not only gave a little lurch but went gliding along the floor. Though it moved kind of slowly and cautiously, there was no mistaking that there was life in it.
The old woman sat up and gripped the side of the sledge with both hands. Her hair rose and her jaw fell.
"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
