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flowers to strew in his, the outcast’s path, no drop
of water to give to the thirsty, no light clasp of the
hand which might draw him back from the edge of
the precipice.
Gösta Berling did not trouble to lavish silks and
jewels upon his chosen bride, he let her go from
house to house selling brooms, as she had been
accustomed to do; but when he had gathered together
all the men and women of rank in the whole country
side to a great festival at Ekeby, he intended to
proclaim his betrothal. He would call her in from
the kitchen just as she was after her long tramp, with
the dust and the dirt of the road on her clothes,
perhaps in rags, perhaps uncombed, with wild eyes
and a stream of wild words on her lips. And he would
ask the guests if he had not chosen a fitting bride,
if the crazy parson should not feel proud of such a
beautiful girl, of that wild, Madonna-like face and
those blue, dreamy eyes.
It had been his desire that no one should know
anything about this beforehand, but the secret got
abroad, and among those who heard of it was young
Countess Dohna. But what could she do to hinder
him? The betrothal day had arrived, and it was
already twilight. The Countess stood at the
window of the little blue cabinet, and gazed toward
the north. She almost thought she could see Ekeby,
though tears and mist intervened. She fancied she
saw the big three-storied house with its lighted
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