Well, and what then?  He might still have got clear, but, as it chanced, he had fallen awkwardly as could be—­no bones broken, as far as he could tell, but twisted somehow, and unable to drag himself out.  After a while he gets one hand free, supporting himself on the other, but the ax is beyond his reach.  He looks round, takes thought, as any other beast in a trap would do; looks round and takes thought and tries to work his way out from under the tree.  Brede must be coming by on his way down before long, he thinks to himself, and gives himself a breathing-space.

He does not let it trouble him much at first, it was only annoying to lose time at his work; there is no thought in his mind of being in danger, let alone in peril of his life.  True, he can feel the hand that supports him growing numbed and dead, his foot in the cleft growing cold and helpless too; but no matter, Brede must be here soon.

Brede did not come.

The storm increased, Axel felt the snow driving full in his face.  Ho, ’tis coming down in earnest now, says he to himself, still never troubling much about it all—­ay, ’tis as if he blinks at himself through the snow, to look out, for now things are beginning in earnest!  After a long while he gives a single shout.  The sound would hardly carry far in the gale, but it would be upward along the line, towards Brede.  Axel lies there with all sorts of vain and useless thoughts in his head:  if only he could reach the ax, and perhaps cut his way out!  If he could only get his hand up—­it was pressing against something sharp, an edge of stone, and the stone was eating its way quietly and politely into the back of his hand.  Anyhow, if only that infernal stone itself had not been there—­but no one has ever yet heard tell of such a touching act of kindness on the part of a stone.

Getting late now, getting later, the snow drifting thick; Axel is getting snowed up himself.  The snow packs all innocently, all unknowing, about his face, melting at first, till the flesh grows cold, and then it melts no longer.  Ay, now ’tis beginning in earnest!

He gives two great shouts, and listens.

His ax is getting snowed up now; he can see but a bit of the haft.  Over there is his basket of food, hung on a tree—­if he could but have reached it, and had a feed—­oh, huge big mouthfuls!  And then he goes one step farther in his demands, and asks yet more:  if he only had his coat on—­it is getting cold.  He gives another swinging shout....

And there is Brede.  Stopped in his tracks, standing still, looking toward the man as he calls; he stands there but for a moment, glancing that way, as if to see what is amiss.

“Reach me the ax here, will you?” calls Axel, a trifle weakly.

Brede looks away hurriedly, fully aware now of what is the matter; he glances up at the telegraph wires and seems to be whistling.  What can he mean by that?

“Here, reach me the ax, can’t you?” cries Axel louder.  “I’m pinned here under a tree.”