Grip was not inclined to hear any more, and it was cold to hang on over the lake.
He jumped off and let old Rist continue his talk in the idea that he was standing behind him.
It was a cold, biting wind out on the ice.
For a while he saw his own shadow, with his hands in his coat pockets, moving away, while the moon sailed through the clouds—the lamp shone so warmly on her face—
* * * * *
Three days afterwards, towards evening, Inger-Johanna stood at the window looking out. Her breast heaved with strong emotion.
Grip had died of pneumonia down at the Lövviggaard.
She had been down and taken care of him till now she had come home—talked with him, heard herself live in his wild raving, and had received his last intelligent look before it was quenched....
The moon was so cold and clear in the heavens. The whole landscape with the mountains and all the great pure forms shone magically white in the frost—white as in the snow-fields of the lofty mountains....
"The power of the spirit is great," she said, sighing in sorrowful, yet trembling meditation—"he gave me something to live on."