He stood there stupefied as if in a dizzy intoxication—and then went away with long strides, when he heard the children coming out into the entry.
His feet bore him without his knowing it.
Now he was far down the Gilje hills, and the moonlight began to shine over the ridges. He still hurried on; his blood was excited; he saw—almost talked with her.
A sleigh came trotting slowly behind him with the bells muffled by the frost.
It was old Rist, who was sitting nodding in his fur coat, exhausted by what he had enjoyed at Gilje.
"If you are going over the lake, Grip, jump on behind," he said by way of salutation, after looking at him a little.
"I tell you, if you could only leave off drinking," he began to admonish—
Before the lamp thus—it ran in Grip's thoughts—she set the milky shade slowly down over the chimney, and a gleam passed over her delicate mouth and chin—the dark, closely fitting dress—and the forehead, while she bowed her magnificent head—she looked up—straight towards the window—
"And if you will only try to resist it—at the time the fit comes on—which is the same as the very Satan himself."