[CHAPTER VII]
A BRIGHT moon shone out from among floating, silvery clouds, over snowy fields and forests in the dead of night. The buildings and the flagstaff at Norby cast shadows upon the sparkling snow. The sledges standing in the yard were turned up on their edge, so as not to freeze under their runners. A solitary dog was running round the house, giving short barks because no one let it in, although there was a light burning in one of the attic windows.
During the night, one of the old men in the pensioners’ house got out of bed and crept to the window in his slippers. He stood there with the moon shining in his face, and looked across at the house. The other farm-labourer was also awake, and after yawning asked:
“I suppose there’s a light in Einar’s window, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” said the man at the window, hunching his shoulders because he felt cold. “I wonder,” he continued, “whether there is any change.”
The dairymaid could now be heard turning over in bed in her little room, and she murmured: “The dog has howled so dreadfully all night, and that doesn’t mean anything good.”
There was a pause. The old man at the window continued to stand there looking out into the silvery night and across at the lighted window in the big house.
“I heard owls last night,” said the blind man suddenly from his bed, and yawned. “And I’ve not heard an owl here since old Norby died.”
“Ah, well, Einar’s always been a good lad,” said the dairymaid. “God have mercy upon his soul!” There was another pause.
“It seems to me there’s some one walking up and down in the big drawing-room,” said the old man at the window. The next moment he hurried into bed as if he were frightened. After a little, the blind man said: