IV

Gudmund thought that he had loved Hildur until the day when she exacted

from him the promise that Helga should be sent away from Närlunda; at

least up to that time there was no one whom he had esteemed more highly

than Hildur. No other young girl, to his thinking, could come up to her.

It had been a pleasure for him to picture a future with Hildur. They

would be rich and looked up to, and he felt instinctively that the home

Hildur managed would be good to live in. He liked also to think that he

would be well supplied with money after he had married her. He could

then improve the land, rebuild all the tumble-down houses, extend the

farm, and be a real landed proprietor.

The same Sunday that he had walked home from church with Helga, he had

driven over to Älvåkra in the evening. Then Hildur had started talking

about Helga and had said that she wouldn't come to Närlunda until that

girl was sent away. At first Gudmund had tried to dismiss the whole

matter as a jest, but it was soon obvious that Hildur was in earnest.

Gudmund pleaded Helga's cause exceedingly well and remarked that she was

very young when first sent out to service and it was not strange that

things went badly when she came across such a worthless fellow as Per

Mårtensson. But since his mother had taken her in hand, she had always

conducted herself well. "It can't be right to push her out," said he.

"Then, perhaps, she might meet with misfortune again."

But Hildur would not yield. "If that girl is to remain at Närlunda,

then I will never come there," she declared. "I cannot tolerate a person

of that kind in my home."

"You don't know what you are doing," said Gudmund. "No one understands

so well as Helga how to care for mother. We have all been glad that she

came to us. Before she came, mother was often peevish and depressed."

"I shall not compel you to send her away," said Hildur, but it was clear

that if Gudmund were to take her at her word, in this instance, she was

ready to break the engagement.

"It will probably have to be as you wish," said Gudmund. He did not feel

that he could jeopardize his whole future for Helga's sake, but he was

very pale when he acquiesced, and he was silent and low-spirited the

entire evening.

It was this which had caused Gudmund to fear that perhaps Hildur was not

altogether what he had fancied her. He did not like, I dare say, that

she had pitted her will against his. But the worst of it was that he

could not comprehend anything else than that she was in the wrong. He

felt that he would willingly have given in to her had she been

broad-minded, but instead, it seemed to him, she was only petty and

heartless. Once his doubts were awakened, it was not long before he

perceived one thing and another which were not as he wished. "Doubtless

she is one of those who think first and foremost of themselves," he

muttered every time he parted from her, and he wondered how long her

love for him would last if it were put to the test. He tried to console

himself with the idea that all people thought of themselves first, but

instantly Helga flashed into his mind. He saw her as she stood in the

court room and snatched the Bible, and heard how she cried out: "I

withdraw the suit. I am still fond of him and I don't want him to swear

falsely." It was thus he would have Hildur. Helga had become for him a

standard by which he measured people. Though certainly there were many

who were equal to her in affection!

Day by day he thought less of Hildur, but it did not occur to him that

he should relinquish his prospective bride. He tried to imagine his

discouragement was simply an idle whim. Only a few weeks ago he regarded

her as the best in the world!

Had this been at the beginning of the courtship, he would have

withdrawn, perhaps, but now the banns were already published and the

wedding day fixed, and in his home they had begun repairing and

rebuilding. Nor did he wish to forfeit the wealth and the good social

position which awaited him. What excuse could he offer for breaking the

engagement? That which he had to bring against Hildur was so

inconsequential that it would have turned to air on his lips had he

attempted to express it.

But the heart of him was often heavy, and every time he had an errand

down to the parish or the city he bought ale or wine at the shops to

drink himself into a good humor. When he had emptied a couple of

bottles, he was again proud of the marriage and pleased with Hildur.

Then he didn't understand what it was that pained him.

Gudmund often thought of Helga and longed to meet her. But he fancied

that Helga believed him a wretch because he had not kept the promise

which he voluntarily made her, but had allowed her to go away. He could

neither explain nor excuse himself, therefore he avoided her.

One morning, when Gudmund was walking up the road, he met Helga, who had

been down in the village to buy milk. Gudmund turned about and joined

her.

She didn't appear to be pleased with his company and walked rapidly, as

if she wished to get away from him, and said nothing. Gudmund, too, kept

still because he didn't quite know how he should begin the

conversation.

