But Gertrude had no sooner felt Ingmar’s protecting arm around her than her heart began to beat once more, and the feeling of numbness in her limbs was gone.  She snuggled close to him.  She was not frightened now.  How wonderful!  Ingmar must have felt afraid also, yet he was able to impart to her a sense of security and protection.

Finally the terrible noises died away; they heard only the faintest echoes of them in the distance.  They seemed to have followed in the trail of the dog, down through the marsh and up into the mountain passes beyond Olaf’s Peak.

And yet the silence in Strong Ingmar’s but was unbroken.  No one moved, no one spoke; at times it was as if fear had extinguished all life there.  Now and then through the stillness a deep sigh was heard.  No one moved for a long, long time.  Some of the people were standing up against the walls, others had sunk down on the benches, but most of them were kneeling upon the floor in anxious prayer.  All were motionless, stunned by fear.

Thus hour after hour passed, and during that time there was many a one in that room who ransacked his soul and resolved to live a new life—­nearer to God and farther away from His enemies, for each of those present thought:  “It is something that I have done which has brought this upon us.  This has happened because of my sins.  I could hear how the fiends kept calling to me and threatening me, and shrieking my name, as they rushed by.”

As for Gertrude, her only thought was:  “I know now that I can never live without Ingmar; I must always be near him because of that feeling of confidence he gives one.”

Then gradually the day began to break, the faint light of dawn came stealing into the hut, revealing the many blanched faces.  The twitter of a bird was heard, then of another, and another.  Strong Ingmar’s cow began to low for her breakfast, and his cat, who never slept in the house on nights when there was dancing, came to the door and mewed.  But no one inside moved until the sun rolled up from behind the eastern hills.  Then, one by one, they stole out without a word or even a good-bye.

Outside the house the departing guests beheld the signs of the night’s devastation.  A huge pine, which had stood close to the gate, had been torn up by the roots and thrown down; branches and fence posts were littered over the ground; bats and owls had been crushed against the side walls of the hut.

Along the broad roadway leading to the top of Mount Klack all the trees had been blown down.  No one could bear to look at this long, so they all hurried on toward the village.

It was Sunday, and most people were still in their beds, but a few persons were already out tending to their cattle.  An old man had just emerged from his house with his Sunday coat, to brush and air it.  From another house came father, mother, and children—­all dressed up for a holiday outing.  It was a great relief to see people quietly going about their business, unconscious of the awful things that had happened in the forest during the night.