Chapter 8
When old Ivar climbed down from his loft at four o'clock the
next morning, he came upon Emil's mare, jaded and lather-stained,
her bridle broken, chewing the scattered tufts of hay outside the
stable door. The old man was thrown into a fright at once. He put
the mare in her stall, threw her a measure of oats, and then set
out as fast as his bow-legs could carry him on the path to the
nearest neighbor.
"Something is wrong with that boy. Some misfortune has come upon
us. He would never have used her so, in his right senses. It is not
his way to a***e his mare," the old man kept muttering, as he
scuttled through the short, wet pasture grass on his bare feet.
While Ivar was hurrying across the fields, the first long rays
of the sun were reaching down between the orchard