A vehicle was seen on the road, far behind. Gudmund was absorbed in

thought and did not mark it, but Helga had seen it and turned abruptly

to him: "It is not worth your while to be in my company, Gudmund, for,

unless I see wrongly, it is the Juryman from Älvåkra and his daughter

who come driving back there."

Gudmund glanced up quickly, recognized the horse, and made a movement as

if to turn back; but the next instant he straightened up and walked

calmly at Helga's side until the vehicle had passed. Then he slackened

his pace. Helga continued to walk rapidly, and they parted company

without his having said a word to her. But all that day he was better

satisfied with himself than he had been in a long while.

V

It was decided that Gudmund and Hildur's wedding should be celebrated at

Älvåkra the day following Palm Sunday. On the Friday before, Gudmund

drove to town to make some purchases for the home-coming banquet, which

was to be held at Närlunda the day after the wedding. In the village he

happened across a number of young men from his parish. They knew it was

his last trip to the city before the marriage and made it the occasion

for a carouse. All insisted that Gudmund must drink, and they succeeded

finally in getting him thoroughly intoxicated.

He came home on Saturday morning so late that his father and the men

servants had already gone out to their work, and he slept on until late

in the afternoon. When he arose and was going to dress himself, he

noticed that his coat was torn in several places. "It looks as though I

had been in a fight last night," said he, trying to recall what he had

been up to. He remembered this much: he had left the public tavern at

eleven o'clock in company with his comrades; but where they had gone

afterwards, he couldn't remember. It was like trying to peer into a

great darkness. He did not know if they had only driven around on the

streets or if they had been in somebody's home. He didn't remember

whether he or some one else had harnessed the horse and had no

recollection whatever of the drive home.

When he came into the living-room of the cottage, it was scoured and

arranged for the occasion. All work was over for the day, and the

household were having coffee. No one spoke of Gudmund's trip. It seemed

to be a matter agreed upon that he should have the freedom of living as

he chose these last weeks.

Gudmund sat down at the table and had his coffee like the others. As he

sat pouring it from the cup into the saucer and back into the cup again

to let it cool, mother Ingeborg, who had finished with hers, took up the

newspaper, which had just arrived, and began reading. She read aloud

column after column, and Gudmund, his father, and the rest sat and

listened.

Among other things which she read, there was an account of a fight that

had taken place the night before, on the big square, between a gang of

drunken farmers and some laborers. As soon as the police turned up, the

fighters fled, but one of them lay dead on the square. The man was

carried to the police station, and when no outward injury was found on

him, they had tried to resuscitate him. But all attempts had been in

vain, and at last they discovered that a knife-blade was imbedded in the

skull. It was the blade of an uncommonly large clasp-knife that had

pierced the brain and was broken off close to the head. The murderer had

fled with the knife-handle, but as the police knew perfectly well who

had been in the fight, they had hopes of soon finding him.

While mother Ingeborg was reading this, Gudmund set down the

coffee-cup, stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out a clasp-knife, and

glanced at it carelessly. But almost immediately he started, turned the

knife over, and poked it into his pocket as quickly as though it had

burned him. He did not touch the coffee after that, but sat a long

while, perfectly still, with a puzzled expression on his face. His brows

were contracted, and it was apparent that he was trying with all his

might to think out something.

Finally he stood up, stretched himself, yawned, and walked leisurely

toward the door. "I'll have to bestir myself. I haven't been out of

doors all day," he said, leaving the room.

About the same time Erland Erlandsson also arose. He had smoked out his

pipe, and now he went into the side room to get some tobacco. As he was

standing in there, refilling his pipe, he saw Gudmund walking along. The

windows of the side room did not, like those of the main room, face the

yard, but looked out upon a little garden plot with a couple of tall

apple trees. Beyond the plot lay a bit of swamp land where in the spring

of the year there were big pools of water, but which were almost dried

out in the summer. Toward this side it was seldom that any one went.

Erland Erlandsson wondered what Gudmund was doing there, and followed

him with his eyes. Then he saw that the son stuck his hand into his

pocket, drew out some object, and flung it away in the morass. Thereupon

he walked back across the little garden plot, leaped a fence, and went

down the road.

