The bearer of the message came back without Petter Nord.  He could not come.  The wall was too high and the gate too strong.  There was only one who could free him.

During those days they thought of nothing else in the little town.  “He is there; he is there still,” they told one another every day.  “Is he mad?” they asked most often, and some who had talked with him answered that he certainly would be when “she” came.  But they were exceedingly proud of that martyr to love who gave a glory to the town.  The poor took him food.  The rich stole up on the mountain to catch a glimpse of him.

But Edith, who could not move, who lay helpless and dying, she who had so much time to think, with what was she occupying herself?  What thoughts revolved in her brain day and night?  Oh, Petter Nord, Petter Nord!  Must she always see before her the man who loved her, who was losing his mind for her sake, who really, actually was in the graveyard waiting for her coffin.

See, that was something for the steel-spring in her nature.  That was something for her imagination, something for her benumbed senses.  To think what he meant to do when she should come!  To imagine what he would do if she should not come there as a corpse!

They talked of it in the whole town, talked of it and nothing else.  As the cities of ancient times had loved their martyrs, the little village loved the unhappy Petter Nord; but no one liked to go into the graveyard and talk to him.  He looked wilder each day.  The obscurity of madness sank ever closer about him.  “Why does she not try to get well?” they said of Edith.  “It is unjust of her to die.”

Edith was almost angry.  She who was so tired of life, must she be compelled to take up the heavy burden again?  But nevertheless she began an honest effort.  She felt what a work of repairing and mending was going on in her body with seething force during these weeks.  And no material was spared.  She consumed incredible quantities of those things which give strength and life, whatever they may be:  malt extract or codliver oil, fresh air or sunshine, dreams or love.

And what glorious days they were, long, warm, and sunny!

At last she got the doctor’s permission to be carried up there.  The whole town was in alarm when she undertook the journey.  Would she come down with a madman?  Could the misery of those weeks be blotted out of his brain?  Would the exertions she had made to begin life again be profitless?  And if it were so, how would it go with her?

As she passed by, pale with excitement, but still full of hope, there was cause enough for anxiety.  No one concealed from themselves that Petter Nord had taken quite too large a place in her imagination.  She was the most eager of all in the worship of that strange saint.  All restraints had fallen from her when she had heard what he suffered for her sake.  But how would the sight of him affect her enthusiasm?  There is nothing romantic in a madman.