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head in, sure of finding the room empty, but she was there,
sitting at the window asleep. He stepped in as softly and
carefully as he could; for he was not quite sober.
The low September sun was pouring a stream of yellow
and golden light through the room, lending color and
richness to its poor tints. The plastered walls took on the
whiteness of swans, the brown timbered ceiling glowed as
copper, and the faded curtains around the bed were changed to
wine-red folds and purple draperies. The room was flooded
with light; even in the shadows it gleamed as through a
shimmering mist of autumn yellow leaves. It spun a halo
of gold around Marie Grubbe’s head and kissed her white
forehead, but her eyes and mouth were in deep shadow cast
by the yellowing apple-tree which lifted to the window
branches red with fruit.
She was asleep, sitting in a chair, her hands folded in her
lap. Ulrik Frederik stole up to her on tiptoe, and the glory
faded as he came between her and the window.
He scanned her closely. She was paler than before. How
kind and gentle she looked, as she sat there, her head bent
back, her lips slightly parted, her white throat uncovered
and bare! He could see the pulse throbbing on both sides
of her neck, right under the little brown birthmark. His
eyes followed the line of the firm, rounded shoulder under
the close-fitting silk, down the slender arm to the white,
passive hand. And that hand was his! He saw the fingers
closing over the brown strap, the white blue-veined arm
growing tense and bright, then relaxing and softening after
the blow it dealt Karen’s poor back. He saw her jealous eyes
gleaming with pleasure, her angry lips curling in a cruel
smile at the thought that she was blotting out kiss after
kiss with the leather rein. And she was his! He had been
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