As soon as his son was out of sight, Erland, in his turn, betook

himself, as he should have done, to the swamp. He waded out into the

mire, bent down, and picked up something his foot had touched. It was a

large clasp-knife with the biggest blade broken off. He turned it over

and over and examined it carefully while he still stood in the water.

Then he put it into his pocket, but he took it out again and looked at

it before returning to the house.

Gudmund did not come home until the household had retired. He went

immediately to bed without touching his supper, which was spread in the

main room.

Erland Erlandsson and his wife slept in the side room. At daybreak

Erland thought he heard footsteps outside the window. He got up, drew

aside the curtain, and saw Gudmund walking down to the swamp. He

stripped off stockings and shoes and waded out into the water, tramping

back and forth, like one who is searching for something. He kept this up

for a long while, then he walked back to dry land, as if he intended to

go away, but soon turned back to resume his search. A whole hour his

father stood watching him. Then Gudmund went back to the house again and

to bed.

On Palm Sunday Gudmund was to drive to church. As he started to hitch up

the horse, his father came out. "You have forgotten to polish the

harness to-day," he said, as he walked by; for both harness and cart

were muddy.

"I have had other things to think of," said Gudmund listlessly, and

drove off without doing anything in the matter.

After the service Gudmund accompanied his betrothed to Älvåkra and

remained there all day. A number of young people came to celebrate

Hildur's last evening as a maid, and there was dancing till far into the

night. Intoxicants were plentiful, but Gudmund did not touch them. The

whole evening he had scarcely spoken a word to any one, but he danced

wildly and laughed at times, loudly and stridently, without any one's

knowing what he was so amused over.

Gudmund did not come home until about two in the morning, and when he

had stabled the horse he went down to the swamp back of the house. He

took off his shoes and stockings, rolled up his trousers, and waded

into the water and mud. It was a light spring night, and his father was

standing in the side room behind the curtain, watching his son. He saw

how he walked bending over the water and searching as on the previous

night. He went up on land between times, but after a moment or two he

would wade again through the mud. Once he went and fetched a bucket from

the barn and began dipping water from the pools, as if he intended to

drain them, but really found it unprofitable and set the bucket aside.

He tried also with a pole-net. He ploughed through the entire

swamp-ground with it, but seemed to bring up nothing but mud. He did not

go in until the morning was so well on that the people in the house were

beginning to bestir themselves. Then he was so tired and spent that he

staggered as he walked, and he flung himself upon the bed without

undressing.

When the clock struck eight, his father came and waked him. Gudmund lay

upon the bed, his clothing covered with mud and clay, but his father did

not ask what he had been doing. He simply said, "It is time now to get

up," and closed the door.

After a while Gudmund came down stairs, dressed in his wedding clothes.

He was pale, and his eyes wore a troubled expression, but no one had

ever seen him look so handsome. His features were as if illumined by an

inner light. One felt that one was looking upon something no longer made

up of flesh and blood,--only of soul and will.

It was solemnly ceremonious down in the main room. His mother was in

black, and she had thrown a pretty silk shawl across her shoulders,

although she was not to be at the wedding. Fresh birch leaves were

arranged in the fireplace. The table was spread, and there was a great

quantity of food.

When they had breakfasted, mother Ingeborg read a hymn and something

from the Bible. Then she turned to Gudmund, thanked him for having been

a good son, wished him happiness in his new life, and gave him her

blessing. Mother Ingeborg could arrange her words well, and Gudmund was

deeply moved. The tears welled to his eyes time and again, but he

managed to choke them back. His father, too, said a few words. "It will

be hard for your parents to lose you," he said, and again Gudmund came

near breaking down. All the servants came forward and shook hands with

him and thanked him for the past. Tears were in his eyes all the while.

He pulled himself together and made several attempts to speak, but

could scarcely get a word past his lips.

His father was to accompany him to the wedding and be one of the party.

