As she passed by, pale with excitement, but still full of hope,
there was cause enough for anxiety. No one concealed from
themselves that Petter Nord had taken quite too large a place in
her imagination. She was the most eager of all in the worship of
that strange saint. All restraints had fallen from her when she had
heard what he suffered for her sake. But how would the sight of him
affect her enthusiasm? There is nothing romantic in a madman.

When she had been carried up to the gate of the graveyard, she left
her bearers and walked alone up the broad middle path. Her gaze
wandered round the flowering spot, but she saw no one.

Suddenly she heard a faint rustle in a clump of fir-trees, and she
saw a wild, distorted face staring from it. Never had she seen
terror so plainly stamped on a face. She was frightened herself at
the sight of it, mortally frightened. She could hardly restrain
herself from running away.

Then a great, holy feeling welled up in her. There was no longer
any thought of love or enthusiasm, but only grief that a fellow-being,
one of the unhappy ones who passed through the vale of tears with
her, should be destroyed.

The girl remained. She did not give way a single step; she let him
slowly accustom himself to the sight of her. But she put all the
strength she possessed in her gaze. She drew the man to her with
the whole force of the will that had conquered the illness in
herself.

He came forward out of his corner, pale, wild and unkempt. He