“Merciful God!” she gasped, “it’s crawling!” But how in the world could such a thing happen? Could it be that an old sledge which had carried pig-iron winter after winter between Bergslagerna and Kymsberg grew restless at night, and must bestir itself a bit once in a while? The sledge moved faster; now it went bumpety-bump over the uneven floor, and scudded across piles of hay and straw as if taking plunges into deep gulches and flights up steep hills. “O merciful God! Merciful God!” cried the woman. But invoking the name of the Lord did not stop the sledge; it ran right on the whole length of the barn-loft, till it struck the wall. There it must surely stand still, she thought. But no indeed! As soon as it recovered its breath, so to speak, it began to back toward the corner where it first stood. The wardswoman said later that if in that instant she had not guessed what was wrong with the sledge she surely would have lost her wits. Oh, no, it was not the old Bergslag journeys haunting the pig-iron sledge--someone had “greased” it! Some witch-hag on the farm or in the district (she didn’t care to mention any names, or even think them) had taken it into her head that she could ride to Blåkulla, the Witches’-kitchen, with more ease and comfort in the old sledge than on a broom-stick, an oven-rake, or a barn door. Perhaps the wicked witch did not know the wardswoman slept in the sledge. In the stress of the moment there was no time to figure on just how it had all come about. But this much was certain: the sledge wanted to be out and off, and it was she--the wardswoman--it was taking to the Witches’ hell instead of the right one. Lord o’ Mercy! But for the strong barn wall she would already be flying over the village toward the church. Meanwhile the sledge kept backing. She knew well enough that that was only in order to make a fresh start to break through. Once outside, it would go shooting through the air over tree-tops and mountain ranges. She would be flying above shining lakes and rivers, without the least fear of tumbling into them; she would circle round the church steeple like a jackdaw, and fly on beyond Stor Kil and Grav parishes; but where she would land she hated to think on. Lord o’ Mercy! The sledge was rushing forward again. There was no doubt that sledge could fly if once it got out into the open; it was making for the wall at terrific speed. The old woman, positive now that the wall would give way, lay down again so as not to be scraped off in the middle when the sledge cut through the boards. This time it struck hard. Oh, what a bump! Again the wall resisted. Now, if only the sledge had the sense to see that it couldn’t get anywhere, and stand still!