, to be sure, I suppose there are many places where there is no theatre; it is so expensive.”
“But what is it all?” asked Petra, staring with anxious eagerness, as if she could not wait for an answer. “Who are these people?”
“This is a company belonging to Manager Naso, a first-class company; he is so clever.”
“Is it he who makes it all up? Or, what is it? For pity’s sake, answer me!”
“Dear child, do you not know what a play is? Where do you come from?”
But when Petra thought of her birthplace, she recalled also her shame and her flight, and she relapsed into silence, not daring to ask any more questions.
The second act came, and with it the king. Yes, truly this was the king; her eyes really beheld a monarch! She heard not what he said, she saw not with whom he spoke; she only looked at his kingly attire, his kingly demeanor, his kingly gestures. She was first roused from her absorption when the young man entered; and then they all started off after the bride. Now she was forced to wait again.
During the interlude the old lady leaned over to her. “Do you not think the acting very fine?” said she.
“Acting—what do you mean by that?” and Petra looked at her in surprise.
She did not notice that every one round about was staring at her, and that the old lady was urged on by the others to question her; she did not hear that they were all laughing at her.
“They do not speak as we do!” said she, receiving no answer.
“Why, they are Danes,” replied the old lady, also beginning to laugh.
Then it dawned on Petra that the good lady was laughing at her many queries; and she said no more, but sat with her eyes fixed intently on the curtain.
When it rose again, she had the great delight of seeing an archbishop. It was as before; she became so lost in the sight of him that she heard not a word that he uttered. Then the sound of music reached her,—ah, so hushed, so far distant! but it came nearer and nearer; it was a chorus of women’s voices, accompanied by flutes and violins and an instrument that was not a guitar, and yet like many guitars, only softer, richer, more vibrating in tone. The harmony of the whole streamed toward her in long waves of sound, and when it all had become transformed into undulating colors, the procession swept in; soldiers with halberds, choristers with censers, monks bearing tapers, a crowned king, and at his side the bridegroom, clad in white. Then came once more the white-robed women, strewing roses and music before the bride, who was attired in white silk and wore a red wreath in her hair. At her side walked a tall, stately woman, in a purple robe with a long train, dotted with crowns of gold, and with a small glittering crown on her head. This must be the queen! The whole church was flooded with music and rich coloring, and everything which now took place from the moment the bridegroom led the bride to the altar where they knelt, while their followers knelt about them, until the archbishop came up with his train of crusaders, was but as new links in the many-hued chain of tones.
But now, just as the ceremony was about to begin, the archbishop held aloft his crosier and forbade it: their marriage was contrary to the laws of God; never in this life could they be united! O Heavenly Father, have mercy! The bride swooned away, and Petra, too, who had risen to her feet, fell with a piercing shriek.
“Water! Bring water here!” voices about her cried.
“No,” said the old lady, in reply. “She has not fainted; it is not necessary.”
“It is not necessary,” was echoed around. “Silence.”
“Silence!” was shouted from the parquet. “Silence in the balcony!”
“Hush!” was answered from the balcony.
“You must not take it so to heart; it is all romance and nonsense,” whispered the old lady; “but Madam Naso plays astonishingly well.”
“Be still!” now Petra, too, called out; she was already absorbed in the play, for now the fiendish monk appeared with a sword. The two lovers were made to take a piece of cloth and he cut it asunder between them with his sword, as the church severs, as pain severs, and as the sword above the gates of Paradise severed from bliss on that day when Adam and Eve were driven from the garden of Eden. Weeping women took from the bride her red wreath, and gave her in its place a white one; with it she was pledged to the cloister for life. He, to whom she belonged beyond time and eternity, should know that she lived, but might not claim her; know her to be buried within those convent walls, yet never see her. How heart-rending the farewell they bade each other! There could be no greater grief on earth than theirs!
“Good gracious!” whispered the old lady, as the curtain fell; “do not be so foolish, I beg of you. It is only Madam Naso, the manager’s wife.”
Petra opened wide her eyes and stared at the good lady. She thought she must be mad, and as the lady had long held the same opinion of Petra, they kept on glancing shyly at each other from time to time, but interchanged no further remarks.