He went out and harnessed the horse, after which he came back and

announced that it was time to start. When Gudmund was seated in the

cart, he noticed that it was cleansed and burnished. Everything was as

bright and shiny as he himself always wished it to be. At the same time

he saw, also, how neat everything about the place looked. The driveway

had been laid with new gravel; piles of old wood and rubbish, which had

lain there all his life, were removed. On each side of the entrance door

stood a birch branch, as a gate of honor. A large wreath of blueberry

hung on the weather-vane, and from every aperture peeped light green

birch-leaves. Again Gudmund was ready to burst into tears. He grasped

his father's hand hard when he was about to start; it was as though he

wished to prevent his going.

"Is there something--?" said the father.

"Oh, no!" said Gudmund. "It is best, I dare say, that we go ahead."

Gudmund had to say one more farewell before he was very far from the

homestead. It was Helga from Big Marsh, who stood waiting at the hedge,

where the foliage path leading from her home opened into the highway.

The father was driving and stopped when he saw Helga.

"I have been waiting for you, as I wanted to wish you happiness to-day,"

said Helga.

Gudmund leaned far out over the cart and shook hands with Helga. He

thought that she had grown thin and that her eyelids were red. Very

probably she had lain awake and cried all night and was homesick for

Närlunda. But now she tried to appear happy and smiled sweetly at him.

Again he felt deeply moved but could not speak.

His father, who was reputed never to speak a word until it was called

forth by extreme necessity, joined in: "That good wish, I think, Gudmund

will be more glad over than any other."

"Yes, of that you may be sure!" said Gudmund. He shook hands with Helga

once more, and then they drove on.

Gudmund leaned back in the cart and looked after Helga. When she was

hidden from view by a couple of trees, he hastily tore aside the apron

of the carriage, as if he wished to jump out.

"Is there anything more you wish to say to Helga?" asked his father.

"No, oh, no!" answered Gudmund and turned round again.

Suddenly Gudmund leaned his head against his father's shoulder and burst

out crying.

"What ails you?" asked Erland Erlandsson, drawing in the reins so

suddenly that the horse stopped.

"Oh, they are all so good to me and I don't deserve it."

"But you have never done anything wrong, surely?"

"Yes, father, I have."

"That we can't believe."

"I have killed a human being!"

The father drew a deep breath. It sounded almost like a sigh of relief,

and Gudmund raised his head, astonished, and looked at him. His father

set the horse in motion again; then he said calmly, "I'm glad you have

told of this yourself."

"Did you know it already, father?"

"I surmised last Saturday evening that there was something wrong. And

then I found your knife down in the morass."

"So it was you who found the knife!"

"I found it and I noticed that one of the blades had been broken off."

"Yes, father, I'm aware that the knife-blade is gone, but still I

cannot get it into my head that I did it."

"It was probably done in the drunkenness and delirium."

"I know nothing; I remember nothing. I could see by my clothes that I

had been in a fight and I knew that the knife-blade was missing."

"I understand that it was your intention to be silent about this," said

the father.

"I thought that perhaps the rest of the party were as irresponsible as

myself and _I_ couldn't remember anything. There was perhaps no other

evidence against me than the knife, therefore I threw it away."

"I comprehend that you must have reasoned in that way."

"You understand, father, that I do not know who is dead. I had never

seen him before, I dare say. I have no recollection of having done it. I

didn't think I ought to suffer for what I had not done knowingly. But

soon I got to thinking that I must have been mad to throw the knife into

the marsh. It dries out in summer, and then any one might find it. I

tried last night and the night before to find it."

"Didn't it occur to you that you should confess?"

"No! Yesterday I thought only of how I could keep it a secret, and I

tried to dance and be merry, so that no one would mark any change in

me."

"Was it your intention to go to the bridal altar to-day without

confessing? You were assuming a grave responsibility. Didn't you

understand that if you were discovered you would drag Hildur and her kin

with you into misery?"

"I thought that I was sparing them most by saying nothing."

They drove now as fast as possible. The father seemed to be in haste to

arrive, and all the time he talked with his son. He had not said so much

to him in all his life before.

"I wonder how you came to think differently?" said he.

"It was because Helga came and wished me luck. Then there was something

hard in me that broke. I was touched by something in her. Mother, also,

moved me this morning, and I wanted to speak out and tell her that I was

not worthy of your love; but then the hardness was still within me and

made resistance. But when Helga appeared, it was all over with me. I

felt that she really ought to be angry with me who was to blame for her

having to leave our home."

