With such thoughts he had undressed and gone to bed.  Again his grandfather’s image glided forth.  What did he wish.  Surely he ought to be satisfied now, with the family’s honor sounding forth above his grave; who else had such a monument?  But yet, what mean these two great eyes of fire?  This hissing, roaring, is no longer the locomotive, for see! it comes from the churchyard directly toward the house:  an immense procession!  The eyes of fire are his grandfather’s, and the train behind are all the dead.  It advances continually toward the house, roaring, crackling, flashing.  The windows burn in the reflection of dead men’s eyes ... he made a mighty effort to collect himself, “For it was a dream, of course, only a dream; but let me waken! ...  See:  now I am awake; come, ghosts!”

And behold:  they really come from the churchyard, overthrowing road, rails, locomotive and train with such violence that they sink in the ground; and then all is still there, covered with sod and crosses as before.  But like giants the spirits advanced, and the hymn, “Let the dead have rest!” goes before them.  He knows it:  for daily in all these years it has sounded through his soul, and now it becomes his own requiem; for this was death and its visions.  The perspiration started out over his whole body, for nearer and nearer,—­and see there, on the window-pane there, there they are now; and he heard his name.  Overpowered with dread he struggled to shout, for he was strangling; a dead, cold hand already clenched his throat, when he regained his voice in a shrieking “Help me!” and awoke.  At that moment the window was burst in with such force that the pieces flew on to his bed.  He sprang up; a man stood in the opening, around him smoke and tongues of fire.

“The house is burning, Lars, we’ll help you out!”

It was Canute Aakre.

When again he recovered consciousness, he was lying out in a piercing wind that chilled his limbs.  No one was by him; on the left he saw his burning house; around him grazed, bellowed, bleated, and neighed his stock; the sheep huddled together in a terrified flock; the furniture recklessly scattered:  but, on looking around more carefully, he discovered somebody sitting on a knoll near him, weeping.  It was his wife.  He called her name.  She started.

“The Lord Jesus be thanked that you live,” she exclaimed, coming forward and seating herself, or rather falling down before him:  “O God!  O God! now we have enough of that railroad!”

“The railroad?” he asked:  but ere he spoke, it had flashed through his mind how it was; for, of course, the cause of the fire was the falling of sparks from the locomotive among the shavings by the new side-wall.  He remained sitting, silent and thoughtful; his wife dared say no more, but was trying to find clothes for him:  the things with which she had covered him, as he lay unconscious, having fallen off.  He received her attentions in silence, but as she crouched down to cover his feet, he laid a hand upon her head.  She hid her face in his lap, and wept aloud.  At last he had noticed her.  Lars understood, and said: