"Nobody but the master and his old mother and his young daughter."
"Daughter?"
"Well, everybody calls her so, but she's only his niece."
"Is there nobody else in the house to-night?"
"Not a soul that I know of. And they will not be there another night, I suppose."
"But the sale can not take place to-morrow, my lad. The Sheriff will never be able to get there to-day. He has to come from Borg, and the road over the mountain is even wilder than this."
"The Sheriff is there now, sir."
"Now?"
"I left him in the kitchen when I came away, making a list of the house property, and he was to sleep at the Parsonage."
Christian Christiansson's hair seemed to rise from his head. There was no escape from the terrible journey. He must go on in spite of the storm. His limbs felt like lead, and when he tried to move them he could only do so with a tremendous effort. But he shook off his torpor and began to saddle his mare.