She only begged to be allowed to get into the little boat, which was towed after the barge, and row to the land, to continue her wandering. But they could not let her go. What would become of her? It was better to remain with them. They were only poor old men, but they would surely find some way to help her. Then she wrung her hands and begged them to let her go. But they could not grant her prayer. She was so exhausted and weak that they thought that she would die by the roadside. Gösta Berling stood a short distance away and looked down into the water. Perhaps the young woman would not wish to see him. He did not know it, but his thoughts played and smiled. “Nobody knows where she is,” he thought; “we can take her with us to Ekeby. We will keep her hidden there, we pensioners, and we will be good to her. She shall be our queen, our mistress, but no one shall know that she is there. We will guard her so well, so well. She perhaps would be happy with us; she would be cherished like a daughter by all the old men.” He had never dared to ask himself if he loved her. She could not be his without sin, and he would not drag her down to anything low and wretched, that he knew. But to have her concealed at Ekeby and to be good to her after others had been cruel, and to let her enjoy everything pleasant in life, ah, what a dream, what a blissful dream! But he wakened out of it, for the young countess was in dire distress, and her words had the piercing accents of despair. She had thrown herself upon her knees in the midst of the pensioners and begged them to be allowed to go. “God has not yet pardoned me,” she cried. “Let me go!” Gösta saw that none of the others meant to obey her, and understood that he must do it. He, who loved her, must do it. He felt a difficulty in walking, as if his every limb resisted his will, but he dragged himself to her and said that he would take her on shore. She rose instantly. He lifted her down into the boat and rowed her to the east shore. He landed at a little pathway and helped her out of the boat. “What is to become of you, countess?” he said. She lifted her finger solemnly and pointed towards heaven. “If you are in need, countess—” He could not speak, his voice failed him, but she understood him and answered:— “I will send you word when I need you.” “I would have liked to protect you from all evil,” he said. She gave him her hand in farewell, and he was not able to say anything more. Her hand lay cold and limp in his. She was not conscious of anything but those inward voices which forced her to go among strangers. She hardly knew that it was the man she loved whom she now left. So he let her go and rowed out to the pensioners again. When he came up on the barge he was trembling with fatigue and seemed exhausted and faint. He had done the hardest work of his life, it seemed to him.