street and spread themselves out between the scattered farmhouses
and on the narrow strips of earth about them, until they were
stopped by the broad river.

Complete silence and quiet reigned in the town. Not a soul was to
be seen; only trees and bushes, and now and again a house. The only
sound to be heard was the rolling of balls in the bowling-alley,
like distant thunder on a summer day. It belonged to the silence.

But now the uneven stones of the market-place were ground under
iron-shod heels. The noise of coarse voices thundered against the
walls of the town-hall and the church was thrown back from the
mountain, and hastened unchecked down the long street. Four
wayfarers disturbed the noonday peace.

Alas, for the sweet silence, the holiday peace of years! How
terrified they were! One could almost see them betaking themselves
in flight up the mountain slopes.

One of the noisy crew who broke into the village was Petter Nord,
the Värmland boy, who six years before had run away, accused of
theft. Those who were with him were three longshoremen from the big
commercial town that lies only a few miles away.

How had little Petter Nord been getting on? He had been getting on
well. He had found one of the most sensible of friends and
companions.

As he ran away from the village in the dark, rainy February
morning, the polska tunes seethed and roared in his ears. And one