Chapter III: Book I: The Outcast (3)

Had it been any other day, she might not have accepted. But, just now, she felt so grateful for any little crumb of kindness that she could not refuse. And she did not wish that this young workman, who looked so modest and kind, should think she declined because he had only a common, workaday fishing-boat to offer her, and was himself but a common man in his working clothes. Though it was Sunday, Sven was wearing his heavy sea-boots and rough clothes, with a sou'wester that suited him well; it looked like the steel helmet of some old sea-king.

So they pushed off from land, and he hoisted the sail, and the heavy south wind filled it, sending the boat heeling to one side. Sven put the rudder hard over, heading due west, and the little vessel flew out across the bay toward the open sea.

Fru Rhånge had at first no thought of any pleasure to herself in going out for a sail to-day. She had not thought there was anything in the world that could make her forget the weight of sorrow that burdened her now. But when they had been sailing a little while, she could not help feeling easier; fresher in body and stronger in mind to bear her trouble.

The sky was clear, save for a few little flecks of white cloud. But there was yet enough moisture in the lower air to soften the light and tinge the dry, bare surface of rocks and reefs and islets with shades of grayish red and blue. They seemed, too, now to rise more boldly and strongly from the water, standing out with a certain majesty against the rest. The clefts seemed deep and black, the slopes steep and terrible and perilous; the distances seemed more marked, with ridge upon ridge in a succession of ever softer and more heavenly hues.

And after a little while there came into the young wife's eyes a look of quiet, earnest questioning, and she laid her folded hands in her lap as if in worship of all the beauty spread about her.

She was filled with a single thought--that she was learning to know one of God's miracles. She was learning to know the sea. She had never known before what it was to be so near the sea, to feel its breath in one's ears, to watch the play of expression in its face, to nestle close to its breast and be lulled to calm and peace.

Sven Elversson put the helm over, and they ran across to the north, in between the reefs, sailing close in under rugged cliffs, by little red fisher-huts set among ancient pear trees heavy with red-brown fruit, with glimpses of meadow between the rocks, greener, more brilliantly, livingly green than in the kindliest spring.

He led her from sound to sound, meeting white steamers, heavy, deep-laden barges, and lighter craft that glided over the water like huge sailing butterflies.

Sven Elversson himself looked at it all with something like amazement. Reef and islet, houses and meadows and trees--there was a greatness, a wealth of colour, a beauty over all to-day unlike other days. And he was glad that she had seen them thus, in their festal array.

They must have known, he thought to himself, how deeply this woman loved all that was beautiful.

And it was with Sven as with all the rest, the land and sea. He was seen at his best to-day.

They talked at first of the weather, and of all the beautiful things about them, and he taught her the names of all the rocks and islands as they passed. But after a while they came to speak of other things, of every possible thing, old things and new, as if they had been tried friends.

And he laid aside the barrier of humility and shyness, and spoke freely and naturally, until she wondered, and thought that young men born by the sea, and voyaging early abroad to other lands, must gain an education and experience beyond others who spent all their days on land.

She felt a real trust in him, for he was good and gentle and wise; she wished she knew him better, and had such a man to turn to when her own wits were at a loss.

As for Sven, he had not spoken with her long before there came over him an intense longing to tell her of his sin, to confess it all to this innocent creature who knew nothing of sin herself.

It crossed his mind that all those who had hitherto condemned and despised him were themselves well acquainted with sin and vice. All had no doubt at some time cheated, lied, stolen, borne false witness, been proud and merciless, idle, miserly, revengeful, or cruel.

But this young girl from a pious home had lived a quiet and protected life, untouched by passion or covetousness. She had as yet no knowledge of sinful nature, her own or others'. She had never cherished an evil thought, never wished harm to any soul.

He could not expect her to judge him over-leniently, for she was keenly sensitive, and could never control her abhorrence of all that was ugly and evil to her mind. But be that as it might, he would gladly submit to her judgment; she should be his court of appeal. He could not go to the King for justice, but he could go to her.

For some time, however, he refrained, shy and uncertain of himself. And while he sat hesitating, he noticed that she had grown silent again. She seemed to be trying to say something that was hard to begin.

At last, however, she made up her mind and came straight to the matter at once.

"You saw I was crying when you came up before?"

