It was his
own fault that this had been the decisive battle, and the thought
grieved him sorely: he had staked too much upon a single little
affair. But surprise, pain, anger, had mastered him; his heart
still burned, shrieked, and moaned within him. He heard the
rattling of a wagon behind; it was Lars, who came driving his
superb horse past him at a brisk trot, so that the hard road gave
a sound of thunder. Canute gazed after him, as he sat there so
broad-shouldered in the wagon, while the horse, impatient for
home, hurried on unurged by Lars, who only gave loose rein. It was
a picture of his power; this man drove toward the mark! He,
Canute, felt as if thrown out of his wagon to stagger along there
in the autumn cold.
Canute's wife was waiting for him at home. She knew there would be
a battle; she had never in her life believed in Lars, and lately
had felt a dread of him. It had been no comfort to her that they
had ridden away together, nor would it have comforted her if they
had returned in the same way. But darkness had fallen, and they
had not yet come. She stood in the doorway, went down the road and
home again; but no wagon appeared. At last she hears a rattling on
the road, her heart beats as violently as the wheels revolve; she
clings to the doorpost, looking out; the wagon is coming; only one
sits there; she recognizes Lars, who sees and recognizes her, but
is driving past without stopping. Now she is thoroughly alarmed!
Her limbs fail her; she staggers in, sinking on the bench by the
window.
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