But he had hardly got into the carriage, where he was alone, than the thought of the letter tortured him, till he could not sit still.  This dreadful analysis of his mother, strophe after strophe, it rose before him, it again drove him into the state of mind in which he had been among the hills and woods of Eidsvold.  Beyond the tunnel the character of the scenery was the same.—­Good God! that dreadful letter was never absent from his thoughts, otherwise he would not suffer so terribly.  What right had he to reproach his mother, or any one, because a mere chance should have become of importance in their lives?

Would the telegram arrive in time to save her from despair, and yet not frighten her from home because he was coming?  To think that he could write in such a way to her, who had but lived to collect the information which would free him!  His ingratitude must appear too monstrous to her.  The extreme reserve which she was unable to break through might well lead to catastrophes.  What might not she have determined on when she received this violent attack by way of thanks?  Perhaps she would think that life was no longer worth living, she who thought it so easy to die.  He shuddered.

But she will do nothing hastily, she will weigh everything first.  Her roots go deep.  When she appears to have acted on impulse, it is because she has had previous knowledge.  But she has no previous knowledge here; surely here she will deliberate.

He pictured her as, wrapped in her shawl, she wandered about in dire distress—­or with intent gaze reviewing her life and his own, until both appeared to her to have been hopelessly wasted—­or pondering where she could best hide herself so that she should suffer no more.

How he loved her!  All that had happened had drawn a veil over his eyes, which was now removed.

Now he was on board the steamer which was bearing him home.  The weather had become mild and summerlike; it had been raining, but towards evening it began to clear.  He would get to Hellebergene in fine weather, and by moonlight.  It grew colder; he spoke to no one, nor had he eyes for anything about him.

The image of his mother, wrapped in her long shawl—­that was all the company he had.  Only his mother!  No one but his mother!  Suppose the telegram had but frightened her the more—­that to see him now appeared the worst that could happen.  To read such a crushing doom for her whole life, and that from him!  She was not so constituted that it could be cancelled by his asking forgiveness and returning to her.  On the contrary, it would precipitate the worst, it must do so.

The violent perspiration began again; he had to put on more wraps.  His terror took possession of him:  he was forced to contemplate the most awful possibilities—­to picture to himself what death his mother would choose!

He sprang to his feet and paced up and down.  He longed to throw himself into somebody’s arms, to cry aloud.  But he knew well that he must not let such words escape him.—­He had to picture her as she handled the guns, until she relinquished the idea of using any of them.  Then he imagined her recalling the deepest hiding-places in the woods—­where were they all?