"Yes," he said. "I could not help seeing that."

"It wasn't anything very much," she said. "Only a letter that came. It was from a friend of mine, a rich man's daughter, just married, and her husband was such a good man, clever, and looked up to by everyone; we all thought she would be so happy."

"And now--you mean she is not?" Sven laid both hands on the tiller and leaned forward. He seemed keenly interested in all that concerned this friend of hers.

"No," she answered, looking out over the sea, as if seeking to avoid his glance. "She is not happy. She writes that her husband is always displeased with her somehow. And she can't understand it. She asked if I could tell her what it might be. But I can't. I would gladly help her, but I can't understand it myself. So you can understand I was sorry. That was why I couldn't help crying."

"Yes, I understand," Sven replied. "But your husband, lady. Pastor Rhånge is a man of great experience. Ought you not to ask him about it?"

Fru Rhånge coloured, and gave him a quick glance, almost of suspicion. But his eyes met hers frankly and openly, without a thought of anything to conceal, and she went on:

"I do not think she would like me to speak to my husband about it. It is always when they have been out anywhere and are driving home that he is--displeased with her. Hardly speaks to her at all. And whenever she tries to say anything, he only answers with an unkind word or a sneer."

"But are you sure there is not anything in her behaviour that could offend him? Anything wrong, I mean?"

"No," answered the young wife, eagerly. "That, I am certain, there is not. They are earnest-minded, both of them, and wherever they go, among friends, it is always quiet; no dancing or noisy games or anything like that. But she did think of that, too, that perhaps he found her too gay in her manner, and last time they were out she sat all the time with the old married women and talked sensibly. Only when the host came and wanted to show her the garden did she go out at all. And he was an elderly man, and they spoke of nothing but trees and flowers, and how there were not enough gardens round about. And she was so interested, and asked him if he did not think they could manage a little garden at her home. And he promised to send some of his own people over that autumn to mark out a garden for her, and then in the spring he would send her some things to plant in it. But then in the evening, driving home with her husband, she told him about it, and thought he would be pleased. But he gripped the whip so hard as he listened, she could see the knuckles grow white, and when the horse stumbled he was furious, and lashed it again and again. And he told her that their home would stay as it was, and as it had been, and he'd have no gardener people coming to alter this and that. And told her not to enter into any arrangements of that sort in future without first asking his permission. And she tells me now she was so frightened she could not say a word. Only folded her hands and prayed to God to show her what it all was, what it could mean."

The young wife spoke throughout very slowly, choosing her words with care, and Sven Elversson listened with growing interest. And he could not help thinking that the description of the old man who was so fond of gardens fitted in excellently with a landowner living a little way out of Applum, near the sea; he had a big place, and would naturally have invited the Pastor and his wife some time.

"She must be very pretty, I suppose--your friend," was all he said.

Again she cast a covert, searching glance at him.

"I daresay people would think her quite good-looking," she said, carelessly. "But what joy can it be to her, when her husband has so much to find fault with in all that she does? When it seems as if she were never to have her will in anything; and all that she cares to do is wrong? And never can learn what she may do and what not?"

Sven Elversson was getting the sail over ready to tack, and had not time to answer before she went on:

"Before, when she was at home, no one ever spoke unkindly to her for what she did. Everyone seemed pleased with her then. She was a good example to her little brothers and sisters, they said, and wondered how they would manage when she was gone. And whenever she thinks of that time she cannot help smiling at herself, for now that she has a home of her own, it seems she can do nothing right, and is scolded for all she says or does not say, whatever she does or does not do."

Sven Elversson was at a loss how to answer. "She is all alone," he thought, "and has no one to confide in; helpless and a stranger. And she needs someone to talk to; it helps her a little to talk of it this way."

And he said only that Fru Rhånge seemed to care very much for her friend.

"I wish I could help her," she said, and was very near to weeping again. "For I know she is good and kind, really. She loves to help and comfort old people, and the poor, when they are in trouble, but she must not do that now, and that is almost the worst thing of all. And she may not sit in the pew that belongs to her home in church, though she likes best to sit there, because it is just in the choir, and a little above the rest, so she can see out over the congregation."

