“You are the man I love, the noblest of men. You need do nothing, be nothing. You are born a king.” Then the poet’s blood seethed. She was beautiful and tender in her love. He took her in his arms. “If you will be mine, you cannot remain at the vicarage. Let me drive you to Ekeby to-night; there I shall know how to defend you till we can be married.” * * * * * That was a wild drive through the night. Absorbed in their love, they let Don Juan take his own pace. The noise of the runners was like the lamentations of those they had deceived. What did they care for that? She hung on his neck, and he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Can any happiness be compared in sweetness to stolen pleasures?” What did the banns matter? They had love. And the anger of men! Gösta Berling believed in fate; fate had mastered them: no one can resist fate. If the stars had been the candles which had been lighted for her wedding, if Don Juan’s bells had been the church chimes, calling the people to witness her marriage to old Dahlberg, still she must have fled with Gösta Berling. So powerful is fate. They had passed the vicarage and Munkerud. They had three miles to Berga and three miles more to Ekeby. The road skirted the edge of the wood; on their right lay dark hills, on their left a long, white valley. Tancred came rushing. He ran so fast that he seemed to lie along the ground. Howling with fright, he sprang up in the sledge and crept under Anna’s feet. Don Juan shied and bolted. “Wolves!” said Gösta Berling. They saw a long, gray line running by the fence. There were at least a dozen of them. Anna was not afraid. The day had been richly blessed with adventure, and the night promised to be equally so. It was life,—to speed over the sparkling snow, defying wild beasts and men. Gösta uttered an oath, leaned forward, and struck Don Juan a heavy blow with the whip. “Are you afraid?” he asked. “They mean to cut us off there, where the road turns.” Don Juan ran, racing with the wild beasts of the forest, and Tancred howled in rage and terror. They reached the turn of the road at the same time as the wolves, and Gösta drove back the foremost with the whip. “Ah, Don Juan, my boy, how easily you could get away from twelve wolves, if you did not have us to drag.” They tied the green plaid behind them. The wolves were afraid of it, and fell back for a while. But when they had overcome their fright, one of them ran, panting, with hanging tongue and open mouth up to the sledge. Then Gösta took Madame de Staël’s “Corinne” and threw it into his mouth.