drops; a pale gust blew over the steel-grey mirror of the lake.
Olav looked inland. It was so inconceivably still—there was as yet no life in the village; the farms were asleep and fields and meadows and groves were asleep, pale in the grey dawn. Scattered over the screes behind the nearest houses stood a few spruce-firs as though lifeless, so still and straight were they. The sky was almost white, with a faint yellow tinge in the north above the black tree-tops. Only high up floated a few dark shreds of the night’s clouds.
It was so lonely to be standing here, the only one awake, driven out by this new feeling which chased him incessantly farther and farther away from the easy self-confidence of childhood. It was about this hour yesterday that he had risen—it seemed years ago.
He stood, shy and oppressed at heart, listening to the stillness. Now and again there was the clatter of a wooden bell; the widow’s cow was moving in the grove. Then the cuckoo called, unearthly clear and far away somewhere in the dark forests, and some little birds began to wake. Each of the little sounds seemed only to intensify the immense hush of space.
Olav went to the byre and peeped in, but drew his head back at once before the sharp scent of lye that met him. But the ground was good and dry under the lean-to roof; brown and bare, with some wisps from the winter’s stacks of hay and leaves. He lay down, rolled up like an animal, and went to sleep in a moment.
He was awakened by Ingunn shaking him. She was on her knees beside him. “Have you lain out here?”
“ ’Twas so thick with smoke in the cabin.” Olav rose to his knees and shook the wisps and twigs from his clothes.
The sun came out above the ridge, and the tops of the firs seemed to take fire as it rose higher. And now there was a full-throated song of birds all through the woods. Shadows still lay over the land and far out on the deep-blue lake, but on the other side of the water the sunshine flooded the forest and the green hamlets on the upper slopes.
Olav and Ingunn remained on their knees, facing each other, as though in wonder. And without either’s saying anything they laid their arms on each other’s shoulders and leaned forward.
They let go at the same time and looked at each other with a faint smile of surprise. Then Olav raised his hand and touched the girl’s temples. He pushed back the tawny, dishevelled hair. As she let him do it, he put his other arm about her, drew her toward him, and kissed her long and tenderly on the sweet, tempting pit under the roots of the hair.
He looked into her face when he had done it and a warm tingling ran through him—she liked him to do that. Then they kissed each other on the lips, and at last he took courage to kiss her on the white arch of her throat.
But not a word did they say. When they stood up, he took the empty wallet and his cloak and set out. And so they walked in silence, he before and she behind, along the road through the village, while the morning sun shed its light farther and farther down the slopes.
On the higher ground folk were already astir on all the farms. As they went through the last of the woods, it was full daylight. But when they came to the staked gate where the home fields of Frettastein began, they saw no one about. Perhaps they might come well out of their adventure after all.
Behind the bushes by the gate they halted for a moment and looked at each other—the dazed, blissful surprise broke out intheir eyes once more. Quickly he touched her hand, then turned to the gate again and pulled up the stakes.
When they entered the courtyard, the door of the byre stood open, but no one was to be seen. Ingunn made for the loft-room where she had slept the night before.
All at once she turned and came running back to Olav. “Your brooch—” she had taken it off and held it out to him.
“You may have it—I will give it you,” he said quickly. He took off her little one, which he had
Olav looked inland. It was so inconceivably still—there was as yet no life in the village; the farms were asleep and fields and meadows and groves were asleep, pale in the grey dawn. Scattered over the screes behind the nearest houses stood a few spruce-firs as though lifeless, so still and straight were they. The sky was almost white, with a faint yellow tinge in the north above the black tree-tops. Only high up floated a few dark shreds of the night’s clouds.
It was so lonely to be standing here, the only one awake, driven out by this new feeling which chased him incessantly farther and farther away from the easy self-confidence of childhood. It was about this hour yesterday that he had risen—it seemed years ago.
He stood, shy and oppressed at heart, listening to the stillness. Now and again there was the clatter of a wooden bell; the widow’s cow was moving in the grove. Then the cuckoo called, unearthly clear and far away somewhere in the dark forests, and some little birds began to wake. Each of the little sounds seemed only to intensify the immense hush of space.
Olav went to the byre and peeped in, but drew his head back at once before the sharp scent of lye that met him. But the ground was good and dry under the lean-to roof; brown and bare, with some wisps from the winter’s stacks of hay and leaves. He lay down, rolled up like an animal, and went to sleep in a moment.
He was awakened by Ingunn shaking him. She was on her knees beside him. “Have you lain out here?”
“ ’Twas so thick with smoke in the cabin.” Olav rose to his knees and shook the wisps and twigs from his clothes.
The sun came out above the ridge, and the tops of the firs seemed to take fire as it rose higher. And now there was a full-throated song of birds all through the woods. Shadows still lay over the land and far out on the deep-blue lake, but on the other side of the water the sunshine flooded the forest and the green hamlets on the upper slopes.
Olav and Ingunn remained on their knees, facing each other, as though in wonder. And without either’s saying anything they laid their arms on each other’s shoulders and leaned forward.
They let go at the same time and looked at each other with a faint smile of surprise. Then Olav raised his hand and touched the girl’s temples. He pushed back the tawny, dishevelled hair. As she let him do it, he put his other arm about her, drew her toward him, and kissed her long and tenderly on the sweet, tempting pit under the roots of the hair.
He looked into her face when he had done it and a warm tingling ran through him—she liked him to do that. Then they kissed each other on the lips, and at last he took courage to kiss her on the white arch of her throat.
But not a word did they say. When they stood up, he took the empty wallet and his cloak and set out. And so they walked in silence, he before and she behind, along the road through the village, while the morning sun shed its light farther and farther down the slopes.
On the higher ground folk were already astir on all the farms. As they went through the last of the woods, it was full daylight. But when they came to the staked gate where the home fields of Frettastein began, they saw no one about. Perhaps they might come well out of their adventure after all.
Behind the bushes by the gate they halted for a moment and looked at each other—the dazed, blissful surprise broke out intheir eyes once more. Quickly he touched her hand, then turned to the gate again and pulled up the stakes.
When they entered the courtyard, the door of the byre stood open, but no one was to be seen. Ingunn made for the loft-room where she had slept the night before.
All at once she turned and came running back to Olav. “Your brooch—” she had taken it off and held it out to him.
“You may have it—I will give it you,” he said quickly. He took off her little one, which he had
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