Sven Elversson thought of the little pew in Applum church, set aside for the family of the incumbent; it stood a little higher than the others, and one had a view of the rest of the church from there. "But how can I tell her," he thought, "that her husband is jealous? It would only hurt her. Perhaps it will pass over. Better that she should not know."

He turned the vessel now, and made for home. It was as well that her husband should find her there when he came back from church.

And in his pain at not daring to help her--perhaps to turn her thoughts from her own trouble--he pointed to a rocky island far to the west.

"That is Grimön," he said. "That is where the fellow they call Sven Elversson lives. You've heard of him, maybe?"

She nodded. "Yes, I have heard about that--the whole story."

She seemed inclined to let the matter end there, but suddenly she added a few words that made an end of the little happiness Sven had felt that morning.

"You've heard, of course, that the schoolhouse he built over by the church was burnt down last night?"

"Burnt down!" he cried. And in consternation he loosed his hold of the tiller, so that the sail was flung over and the boat nearly capsized.

"Yes," said Fru Rhånge, with perfect calmness, "burnt down to the ground. And a good thing, too!"

Sven brought the boat round again. "Why do you say that?" he asked between clenched teeth. "Why is it a good thing the place was burnt? I have heard that the folk in Applum were pleased enough with the building."

"I have heard so, too," she said. "But what was the good of that when the children would not go there?"

"Children would not go there?" he repeated, helplessly. "I have not been over to the mainland since it started--I knew nothing of that."

Fru Rhånge could see he was astonished at her saying it was well the place was burnt, and she went on eagerly to explain. From the very first, the children had taken a dislike to the new school. They had heard it was built by a man who had eaten human flesh, and they feared they would lose all chance of salvation if they sat at their lessons in a place that smelt of Christian blood.

And, as she told all this, she wondered why the man before her sat there so quietly, as if unconscious, with a far-away look in his eyes and a patient, suffering smile on his lips.

And in order to justify what she had already said, she went on to relate how the schoolmaster and, most of all, the mistress in charge of the little ones, had done all they could. Had spoken kindly and sensibly to the children, shown them how well the new school was built and fitted, and how all had been thought out to make it useful and comfortable for them. But the children had no ears for that, and persisted all the same: the place had been built by a wicked man, a dreadful sinner, and it was unclean.

Some of them had suddenly begun to cry during the lessons. Others had fancied they saw visions, and the fear and horror grew day by day. At last the parents could hardly get their children to go at all; it was even feared that some of the more excitable would go out of their minds.

Sven Elversson sat looking straight before him. "I wished her to be my judge," he said to himself. "And so it has come about. She condemns me, like all the rest."

She went on to say that it was of the children she had been thinking when she had said it was a good thing the school had been burnt. The fire had been caused by a pure accident. The woman who came to clean the rooms had upset a lamp: the fire had spread at once, and before she could get help it was beyond control.

The man at the helm looked up. "Well, well," he said. "Now Sven Elversson has been judged by God and man. Now it will be said that God would not suffer such unclean hands to build a house for children."

"Really, it almost seems----" began the woman, and checked herself. By a sudden intuition she felt now that the fellow there, who had been in her company for two hours at least, must be Sven Elversson himself.

Had she not heard his name mentioned the first time, when he had driven with them from the station? She had not noticed it at the time. But now ...

She looked at him closely. His simple dress had deceived her; she could see now that his face was that of an educated man. And then the curious little accent that she had noticed and wondered at--doubtless a trace of his English upbringing.

He sat with his eyes cast down, and as she watched the patient smile that played about his lips, she felt desperately miserable at having added still further to the burden he had to bear.

"Must I go back now with the memory of having wounded this poor sufferer against my will?" she thought. "I should have more to sorrow for then than I had this morning when I came down to the sea. He must have been a fine young man, with a career before him, and now he has lost all. And he has spent money, given his own work, on this schoolhouse building, to regain the good will of his fellow men. It is hard. I should not have spoken as I did."

Both were silent for the rest of the way home; neither cared to speak.

But when the boat came in to the stone pier under the cliff, and he rose to help her ashore, she grasped his hand.

"Forgive me," she said. "I did not know that it was you."

And she bent down and touched his forehead with her lips.

"What have you done?" he cried, with a look in his eyes as if she had struck him.

"I want you to understand that I do not feel toward you as all the others do," she said.

And, stepping ashore, she walked across the sand without looking backhand in through the pass between the rocks.

But before she had gone many steps, Sven Elversson was at her side, and laid one hand on her arm, that she should stop.

"Thank you ... God bless you ..." he said softly, brokenly. "But remember," he went on, "you must never, never do such a thing again. And you must not tell your husband what you have done. If you told him, then in his jealousy he might kill you."

Sven Elversson was gone, and the young wife walked on alone through the fields, with his last words still in her ears.

"Jealousy!"--could it be true that her husband was jealous? "Oh, heavens, no!" she thought to herself. "It is impossible. He _must_ know that I am his with all my soul, with all my thoughts and feelings."

It seemed so cruelly unjust that any one should ever think her husband jealous; the tears rose to her eyes again.

"Heaven knows how it is with that Sven Elversson," she said to herself. "There are many that cannot bear the sight of him, but they all say he is a good man. But perhaps, after all, he is not suffering undeservedly. How could Edward ever be jealous about me? And that was what he was reckoning out to himself while I was talking to him in the boat.

"I wish he were here, so that I could tell him the truth. And the truth is just this--that Edward does not love me any more. It is his misfortune, and mine. But he is not jealous. Oh, a man such as he, so far above all others, who is there he could be jealous of? And that fellow actually thought he could be jealous of him!

"He has ceased to love me," she told herself once more. "He can't help not loving me any more, but he cannot have ceased to believe in me, and in my love for him. It would be too unjust, too blind--it would be almost ridiculous."

On reaching home, the maid came to meet her in the hall, with an anxious face. The service was over already, the Pastor had come back, and was terrified at hearing that his wife was not at home. He had looked for her everywhere; had even been down to the sea to look. He was sitting in his room now--perhaps it would be best to go to him at once.

Fru Rhånge opened the door to the study. What was this?--was he ill? There sat this great strong man, with his face hidden in his arms, rocking to and fro and moaning as if in pain.

She went in, and asked in astonishment what was the matter. But when he looked up, his face was so changed that she hardly knew him--pale and drawn, with dull, bloodshot eyes, and his black beard in ragged wisps about his cheeks. She could hardly have believed such a change was possible in so short a time.

He looked at her with wide eyes, as if not knowing her. Then he passed his hands over his face, trying to control himself, to regain his customary dignity and confident ease. But to no purpose; his emotion was too much for him, and the tears streamed from his eyes.

He stretched out an arm toward her and, without rising, drew her to him. Not a kiss, not a caress; he leaned his head against her breast and sobbed, heartrending to see.

Again and again she begged him to tell her what it was that hurt him, but it was long before he could speak.

And then--nothing more than that he had come home from church and had not found her there; had looked for her about the place, even down to the sea, and, finding her nowhere, he had thought she had given him up and stolen away.

Sigrun could not help giving a little laugh of triumph and satisfaction.

"You must never go away from me again," he said. "You must promise me, now, that you will never leave me. Always let me know where I can find you--you have seen now; I shall go out of my mind if you do not."

And she promised all that he asked. Promised that nothing but death should take her from him.

And then she stood beside him, stroking his hair, till he was himself again. She felt light at heart now that she had had proof of his love. But at the same time there was something strange, something she could not share, in this. It was a love she did not understand--a thing too hot and fierce.

She asked him how he could ever believe she would leave him. And then, impulsively, he told her his thought; she was so far above him. She was from another world, was good in herself, without having to think about it. And he was always fearing that one day she would disappear--he was not good enough to keep her long.

"He does not mean it," she thought to herself. He could not really mean it. It was only his love that exalted her, as love ever will. And in the same way she herself had hitherto exalted him in her heart.

She was no longer miserable and despairing, as she had been in the morning. But there rose up in her a sense of fear toward her husband. And she said no word of having been out sailing with Sven Elversson that day.

Meantime, Sven Elversson and his father were on their way back to Grimön. Old Joel took the tiller, and his son lay in the bows, making himself as comfortable as could be.

Joel had told him of the fire at the school, having heard the news at church. He looked old and bowed and sad; it seemed that now, after this last failure, all ways were closed to his son's advancement.

Sven Elversson stroked his forehead softly as he lay, now with his finger-tips, now with the whole of his slender, delicate hand.

