The hot and flushed
dancers straggled over the floor by twos and
threes, and the big beer-horns were passed from
hand to hand. Truls sat in his corner hugging
his violin tightly to his bosom, only to do
something, for he was vaguely afraid of himself--
afraid of the thoughts that might rise--afraid
of the deed they might prompt. He ran his
fingers over his forehead, but he hardly felt the
touch of his own hand. It was as if something
was dead within him--as if a string had
snapped in his breast, and left it benumbed and
voiceless.
Presently he looked up and saw Borghild
standing before him; she held her arms akimbo,
her eyes shone with a strange light, and her
features wore an air of recklessness mingled
with pity.
"Ah, Borghild, is it you?" said he, in a hoarse
voice. "What do you want with me? I
thought you had done with me now."
"You are a very unwitty fellow," answered
she, with a forced laugh. "The branch that
does not bend must break."
She turned quickly on her heel and was lost
in the crowd. He sat long pondering on her
words, but their meaning remained hidden to
him. The branch that does not bend must
break. Was he the branch, and must he bend
or break? By-and-by he put his hands on his
knees, rose with a slow, uncertain motion, and
stalked heavily toward the door. The fresh
night air would do him good. The thought
breathes more briskly in God's free nature,
under the broad canopy of heaven. The white
mist rose from the fields, and made the valley
below appear like a white sea whose nearness
you feel, even though you do not see it.
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