tarted on again, he heard some one come dancing on
silken foot up the slope. Small feet came tripping. Elves and
fairies played behind him. When he turned round, there was no one,
always no one. He shook his fists at the rustling leaves and went on.

They did not grow silent for that, but they took another tone. They
began to hiss and to pant be hind him. A big viper came gliding.
Its tongue dripping venom hung far out of its mouth, and its bright
body shone against the withered leaves. Beside the snake pattered a
wolf, a big, gaunt monster, who was ready to seize fast in his
throat when the snake had twisted about his feet and bitten him in
the heel. Sometimes they were both silent, as if to approach him
unperceived, but they soon betrayed themselves by hissing and
panting, and sometimes the wolf's claws rung against a stone.
Involuntarily Tord walked quicker and quicker, but the creatures
hastened after him. When he felt that they were only two steps
distant and were preparing to strike, he turned. There was nothing
there, and he had known it the whole time.

He sat down on a stone to rest. Then the dry leaves played about
his feet as if to amuse him. All the leaves of the forest were
there: small, light yellow birch leaves, red speckled mountain ash,
the elm's dry, dark-brown leaves, the aspen's tough light red, and
the willow's yellow green. Transformed and withered, scarred and
torn were they, and much unlike the downy, light green, delicately
shaped leaves, which a few months ago had rolled out of their buds.

"Sinners," said the boy, "sinners, nothing is pure in God's eyes.
The flame of his wrath has already reached you."

When he resumed his wandering, he saw the forest under him bend
before the storm like a heaving sea, but in the path it was calm.
But he heard what he did not feel. The woods were full of voices.

He heard whisperings, wailing songs, coarse threats, thundering
oaths. There was laughter and laments, there was the noise of many
people. That which hounded and pursued, which rustled and hissed,
which seemed to be something and still was nothing, gave him wild
thoughts. He felt again the anguish of death, as when he lay on the
floor in his den and the peasants hunted him through the wood. He
heard again the crashing of branches, the people's heavy tread, the
ring of weapons, the resounding cries, the wild, bloodthirsty
noise, which followed the crowd.

But it was not only that which he heard