There was a strange sense of freedom and ease in his soul. His thoughts came to him clear and indisputable. He saw his way.

"Father," he said, suddenly, "this loathing is surely the strongest thing of all. No one can overcome it; no one can stand against it. Best to know it from the first. Whoever tries to fight against it must be beaten."

Joel shrugged his shoulders slightly, and grunted out something in answer, but his words were lost in the noise of wind and waves.

Sven lay as before, thinking. And in a little while, when his mind again had given him a clear and indisputable thought, he lifted his voice and cried to his father:

"But loathing is not evil in itself. It is a warning and a safeguard. And if one could use it so, turning it to good use, one might be of great service to mankind."

The old man looked up. His rheumy gray eyes lit up for a moment, and his bowed figure straightened.

Sven sprang to his feet, and, stepping across the thwarts, sat down beside his father.

"Something has happened to me to-day," he said. "Something that has helped me. I am not unhappy now about the fire at the school. I have something else to think of."

Then he went back to his place and lay down again, listening to the heavy rush of the south wind, watching the blending colour of the reefs, and stroking his forehead with his slender, delicate hand.

LESS THAN THE LEAST

JULIUS MARTIN LAMPRECHT, arrested and remanded on a charge of murder, lay on the bench in his cell in the lock-up at Knapefiord, staring into the gray gloom about him.

He was telling himself, as he had done so many times since his arrest, that he was not really guilty, and that there was really no need to confess.

"Now, if I really had been," he said to himself, recollecting his own words at his examination that same morning--"if I really had been guilty of cracking in the skulls of two old people, I should never deny it for a moment. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth--I know about that. And I know that justice must be done. And better to take your punishment in this world than have it to come in the next, where it lasts through all eternity."

The accused was a man about forty-five years of age, and looked almost a giant as he lay there in his cell. His hair was fair and curly as a child's, his complexion had the delicate colouring of youth, with a touch of deeper warmth on the cheeks. A handsome face, on the whole, with well-cut features. Only the eyes, though handsome too in a way, were unprepossessing, with a look in them now staring boldly, now flitting uncertainly from floor to ceiling, from corner to corner.

"Each according to his kind," he thought. "Judges and public prosecutors and that sort must be taken their way. Have to talk a special sort of truth to them, by reason that the real truth cannot reach their hearts, unless it be interpreted unto them."

And all the time he lay here telling himself that he had really committed no murder; he saw himself cold and hungry, dressed in miserable beggar's rags, coming in late one evening to a lonely village hidden away among barren, rocky hills. The door had by accident been left unfastened; he remembered how terrified the old folk had been as they looked up and saw him come in; how hurriedly they had closed the drawer in the table at which they sat. He had spoken kindly, sat down with them by the fire, to warm himself, eaten the food they gave him without hesitation, but aware all the time that they were far from glad of his company, and wished him a thousand miles away.

"And when you happen to be an old convict, sentenced to imprisonment for life, and let out after twenty years of it for exemplary behaviour, it's only natural to be suspected. I can't blame any one for that. I might have thought the same myself." Once more he was quoting from his defence of the morning.

And all the time he saw clearly in his mind's eye how he and the two old people had settled down to rest for the night, they in their bed in one corner, and he on a straw mattress at the other end of the room. The fire was still burning when they went to bed, and he could see the two gray heads side by side. He felt by no means comfortable himself; his bed on the floor was hard and uninviting; he was in ill-humour, and in particular it annoyed him to feel that these two old people grudged him the shelter they could not refuse. The axe that the old man had used to cut a few twigs to put under the pot still lay on the chopping-block; he wondered if it had been left there on purpose, with the blade gleaming in the light of the fire. Easy to find, and ready to hand--was it that?

He began to feel sleepy, but dared not sleep. Once he did so, the old couple would have him at their mercy. The old man, despite his seventy years, looked active enough still. And they were two to one.

He had told them in court that morning, a man who has done his twenty years in prison doesn't want to go back again in a hurry. And really, he ought to be less suspected than others. "But I know it's not that way, as a rule--or, at least, people don't generally act on it."