"Now I think you are agreed with me that we must let the Juryman know

this at once," said the father.

"Yes," answered Gudmund in a low tone. "Why, certainly!" he added almost

immediately after, louder and firmer. "I don't want to drag Hildur into

my misfortune. This she would never forgive me."

"The Älvåkra folk are jealous of their honor, like the rest," remarked

the father. "And you may as well know, Gudmund, that when I left home

this morning I was thinking that I must tell the Juryman your position

if you did not decide to do so yourself. I never could have stood

silently by and let Hildur marry a man who at any moment might be

accused of murder."

He cracked the whip and drove on, faster and faster. "This will be the

hardest thing for you," said he, "but we'll try and have it over with

quickly. I believe that, to the Juryman's mind, it will be right for you

to give yourself up, and they will be kind to you, no doubt."

Gudmund said nothing. His torture increased the nearer they approached

Älvåkra. The father continued talking to keep up his courage.

"I have heard something of this sort before," said he. "There was a

bridegroom once who happened to shoot a comrade to death during a hunt.

He did not do it intentionally, and it was not discovered that he was

the one who had fired the fatal shot. But a day or two later he was to

be married, and when he came to the home of the bride, he went to her

and said: 'The marriage cannot take place. I do not care to drag you

into the misery which awaits me.' But she stood, dressed in bridal

wreath and crown, and took him by the hand and led him into the

drawing-room, where the guests were assembled and all was in readiness

for the ceremony. She related in a clear voice what the bridegroom had

just said to her. 'I have told of this, that all may know you have

practised no deceit on me.' Then she turned to the bridegroom. 'Now I

want to be married to you at once. You are what you are, even though you

have met with misfortune, and whatever awaits you, I want to share it

equally with you.'"

Just as the father had finished the narrative, they were on the long

avenue leading to Älvåkra. Gudmund turned to him with a melancholy

smile. "It will not end thus for us," he said.

"Who knows?" said the father, straightening in the cart. He looked upon

his son and was again astonished at his beauty this day. "It would not

surprise me if something great and unexpected were to come to him,"

thought he.

There was to have been a church ceremony, and already a crowd of people

were gathered at the bride's home to join in the wedding procession. A

number of the Juryman's relatives from a distance had also arrived. They

were sitting on the porch in their best attire, ready for the drive to

church. Carts and carriages were strung out in the yard, and one could

hear the horses stamping in the stable as they were being curried. The

parish fiddler sat on the steps of the storehouse alone, tuning his

fiddle. At a window in the upper story of the cottage stood the bride,

dressed and waiting to have a peep at the bridegroom before he had time

to discover her.

Erland and Gudmund stepped from the carriage and asked immediately for a

private conference with Hildur and her parents. Soon they were all

standing in the little room which the Juryman used as his study.

"I think you must have read in the papers of that fight in town last

Saturday night, where a man was killed," said Gudmund, as rapidly as if

he were repeating a lesson.

"Oh, yes, I've read about it, of course," said the Juryman.

"I happened to be in town that night," continued Gudmund. Now there was

no response. It was as still as death. Gudmund thought they all glared

at him with such fury that he was unable to continue. But his father

came to his aid.

"Gudmund had been invited out by a few friends. He had probably drunk

too much that night, and when he came home he did not know what he had

been doing. But it was apparent that he had been in a fight, for his

clothes were torn."

Gudmund saw that the dread which the others felt increased with every

word that was said, but he himself was growing calmer. There awoke in

him a sense of defiance, and he took up the words again: "When the paper

came on Saturday evening and I read of the fight and of the knife-blade

which was imbedded in the man's skull, I took out my knife and saw that

a blade was missing."

"It is bad news that Gudmund brings with him," said the Juryman. "It

would have been better had he told us of this yesterday."

Gudmund was silent; and now his father came to the rescue again. "It was

not so easy for Gudmund. It was a great temptation to keep quiet about

the whole affair. He is losing much by this confession."

"We may be glad that he has spoken now, and that we have not been

tricked and dragged into this wretched affair," said the Juryman

bitterly.

Gudmund kept his eyes fixed on Hildur all the while. She was adorned

with veil and crown, and now he saw how she raised her hand and drew out

one of the large pins which held the crown in place. She seemed to do

this unconsciously. When she observed that Gudmund's glance rested upon

her, she stuck the pin in again.

