But Brede is strangely full of zeal in his duty now, he keeps on looking at the telegraph wires, and whistling all the time.  Note, also, that he seems to be whistling gaily, as it were vengefully.

“Ho, so you’re going to murder me—­won’t even reach me the ax?” cries Axel.  And at that it seems as if there is trouble farther down the line, which Brede must see to without delay.  He moves off, and is lost to sight in the driving snow.

Ho—­well and good!  But after that, well, it would just serve things generally right if Axel were to manage by himself after all, and get at the ax without help from any one.  He strains all the muscles of his chest to lift the huge weight that bears him down; the tree moves, he can feel it shake, but all he gains by that is a shower of snow.  And after a few more tries, he gives up.

Growing dark now.  Brede is gone—­but how far can he have got?  Axel shouts again, and lets off a few straightforward words into the bargain.  “Leave me here to die, would you, like a murderer?” he cries.  “Have ye no soul nor thought of what’s to come?  And the worth of a cow, no less, to lend a helping hand.  But ’tis a dog you are and ever were, Brede, and leaving a man to die.  Ho, but there’s more shall know of this, never fear, and true as I’m lying here.  And won’t even come and reach me that ax....”

Silence.  Axel strains away at the tree once more, lifts it a little, and brings down a new shower of snow.  Gives it up again and sighs; he is worn out now, and getting sleepy.  There’s the cattle at home, they’ll be standing in the hut and bellowing for food, not a bite nor a drop since the morning; no Barbro to look to them now—­no.  Barbro’s gone, run off and gone, and taken both her rings, gold and silver, taken them with her.  Getting dark now, ay, evening, night; well, well....  But there’s the cold to reckon with too; his beard is freezing, soon his eyes will freeze too as well; ay, if he had but his jacket from the tree there ... and now his leg—­surely, it can’t be that—­but all the same one leg feels dead now up to the hip.  “All in God’s hands,” he says to himself—­seems like he can talk all godly and pious when he will.  Getting dark, ay; but a man can die without the light of a lamp.  He feels all soft and good now, and of sheer humility he smiles, foolishly and kindly, at the snowstorm round; ’tis God’s own snow, an innocent thing!  Ay, he might even forgive Brede, and never say a word....

He is very quiet now, and growing ever more sleepy, ay, as if some poison were numbing him all over.  And there is too much whiteness to look at every way; woods and lands, great wings, white veils, white sails; white, white ... what can it be?  Nonsense, man!  And he knows well enough it is but snow; he is lying out in the snow; ’tis no fancy that he is lying there, pinned down beneath a tree.