He saw the reins, the ears, and the hanging mane over the neck of Svarten nodding up and down before him, and the ground beneath him flying away—
It was just as if a crow flew up and made it dark right over his face; but he could not get his arm up to catch it—so let it be.
And there stood the grain-poles, like crooked old witches, crouched down—they wanted to avenge themselves—with straw forelocks they resisted him more and more like goblins and would forbid him to get his arms up to take the reins and drive to Gilje. They were swarming between heaven and earth, as it were, swimming, dancing—were bright and dark. Then there was something like a shout or a crash from somewhere. There was Inger-Johanna coming—
Svarten had got the reins quite down over his forelegs; a little more and he would be stepping on them.
From the gentle trot, into which he had at last fallen, he began to walk.
Then he turned his head round—and remained standing in the middle of the road.
The whip-lash hung down as before. The captain sat there immovable with his head a little tipped back—
They were still on the level, and Svarten stood patiently looking toward the Gilje hill, which lay a bit farther on, until he turned his head round again two or three times and looked into the cariole.
Now he began to paw on the ground with one forefoot, harder and harder—so that the lumps flew about.