"It is not yet fully proved that Gudmund is the slayer," said his

father, "but I can well understand that you wish the wedding postponed

until everything has been cleared up."

"It is not worth while to talk of postponement," said the Juryman. "I

think that Gudmund's case is clear enough for us to decide that all is

over between him and Hildur now."

Gudmund did not at once reply to this judgment. He walked over to his

betrothed and put out his hand. She sat perfectly still and seemed not

to see him. "Won't you say farewell to me, Hildur?"

Then she looked up, and her large eyes stared coldly at him. "Was it

with that hand you guided the knife?" she asked.

Gudmund did not answer her, but turned to the Juryman. "Now I am sure of

my case," he said. "It is useless to talk of a wedding."

With this the conference was ended, and Gudmund and Erland went their

way.

They had to pass through a number of rooms and corridors before they

came out, and everywhere they saw preparations for the wedding. The door

leading to the kitchen was open, and they saw many bustling about in

eager haste. The smell of roasts and of baking penetrated the air; the

whole fireplace was covered with large and small pots and pans, and the

copper saucepans, which usually decorated the walls, were down and in

use. "Fancy, it is for my wedding that they are puttering like this!"

thought Gudmund, as he was passing.

He caught a glimpse, so to speak, of all the wealth of this old peasant

estate as he wandered through the house. He saw the dining-hall, where

the long tables were set with a long row of silver goblets and

decanters. He passed by the clothes-press, where the floor was covered

with great chests and where the walls were hung with an endless array of

wearing apparel. When he came out in the yard, he saw many vehicles, old

and new, and fine horses being led out from the stable, and gorgeous

carriage robes placed in the carriages. He looked out across a couple of

farms with cow-sheds, barns, sheep-folds, storehouses, sheds, larders,

and many other buildings. "All this might have been mine," he thought,

as he seated himself in the cart.

Suddenly he was seized with a sense of bitter regret. He would have

liked to throw himself out of the cart and go in and say that what he

had told them was not true. He had only wished to joke with them and

frighten them. It was awfully stupid of him to confess. Of what use had

it been to him to confess? The dead was dead. No, this confession

carried nothing with it save his ruin.

These last weeks he had not been very enthusiastic over this marriage.

But now, when he must renounce it, he realized what it was worth to him.

It meant much to lose Hildur Ericsdotter and all that went with her.

What did it matter that she was domineering and opinionated? She was

still the peer of all in these regions, and through her he would have

come by great power and honor.

It was not only Hildur and her possessions he was missing, but minor

things as well. At this moment he should have been driving to the

church, and all who looked upon him would have envied him. And it was

to-day that he should have sat at the head of the wedding table and been

in the thick of the dancing and the gayety. It was his great luck-day

that was going from him.

Erland turned time and again to his son and looked at him. Now he was

not so handsome or transfigured as he had been in the morning, but sat

there listless and heavy and dull-eyed. The father wondered if the son

regretted having confessed and meant to question him about it, but

thought it best to be silent.

"Where are we driving to now?" asked Gudmund presently. "Wouldn't it be

as well to go at once to the sheriff?"

"You had better go home first and have a good sleep," said the father.

"You have not had much sleep these last nights, I dare say."

"Mother will be frightened when she sees us."

"She won't be surprised," answered the father, "for she knows quite as

much as I do. She will be glad, of course, that you have confessed."

"I believe mother and the rest of you at home are glad to get me into

prison," snarled Gudmund.

"We know that you are losing a good deal in acting rightly," said the

father. "We can't help but be glad because you have conquered yourself."

Gudmund felt that he could not endure going home and having to listen to

all who would commend him because he had spoiled his future. He sought

some excuse that he might escape meeting any one until he had recovered

his poise. Then they drove by the place where the path led to Big Marsh.

"Will you stop here, father? I think I'll run up to see Helga and have a

talk with her."

Willingly the father reined in the horse. "Only come home as quickly as

you can, that you may rest yourself," said he.

