Complete silence and quiet reigned in the town.  Not a soul was to be seen; only trees and bushes, and now and again a house.  The only sound to be heard was the rolling of balls in the bowling-alley, like distant thunder on a summer day.  It belonged to the silence.

But now the uneven stones of the market-place were ground under iron-shod heels.  The noise of coarse voices thundered against the walls of the town-hall and the church was thrown back from the mountain, and hastened unchecked down the long street.  Four wayfarers disturbed the noonday peace.

Alas, for the sweet silence, the holiday peace of years!  How terrified they were!  One could almost see them betaking themselves in flight up the mountain slopes.

One of the noisy crew who broke into the village was Petter Nord, the Vaermland boy, who six years before had run away, accused of theft.  Those who were with him were three longshoremen from the big commercial town that lies only a few miles away.

How had little Petter Nord been getting on?  He had been getting on well.  He had found one of the most sensible of friends and companions.

As he ran away from the village in the dark, rainy February morning, the polska tunes seethed and roared in his ears.  And one of them was more persistent than all the others.  It was the one they all had sung during the ring dance.

        Christmas time has come,
        Christmas time has come,
        And after Christmas time comes Easter. 
        That is not true at all,
        That is not true at all,
        For Lent comes after Christmas feasting.

The fugitive heard it so distinctly, so distinctly.  And then the wisdom that is hidden in the old ring dance forced itself upon the little pleasure-loving Vaermland boy, forced itself into his very fibre, blended with every drop of blood, soaked into his brain and marrow.  It is so; that is the meaning.  Between Christmas and Easter, between the festivals of birth and death, comes life’s fasting.  One shall ask nothing of life; it is a poor, miserable fast.  One shall never trust it, however it may appear.  The next moment it is gray and ugly again.  It is not its fault, poor thing, it cannot help it!

Petter Nord felt almost proud at having cheated life out of its most profound secret.

He thought he saw the pallid Spirit of Fasting creeping about over the earth in the shape of a beggar with Lenten twigs [Translator’s Note:  In Sweden, just before Easter, bunches of birch twigs with small feathers tied on the ends, are sold everywhere on the streets.  The origin of this custom is unknown.] in her hand.  And he heard how she hissed at him:  “You have wished to celebrate the festival of joy and merry moods in the midst of the time of fasting, which is called life.  Therefore shame and dishonor shall befall you, until you change your ways.”