Suddenly the door is thrown open, and a voice calls to them.
“She is gone. He is driving away with her.”
They rush out, running like mad, without waiting to see if it was the major’s wife or who it was who was gone. Luck was with them, and they came up with a hurrying sledge, and they drove both far and fast, before they discovered whom they were pursuing.
But Berg and Cousin Christopher went quietly to the door, burst the lock, and opened it for the major’s wife.
“You are free,” they said.
She came out. They stood straight as ramrods on either side of the door and did not look at her.
“You have a horse and sledge outside.”
She went out, placed herself in the sledge, and drove away. No one followed her. No one knew whither she went.
Down Broby hill Don Juan speeds towards the Löfven’s ice-covered surface. The proud courser flies on. Strong, ice-cold breezes whistle by their cheeks. The bells jingle. The stars and the moon are shining. The snow lies blue-white and glitters from its own brightness.