Gudmund went into the woods and was soon out of sight. He did not think

of seeking Helga; he was only thinking of being alone, so that he

wouldn't have to control himself. He felt an unreasonable anger toward

everything, kicked at stones that lay in his path, and paused sometimes

to break off a big branch only because a leaf had brushed his cheek.

He followed the path to Big Marsh, but walked past the croft and up the

hill which lay above it. He had wandered off the path, and in order to

reach the hill-top he must cross a broad ridge of sharp, jagged rocks.

It was a hazardous tramp over the sharp rock edges. He might have broken

both arms and legs had he made a misstep. He understood this perfectly,

but went on as if it amused him to run into danger. "If I were to fall

and hurt myself, no one can find me up here," thought he. "What of it? I

may as well die here as to sit for years within prison walls."

All went well, however, and a few moments later he was up on High Peak.

Once a forest fire had swept the mountain. The highest point was still

bare, and from there one had a seven-mile outlook. He saw valleys and

lakes, dark forest tracts and flourishing towns, churches and manors,

little woodland crofts and large villages. Far in the distance lay the

city, enveloped in a white haze from which a pair of gleaming spires

peeped out. Public roads wound through the valleys, and a railway train

was rushing along the border of the forest. It was a whole kingdom that

he saw.

He flung himself upon the ground, all the while keeping his eyes riveted

upon the vast outlook. There was something grand and majestic about the

landscape before him, which made him feel himself and his sorrows small

and insignificant.

He remembered how, when a child, he had read that the tempter led Jesus

up to a high mountain and showed him all the world's glories, and he

always fancied that they had stood up here on Great Peak, and he

repeated the old words: "All these things will I give thee if thou wilt

fall down and worship me."

All of a sudden he was thinking that a similar temptation had come to

him these last days. Certainly the tempter had not borne him to a high

mountain and shown him all the glories and powers of this world! "Only

be silent about the evil which you think you have done," said he, "and I

will give you all these things."

As Gudmund thought on this, a grain of satisfaction came to him. "I have

answered no," he said, and suddenly he understood what it had meant for

him. If he had kept silent, would he not have been compelled to worship

the tempter all his life? He would have been a timid and faint-hearted

man; simply a slave to his possessions. The fear of discovery would

always have weighed upon him. Nevermore would he have felt himself a

free man.

A great peace came over Gudmund. He was happy in the consciousness that

he had done right. When he thought back to the past days, he felt that

he had groped his way out of a great darkness. It was wonderful that he

had come out right finally. He asked himself how he had ever happened to

go astray. "It was because they were so kind to me at home," he thought,

"and the best help was that Helga came and wished me happiness."

He lay up there on the mountain a little longer, but presently he felt

that he must go home to his father and mother and tell them that he was

at peace with himself. When he rose to go, he saw Helga sitting on a

ledge a little farther down the mountain.

Where she sat, she had not the big, broad outlook which he enjoyed; only

a little glint of the valley was visible to her. This was in the

direction where Närlunda lay, and possibly she could see a portion of

the farm. When Gudmund discovered her, he felt that his heart, which all

the day before had labored heavily and anxiously, began to beat lightly

and merrily; at the same time such a thrill of joy ran through him that

he stood still and marvelled at himself. "What has come over me? What is

this?" he wondered, as the blood surged through his body and happiness

gripped him with a force that was almost painful. At last he said to

himself in a surprised tone: "Why, it is she that I'm fond of! Think,

that I did not know it until now!"

It took hold of him with the strength of a loosened torrent. He had been

bound the whole time he knew her. All that had drawn him to her he had

held back. Now, at last, he was freed from the thought of marrying some

one else--free to love her.

"Helga!" he cried, rushing down the steep to her. She turned round with

a terrified shriek. "Don't be frightened! It is only I."

"But are you not at church being married?"

"No, indeed! There will be no wedding to-day. She doesn't want

me--she--Hildur."

Helga rose. She placed her hand on her heart and closed her eyes. At

that moment she must have thought it was not Gudmund who had come. It

must be that her eyes and ears were bewitched in the forest. Yet it was

sweet and dear of him to come, if only in a vision! She closed her eyes

and stood motionless to keep this vision a few seconds longer.

