Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - Chapter I. The hero.
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carefully placed over the horse’s back, and afterward hastened with
hurried steps towards the cot, where he was welcomed with as
much sincerity as at the place which he had just left.
“Where have you been so long, Ivar? Your mother felt
deep anxiety concerning you; she was afraid you might have
injured yourseff with the axe. It is long since the night-bell
has rung; and the gruel broth has been waiting long.”
These words came from a tall, robust man, who was leaning
with his arms against a rough-hewn table, bending over a large
hymn book, the yellow leaves of which betokened frequent
use.
“By no means, mother; that should hot have entered your
head. The storm howled so grandly, that I would hardly have
come home at all,” replied Ivar, saluting his father with a nod,
and hastening uneasily towards the hearth, on which his mother
was sitting, who had, upon the entrance of her son, stopped the
buzzing of her time-stained spinning wheel.
“Surely thou art freezing, my poor boy?”
As well by the tone in which these words were spoken, as by
the hasty manner in which she pushed aside her distaff, and
grasped the pot that contained the oaten broth, which stood by
the hearth, the most unmistakable motherly tenderness was to
be recognised.
“Are you freezing, mother, as you sit near the fire and warm
yourself? While I am cutting fuel for you, I never freeze.
The forest is my hearth-fire; and I am never so warm as when
I am out of doors, and the wind is blowing right heartily over
my head.”
“You are an odd boy,” said his mother, thoughtfully; “and
have always been the same from your earliest childhood; but,
God be praised,” she added, with pious simplicity, “our revered
pastor was always well pleased with you, when he taught you
your catechism.”
During this short dialogue, Mother Ingierd had prepared the
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