When the curtain rose once more, Petra could no longer follow what was taking place on the stage; she had eyes for nothing save the bride behind the cloister walls and the bridegroom watching by day and by night without, both in dire despair. She endured their agony; she prayed their prayers; all that was actually on the stage passed colorless before her. An ominous silence recalled her; the empty church kept growing ever larger; no sound was heard within save the twelve strokes of the midnight hour. Beneath the vaulted roof is heard a rumbling peal, the walls tremble, St. Olaf has arisen from his tomb, his winding-sheet about him. Tall and terrible, he strides onward; guards flee before him; thunder rolls; and the monk falls, pierced by the mighty spear, whereupon darkness closes around, and the apparition sinks away. The monk is left lying there like a heap of ashes struck by lightning.
Petra had unconsciously clung to the old lady, who had been rather alarmed by her convulsive grasp, but now seeing her growing paler hastened to say,—
“Bless you, child! this is merely Knutsen. This is the only part he can act because his voice is so thick.”
“No, no, no, no! I saw the flames about him,” said Petra, “and the church trembled beneath his tread!”
“Do be quiet there!” is cried from several quarters. “Out with whoever it is that cannot keep quiet!”
“Silence in the balcony!” comes from the parquet.
“Be still!” answers the balcony.
Petra had cowered down as if to shield herself from observation, but immediately forgot what had been going on, for lo! there are the lovers again; the lightning has burst open a way for them; they are seeking escape. They have found each other,—they fall into each other’s arms. God in heaven, protect them now!
Then there arises a clamor of shouts, mingled with the sound of trumpets. The bridegroom is torn from his bride’s side and is made to join the hosts battling for the fatherland. He is wounded, and with his dying breath sends his last greetings to his bride. Petra does not comprehend what has happened until the bride quietly enters and sees his corpse! Then it seems as if every cloud of sorrow had gathered over this one spot; but a glance disperses them. From the bosom of the dead the bride looks up and prays that she, too, may die. The heavens are opened to that gaze; a wondrous light streams down; the bridal chamber is above; let the bride enter. Ah! she can already look in, for in her eyes there sparkles a peace like that on yonder lofty mountains. Then the eyelids droop, the struggle has ended in victory, the fidelity of the lovers has won an exalted crown. She has joined her lover now.
Petra long sat silent; her heart was uplifted in faith, her whole being filled with the strength and greatness she had witnessed. She rose superior to all that was groveling; she rose above fear and pain; she rose with a smile for every one, and in them all she saw her brothers and sisters. The evil which divides man existed no longer—it lay crushed beneath the thunder. People returned her smile; she was the person who had been half beside herself during the play; but she saw in their smiles only the reflection of the victory she bore within herself. In the belief that their smiles were in harmony with her own, she smiled back so radiantly that they smiled in response to her smile. She passed down the broad stairway, between the two receding columns, from which was reflected joy in response to her joy, and beauty in response to the beauty which radiated from her. There are times when the beams of light in our own souls become so brilliant that they make everything about us bright though we ourselves be unconscious of it. This is earth’s grandest triumphal procession—to be announced, borne onward, and followed by one’s own glowing thoughts.
When Petra, not knowing how she came there, reached home, she inquired what it was she had seen. There were several persons present who were able to understand her and give her a helpful answer. And after it had been fully explained to her what a drama was, and what great actors had in their power to do, she started up and said,—
“This is the noblest calling on earth; this is what I mean to be.”
To the astonishment of every one she put on her things and went out again. She felt that she must be alone in the open air. She walked out of town, and, though the wind blew high, passed on to a point near by that jutted out into the sea. The turbulent waves were dashing against the rocks below; but on both sides of the bay the town lay overspread with a luminous haze, through which countless numbers of scattered beams of light were working their way, and could but shed radiance over the veil they could not raise. She made this an emblem of her soul. The hollow sound in the mighty darkness beneath her feet was a warning from unfathomable depths. Either she must sink into the dread abyss, or she must enter the ranks of those who are striving to give light. She asked herself why she had never had such thoughts before, and replied that it was because she had been ruled by the power of the moment, but then she also felt that at such times she had power indeed. She saw it now: just as many moments would be granted her as there were twinkling lights yonder, and she prayed God to be able to make them all full that He might not have kindled them in vain. An icy wind blew about her, and she rose. She had not been gone long, but when she bent her steps homeward once more she knew whither her path must henceforth lead.
