Thereupon there was peace between them.
An hour afterwards he was on his way to Ekeby.
It was impossible to find a more noble and kindly old gentleman than Melchior Sinclair, as he sat in the open sledge in his best fur cloak and his best rug. His hair lay smooth on his head, but his face was pale and his eyes were sunken in their sockets.
There was no limit to the brilliancy of the clear sky on that February day. The snow sparkled like a young girl’s eyes when she hears the music of the first waltz. The birches stretched the fine lace-work of their reddish-brown twigs against the sky, and on some of them hung a fringe of little icicles.
There was a splendor and a festive glow in the day. The horses prancing threw up their forelegs, and the coachman cracked his whip in sheer pleasure of living.
After a short drive the sledge drew up before the great steps at Ekeby.
The footman came out.
“Where are your masters?” asked Melchior.
“They are hunting the great bear in Gurlitta Cliff.”