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Chapter 139
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
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