breathing of the old man were the only sounds
to break the silence. Pale like a marble image
stood she before him; no word of excuse, no
prayer for forgiveness escaped her; only a
convulsive quivering of the lips betrayed the life
that struggled within her. With every moment
the hope died in Bjarne's bosom. His visage
was fearful to behold. Terror and fierce
indomitable hatred had grimly distorted his features,
and his eyes burned like fire-coals beneath his bushy brows.

"Harlot," he shrieked, "harlot!"

A cold gust of wind swept through the room.
The windows shook, the doors flew open, as if
touched by a strong invisible hand--and the old
man stood alone, holding the flickering brand
above his head.

It was after midnight, the wind had abated,
but the snow still fell, thick and silent, burying
paths and fences under its cold white mantle.
Onward she fled--onward and ever onward.
And whither, she knew not. A cold numbness
had chilled her senses, but still her feet drove
her irresistibly onward. A dark current seemed
to have seized her, she only felt that she was
adrift, and she cared not whither it bore her.
In spite of the stifling dullness which oppressed
her, her body seemed as light as air. At last,--