you made me believe?" he said.
"That you were a tiresome and peevish old woman with arms full of
small, harmless twigs. You are a sorceress of life. You are a
monster. You are beautiful, and you are terrible. You yourself know
no bounds nor limits; why should I know them? How can you preach
fasting, you, who wish to deluge me with such an overmeasure of
sorrow? What are the festivals I have celebrated compared to those
you are continually preparing for me! Begone with your pallid
moderation! Now I wish to be as mad as yourself."

Not one step could he take towards the big town. Neither could he
turn directly round and again go the length of the one street in
the village; he took the path up the mountain, climbed to the
enchanted pine-wood, and wandered about among the stiff, prickly
young trees, until a friendly path led him to the graveyard. There
he found a hiding-place in a corner where the pines grew high as
masts, and there he threw himself weary unto death on the ground.

He almost lost consciousness. He did not know if time passed or if
everything stood still. But after a while steps were heard, and he
woke to a feeble consciousness. He seemed to have been far, far
away. He saw a funeral procession draw near, and instantly a
confused thought rose in him. How long had he lain there? Was Edith
dead already? Was she looking for him here? Was the corpse in the
coffin hunting for its murderer? He shook and sweated. He lay well
hidden in the dark pine thicket; but he trembled for what might
happen if the corpse found him. He bent aside the branches and
looked out. A hunted deserter could not have spied more wildly
after his pursuers.

The funeral was that of a poor man. The attendance was small. The
coffin was lowered without wreaths into the grave. There was no
sign of tears on any of the faces. Petter Nord had still enough
sense to see that this could not be Edith Halfvorson's funeral
train.

But if this was not she, who knows if it was not a greeting from
her. Petter Nord felt that he had no right to escape. She had said
that he was to go up to the graveyard. She must have meant that he
was to wait for her there, so that she could find him to give him
his punishment. The funeral was a greeting, a token. She wished him
to wait for her there.

To his sick brain the low churchyard wall rose as high as a
rampart. He stared despairingly at the frail trellis-gate; it was
like the most solid door of oak. He was im