“Then it must be, come what may,” said Sören and ran away.
He stopped at the kitchen door, asked for Anne Trinderup, and was told that she was in the garden. Then he went over to the menservants’ quarters, took a loaded old gun of the gamekeeper’s, and made for the garden.
Anne was cutting kale when Sören caught sight of her. She had filled her apron with the green stuff, and was holding the fingers of one hand up to her mouth to warm them with her breath. Slowly Sören stole up to her, his eyes fixed on the edge of her dress, for he did not want to see her face.
Suddenly Anne turned and saw Sören. His dark looks, the gun, and his stealthy approach alarmed her, and she called to him: “Oh, don’t, Sören, please don’t!” He lifted the gun, and Anne rushed off through the snow with a wild, shrill scream.
The shot fell; Anne went on running, then put her hand to her cheek and sank down with a cry of horror.
Sören threw down the gun and ran to the side of the house. He found the trap-door closed. Then on to the front door, in and through all the rooms, till he found Marie.
“’Tis all over!” he whispered, pale as a corpse.
“Are they after you, Sören?”
“No, I’ve shot her.”
“Anne? Oh, what will become of us! Run, Sören, run—take a horse and get away, quick, quick! Take the gray one!”