"The milkmaid says she saw them running toward the park crying, when you promised to give them a whipping."
"The fish-pond!" escaped my lips before I had time to reflect, and the effect upon myself, and upon all the others, was the same as if something had been dashed to pieces in our midst.
"Stina!" shouted Atlung,—it was not a reproach, no, it was a cry of pain, the bitterest I have ever heard,—and out he rushed. His wife ran after him, calling him by name.
"Send for lanterns!" I cried to the people I saw behind Stina in the dining-room. I went out and found my things, and returning again, met Stina, who was moving round in a circle with clasped hands.
"Come now," said I, "and show me the way!"
Without reply, perhaps without being conscious of what she was doing, she changed her march from round in a circle to forward, with hands still clasped, and praying aloud: "Father in heaven, for Christ's sake! Father in heaven, for Christ's sake!" in touching, vigorous tones; and thus she continued through the yard, past the houses, through the garden, and into the park.
It was not very cold; it was snowing. As one in a dream, I walked through the snow-mist, following this tall, dark spectre in front of me, with its trail of prayer, in and out among the lofty, snow-covered trees. I said to myself that two small boys might of course go to the fish-pond in the hope of finding God and the angels and new clothes; but to spring into a hole if there was one, when there were two of them together—impossible, unnatural, absurd! How in all the world had I come to think of or suggest such a thing? But all the sensible things one can say to one's self at such a moment are of no avail; the worst and most improbable suppositions keep gaining force in spite of them; and this "Father in heaven, for Christ's sake! Father in heaven, for Christ's sake!" which soughed about me, in tones of the utmost anguish, kept continually increasing my own anxiety.
Even if the boys had not gone to the fish-pond, or if they had been there and had not dared jump into the water, they might have tumbled into some other place. The father of little Hans was to receive wings that afternoon; might not they, with their troubled hearts, be sitting under a tree somewhere waiting for wings to be given them? If such were the case, they would freeze to death. And I could see these two little frozen mortals, who dared not go home, the younger one crying, the elder one finally crying too. I positively seemed to hear them—"Hush!"
"What is that?" said Stina, and turned in sudden hope. "Do you hear them?"
We both stood still; but there was nothing to hear except my own panting when I could no longer hold my breath. Nor was there anything resembling two little human beings huddled together.