Broken-hearted and desperate, Gustav Vasa turned toward the Norwegian frontier.  He would leave the country for which there was no hope.  While the table in the poorest home groaned with Yuletide cheer, Sweden’s coming king hid under an old bridge, outcast and starving, till it was safe to leave.  Then he took up his weary journey alone.  The winter cold had grown harder as the days grew shorter.  Famished wolves dogged his steps, but he outran them on his snow-shoes.  By night he slept in some wayside shelter, such as they build for travellers in that desolate country, or in the brush.  The snow grew deeper, and the landscape wilder, as he went.  For days he had gone without food, when he saw the sun set behind the lofty range that was to bar him out of home and hope forever.  Even there was no abiding place for him.  What thoughts of his vanished dream, perchance of the distant lands across the seas where the tyrant’s hand could not reach him, were in his mind, who knows, as he bent his strength to the last and hardest stage of his journey?  He was almost there, when he heard shouts behind him and turned to sell his life dear.  Two men on skis were calling to him.  They were unarmed, and he waited to let them come up.

Their story was soon told.  They had come to call him back.  After he left, an old soldier whom they knew in Mora had come from the south and told them worse things than even Gustav knew.  It was all true about the Stockholm murder; worse, the King was having gallows set up in every county to hang all those on who said him nay; a heavy tax was laid upon the peasants, and whoever did not pay was to have a hand or foot cut off; they could still follow the plow.  And now they had sent away the one man who could lead against the Danes, with the forests full of outlawed men who would have enlisted under him as soon as ever the cry was raised!  While the men of Dalecarlia were debating the news among themselves orders came from the bailiff at Westeras that the tax was to be paid forthwith.  That night runners were sent on the trail of Gustav to tell him to come back; they were ready.

When he came, it was as if a mighty storm swept through the mountains.  The people rose in a body.  Every day whole parishes threw off their allegiance to King Christian.  Sunday after Sunday Gustav spoke to the people at their meeting-houses, and they raised their spears and swore to follow him to death.  Two months after the murder in Stockholm an army of thousands that swelled like an avalanche was marching south, and province after province joined in the rebellion.  King Christian’s host met them at Brunbaeck in April.  One of its leaders asked the country folk what kind of men the Dalecarlians were, and when he was told that they drank water and ate bread made of bark, he cried out, “Such a people the devil himself couldn’t whip; let us get out.”  But his advice was not taken and the Danish army was wiped out.  Gustav halted long enough to drill his men and give them time to temper their arrows and spears, then he fell upon Westeras and beat the Danes there.  The peasant mob scattered too soon to loot the town, and the King’s men came back with a sudden rush.  Only Gustav’s valor and presence of mind saved the day that had been won once from being lost again.