The next day she stood before the manager’s door. Loud, angry voices reached her from within; one of them, she thought, was like that of the bride of yesterday. It was pitched in a different key, it was true, but it made Petra quiver. She waited for some time, but as it seemed as though there would be no end to the bickering, she knocked.
“Come in!” cried a man’s voice, in a very angry tone.
“Oh!” screamed a female voice, and as Petra opened the door, she saw a picture of flying terror, with streaming hair and night-dress, vanish through a side door.
The manager, a tall man, with savage eyes which he hastened to cover with a pair of gold spectacles, was pacing the floor in a state of wild tumult. His long nose so completely dominated his face that all the other features seemed to be there for its sake alone. His eyes peered out like a brace of gun barrels behind this bulwark; the mouth was a ditch in front of it, and the forehead a light bridge thrown across from it to the forest or the “barricades.”
“What do you want?” he snarled, suddenly coming to a halt in front of Petra. “Are you the person who wants to become a chorus-singer?”
“Chorus-singer? What is that?”
“Well, then you do not know, aha! What do you want, then?”
“I want to be an actress.”
“So that is what you want—indeed, and you do not so much as know what a chorus-singer is. But do you not speak a dialect?”
“Dialect? What is that?”
“Well, upon my word! You do not know what that is either, and yet you want to be an actress. Ah, indeed!—yes, that is just like those Norwegians. Dialect means that you do not talk as we do.”
“Yes, but I have been practicing the whole morning.”
“Have you, indeed? Well—well! Let me hear!”
And Petra struck an attitude and said, with the same accent as the bride of yesterday,—
“I greet you, my love, good morning!”
“I think!—the deuce take you!—that you must have come here to ridicule my wife!”
A peal of laughter was heard from the adjoining room, and the manager, without in the least appearing to remember the mortal quarrel of a moment since, opened the door and called in:—
“Here is a Norwegian hussy who wants to caricature you. Do come out and see.”
A lady, with disheveled, obstinate black hair, dark eyes, and large mouth, actually thrust her head into the room and laughed. But Petra hastened toward her, for this must be the bride—no, her mother, she thought, as she came nearer. With her eyes fixed on the lady, she said,—
“I am not sure whether it is you—or is it your mother?”
Now the manager laughed; the lady had drawn back her head, and she continued to laugh in the side room. Petra’s embarrassment was so vividly depicted in her face, her attitude, the play of her features, that the manager became attentive. After watching her for a while, he picked up a book, and, as if nothing in the world had occurred, said,—
“Take this and read, my girl; but read as you yourself speak.”
She did so at once.
“No, no, that is not right. Listen to me!” He read to her, and she repeated what he had read, imitating to perfection.
“No, no, that is wrong; read Norwegian—the deuce! Norwegian.”
And Petra again read as before.
“No, I tell you, that is entirely wrong. Do not you understand what I mean? Are you stupid?”
He tried again and again, and gave her another book.
“See, this is in the opposite style; it is comic. Read this.”
Petra read, but the same confusion followed until he grew disgusted, and shouted,—
“No, no, no! Why the devil do you not stop? What do you want on the stage? What the deuce is it you want to play?”
“I want to play what I saw yesterday.”
“Aha! Of course you do! Well,—and then?”
“Why,” said she, growing rather embarrassed, “it seemed to me splendid yesterday, but to-day I have been thinking it over, and I feel sure it would be better still if it had a good ending. That is the way I would like to play it.”
“Would you, indeed? Ah, well! There is really nothing to prevent. The author is dead, he can make no further corrections, and you who can neither speak nor read want to remodel his play for him. Well, that is truly Norwegian!”
Petra did not comprehend a word; she only understood that it was against her, and she began to feel uneasy.
“May I not?” asked she, softly.
