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and how the penitent is forced to exposé himself to
the burning heat of the sun and the roughness of
his path.
Sometimes Countess Märta compelled her to sit
all day at her embroidery frame, while she told her
endless stories about Gösta Berling, the preacher
and adventurer. If her memory did not suffice, she
invented, with the one object that his name should
sound for days in Elizabeth’s ears. This she feared
most. During such days she felt that the penance
would never end. Her love refused to die. She
thought she would die herself before that—her
strength was failing her. She was often very ill.
“But where does your hero tarry?” asked
Countess Märta, scornfully. “I have expected him day
after day at the head of the cavaliers. Why does he
not storm Borg, set you upon the throne,and throw
me and your husband, bound, into the tower? Are
you forgotten already?”
She almost wished to defend him, and say that
she had forbidden him to help her. But no, it is
best to be silent—to be silent and to suffer.
Day by day, she was being worn away by the fire
of over-excitement. She was in a constant fever, and
was so tired she could hardly hold herself upright.
She longed only to die. The strong currents of her
life were conquered; love and joy dared not stir
within her, and she no longer feared suffering. It
seemed as if her husband no longer remembered
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