Gudmund was wild and dizzy from the great love that had flamed up in

him. As soon as he came down to Helga, he threw his arms around her and

kissed her, and she let it happen, for she was absolutely stupefied with

surprise. It was too wonderful to believe that he, who should now be

standing in church beside his bride, actually could have come here to

the forest. This phantom or ghost of him that had come to her may as

well kiss her.

But while Gudmund was kissing Helga, she awoke and pushed him from her.

She began to shower him with questions. Was it really he? What was he

doing in the forest? Had any misfortune happened to him? Why was the

wedding postponed? Was Hildur ill? Did the clergyman have a stroke in

church?

Gudmund had not wished to talk to her of anything in the world save his

love, but she forced him to tell her what had occurred. While he was

speaking she sat still and listened with rapt attention.

She did not interrupt him until he mentioned the broken blade. Then she

leaped up suddenly and asked if it was his clasp-knife, the one he had

when she served with them.

"Yes, it was just that one," said he.

"How many blades were broken off?" she asked.

"Only one," he answered.

Then Helga's head began working. She sat with knit brows trying to

recall something. Wait! Why, certainly she remembered distinctly that

she had borrowed the knife from him to shave wood with the day before

she left. She had broken it then, but she had never told him of it. He

had avoided her, and at that time he had not wished to hold any converse

with her. And of course the knife had been in his pocket ever since and

he hadn't noticed that it was broken.

She raised her head and was about to tell him of this, but he went on

talking of his visit that morning to the house where the wedding was to

have been celebrated, and she wanted to let him finish. When she heard

how he had parted from Hildur, she thought it such a terrible misfortune

that she began upbraiding him. "This is your own fault," said she. "You

and your father came and frightened the life out of her with the

shocking news. She would not have answered thus had she been mistress of

herself. I want to say to you that I believe she regrets it at this very

moment."

"Let her regret it as much as she likes, for all of me!" said Gudmund.

"I know now that she is the sort who thinks only of herself. I am glad

I'm rid of her!"

Helga pressed her lips, as if to keep the great secret from escaping.

There was much for her to think about. It was more than a question of

clearing Gudmund of the murder; the wretched affair had also dragged

with it enmity between Gudmund and his sweetheart. Perhaps she might try

to adjust this matter with the help of what she knew.

Again she sat silent and pondered until Gudmund began telling that he

had transferred his affections to her.

But to her this seemed to be the greatest misfortune he had met with

that day. It was bad that he was about to miss the advantageous

marriage, but still worse were he to woo a girl like herself. "No, such

things you must not say to me," she said, rising abruptly.

"Why shouldn't I say this to you?" asked Gudmund, turning pale. "Perhaps

it is with you as with Hildur--you are afraid of me?"

"No, that's not the reason."

She wanted to explain how he was seeking his own ruin, but he was not

listening to her. "I have heard said that there were women-folk in olden

times who stood side by side with men when they were in trouble; but

that kind one does not encounter nowadays."

A tremor passed through Helga. She could have thrown her arms around his

neck, but remained perfectly still. To-day it was she who must be

sensible.

"True, I should not have asked you to become my wife on the day that I

must go to prison. You see, if I only knew that you would wait for me

until I'm free again, I should go through all the hardship with courage.

Every one will now regard me as a criminal, as one who drinks and

murders. If only there were some one who could think of me with

affection!--this would sustain me more than anything else."

"You know, surely, that I shall never think anything but good of you,

Gudmund."

Helga was so still! Gudmund's entreaties were becoming almost too much

for her. She didn't know how she should escape him. He apprehended

nothing of this, but began thinking he had been mistaken. She could not

feel toward him as he did toward her. He came very close and looked at

her, as though he wanted to look through her. "Are you not sitting on

this particular ledge of the mountain that you may look down to

Närlunda?"

"Yes."

"Don't you long night and day to be there?"

"Yes, but I'm not longing for any person."

"And you don't care for me?"

"Yes, but I don't want to marry you."

"Whom do you care for, then?"

Helga was silent.

"Is it Per Mårtensson?"

"I have already told you that I liked him," she said, exhausted by the

strain of it all.

Gudmund stood for a moment, with tense features, and looked at her.

"Farewell, then! Now we must go our separate ways, you and I," said he.

With that he made a long jump from this ledge of the mountain down to

the next landing and disappeared among the trees.