“Why, good gracious! there is nothing to prevent. Pray begin! Listen,” said he, in an entirely different tone, and walking straight up to her: “You have no more idea of acting than a cat. And you have no talent either for comedy or tragedy; I have now tried you in both. Because you have a pretty face and a pretty figure, people have persuaded you that you can play better than my wife, to be sure, and so you want to come out in the finest rôle in our repertoire and alter it in the bargain. Well, that is the way with the Norwegians! they are people who are ready for everything!”
Petra’s breath grew shorter and more labored, and there was evidently a struggle going on within. At length she ventured to whisper,—
“Do you really say that I may not?”
He had been standing looking out of the window, feeling quite sure that she had gone. Much astonished, he now turns, but observing her strongly-depicted emotion, and the vigor indicated by her whole demeanor, he pauses a moment, suddenly seizes a book, and, handing it to her, says, in a voice and with an expression of countenance from which every trace of his former manner had been effaced,—
“Here, read this piece, and read it slowly, just that I may hear your voice. Well,—go on!”
But she could not read; she could not so much as see the letters.
“Come, do not be embarrassed!”
She began at last, but her reading was cold, colorless. He begged her to read the passage again, and “with more feeling.” That made it still worse. At this he took the book from her, saying calmly,—
“I have now tried you in every possible way, so I cannot be blamed. I do assure you, my dear young lady, if I should send my boot on the stage or send you, it would make precisely the same impression, and a most singular one it would be. And now this is enough!”
But as a final effort Petra ventured to say, in tones of entreaty,—
“I really think I would understand if I might only”—
“Yes, no doubt,—every fishing hamlet understands the matter far better than we. The Norwegian public is the most enlightened in the world. Come, now, if you will not go, I will!”
She turned to the door, and burst into tears.
“See here!” said he—for this violent emotion had kindled a light within him. “Is it possible that it was you who made so much excitement in the theatre yesterday?”
She grew fiery red, and stood looking helplessly at him.
“Yes, of course it was you. I know you now—‘the fisher maiden.’ After the play I was in company with a gentleman from your native place; he ‘knew you well.’ And so this is why you want to go on the stage: you want to practice your arts there. That is it! Hark, my theatre is a respectable place, and I decline every attempt to make it otherwise. Go! Will you go, I say?”
And Petra passed out the door, went sobbing down the stairs, and out of the house. She ran weeping through the crowded streets; and a young woman running weeping thus in broad daylight through the streets of a city could not but create a sensation. People stood still while small boys started in pursuit, and their numbers kept increasing. In the clatter behind her Petra heard the rumbling sounds of that night in her loft chamber, she recalled the faces in the air and sped swiftly onward. But recollection grew with every step, and so did the noise behind her, and when she had reached the house and torn open the street door, gained her own room, and locked herself in, she had to fling herself in a corner and ward off the faces that assailed her; she drove them away with her hands, with menacing gestures, then sank exhausted and wept more softly—and was saved.
That same afternoon, toward evening, she left Bergen, and started inland. Whither she was bound she knew not herself; she only wanted to go where she was not known. She rode in a cariole, with her trunk strapped on behind and a post-boy sitting on it. The rain was pouring down in torrents, and she sat crouching beneath a huge umbrella, gazing timidly up at the mountain and then down at the precipice at her side. A brooding mass of fog hung over the forest in front of her, filled with spectres; in the next moment she would be there; but the nearer she drew the more the fog receded. A mighty roaring, growing ever stronger, increased the feeling that she was journeying onward through a mysterious region, where everything had its own significance, its own obscure connection, and where mortal was but a timid wayfarer who had to be ever on his guard if he wished to make progress. The roar came from many forces swollen by the rain until they had become giants, and now plunged madly from precipice to precipice with a thundering crash. The road led over narrow bridges, and Petra could see the seething and foaming of the waters in the depths below. Anon it wound and curved down the mountains, here and there bringing to view some solitary cultivated spot, dotted with turf-thatched cottages, then leading upward again toward the forest and the boom of the falling waters. Her clothes were wet through and she was cold; but she was resolved to pursue her way onward as long as daylight lasted, onward the next day, too, ever farther inland until she reached a spot where she dared feel secure. Thither would the Almighty help her, He who was guiding her now through darkness and tempest.