Gudmund leaned far out over the cart and shook hands with Helga. He thought that she had grown thin and that her eyelids were red. Very probably she had lain awake and cried all night and was homesick for Närlunda. But now she tried to appear happy and smiled sweetly at him. Again he felt deeply moved but could not speak. His father, who was reputed never to speak a word until it was called forth by extreme necessity, joined in: "That good wish, I think, Gudmund will be more glad over than any other." "Yes, of that you may be sure!" said Gudmund. He shook hands with Helga once more, and then they drove on. Gudmund leaned back in the cart and looked after Helga. When she was hidden from view by a couple of trees, he hastily tore aside the apron of the carriage, as if he wished to jump out. "Is there anything more you wish to say to Helga?" asked his father. "No, oh, no!" answered Gudmund and turned round again. Suddenly Gudmund leaned his head against his father's shoulder and burst out crying. "What ails you?" asked Erland Erlandsson, drawing in the reins so suddenly that the horse stopped. "Oh, they are all so good to me and I don't deserve it." "But you have never done anything wrong, surely?" "Yes, father, I have." "That we can't believe." "I have killed a human being!" The father drew a deep breath. It sounded almost like a sigh of relief, and Gudmund raised his head, astonished, and looked at him. His father set the horse in motion again; then he said calmly, "I'm glad you have told of this yourself." "Did you know it already, father?" "I surmised last Saturday evening that there was something wrong. And then I found your knife down in the morass." "So it was you who found the knife!" "I found it and I noticed that one of the blades had been broken off." "Yes, father, I'm aware that the knife-blade is gone, but still I cannot get it into my head that I did it." "It was probably done in the drunkenness and delirium." "I know nothing; I remember nothing. I could see by my clothes that I had been in a fight and I knew that the knife-blade was missing." "I understand that it was your intention to be silent about this," said the father. "I thought that perhaps the rest of the party were as irresponsible as myself and _I_ couldn't remember anything. There was perhaps no other evidence against me than the knife, therefore I threw it away." "I comprehend that you must have reasoned in that way." "You understand, father, that I do not know who is dead. I had never seen him before, I dare say. I have no recollection of having done it. I didn't think I ought to suffer for what I had not done knowingly. But soon I got to thinking that I must have been mad to throw the knife into the marsh. It dries out in summer, and then any one might find it. I tried last night and the night before to find it." "Didn't it occur to you that you should confess?"