And as he repeated his well-chosen words he saw himself once more lying on the floor in the little house, straining his ears to listen to the old couplets whispering, the old man urging something, and the woman trying to dissuade him. "Wait till he's asleep," he heard her say. And the vagabond on his hard straw pallet felt more and more uneasy. It was plain that the old couple had money in the house, and were afraid he might steal it. There's a power of danger more than folk would think in the life of a poor vagabond.

And he was cautious, and pretended to go to sleep, and snored loudly, waiting to see what they would do. The old man said his prayers, and that was all; but that in itself was a masterly piece of deceit to one who knew what they had in mind--one who could see how the blade of the axe shone in the light of the dying fire, all ready to hand--one who understood well enough that they were only trying to lull his suspicion to rest.

"But," thought the accused, "you can't get a judge to believe a thing like that. Won't hear a word of self-defence, especially when it's a poor wanderer coming all unarmed and helpless into a strange house. But, for my part, I can't call it murder at all. If I hadn't got up and smashed in their skulls, they'd have smashed in mine. I don't believe they were asleep at all, though they lay quite still and never moved. It was all a sham. And if I'd been fool enough to go off to sleep myself in earnest, what would have happened then? They'd have been up and out of bed in a moment, with the axe. And after, what could be easier than to bury a body and hide it up, in a wild place like that? No, it's almost wicked to tempt people, having it all so easy."

And each time the accused went over in his mind the events of that night he felt more and more convinced that he had only killed the two old people in self-defence.

At first, he had not expected to be arrested at all. In the first place, the village where the two old people lay asleep, each with a cloven skull, was far off the high road, and he had every hope that nothing would be discovered until he was far away in safety. Then, too, he had so thoroughly persuaded himself of his innocence that he felt Providence must protect him. For the justice of Providence is other than that of courts of law on earth. It was a justice that understood how a poor vagabond might be forced to act in self-defence. With that sort of justice it was possible, so to speak, to talk as man to man.

The only thing this supreme justice could reasonably reproach him with was--he admitted it freely--a little white lie or so that he had allowed himself to tell at the examination, with regard to where he had been on the night of the crime and the days following. But for all his conscientiousness and his love of right and justice, he realized that in his case it was pardonable. For when a man had been arrested in despite of common fairness and humanity, merely because he happened to have been in prison before--and possibly also to some extent because a savings-bank book, the property of the deceased, and been found on his person--why, he was simply forced to deviate a little from the strict and literal truth. He had been obliged to confess that he had stolen the bank book from the pocket of a fellow passenger in the train. He had not endeavoured to assert that it had been honestly come by, but had freely confessed he had stolen it. As to where the other traveller had obtained it--who could say? It was too much to ask that he, the accused, show know the goings and comings of every stranger.

Again and again he went through the same arguments, each time feeling himself more and more innocent of any crime.

He had reached so far, indeed, as to be filled with an intense conviction of having barely, by a miracle of grace, escaped being murdered in his sleep himself--when the door of his cell opened, and the notary, who had conducted the proceedings of that morning, stepped in, followed by two other men. One was the warder, who had been deputed to look after him, and the other a young man, dressed like a workman of the better class.

The prisoner rose at once to his feet, with an air of respectful attention. He was resolved, as he had told the prison chaplain, on all occasions to observe a proper demeanour, and show that he himself was not only a lover of justice, but well disposed toward its servants.

"I have to inform you, Lamprecht," said the young notary, "that your case will be decided to-morrow. And once more I would ask you, while there is yet time, to ease your conscience and obtain a lighter sentence by sincere repentance and confession."

The accused answered only with a determined shake of the head, but for the rest maintained an attitude of tolerant understanding.

"I can understand, of course, that the notary finds it difficult," he said. "I have myself learned to love justice, which is the foundation of all society--the one thing in which all must trust. And I can understand that it seems hard to judge. You do not wish to condemn an innocent man, or, on the other hand, to let the guilty escape."

While he was speaking he noticed that the judge made a gesture with his hand once or twice as if to interrupt, but he took no heed. A man who has spent twenty years in prison has gained a certain amount of experience in the time, and may have various things to say which might be useful to a notary acting, perhaps for the first time, as judge.

He was allowed to finish what he had to say. Then the judge went on, entirely unmoved.

"You find it very difficult to give clear and distinct answers to questions put. And I have therefore written down these three points which you have to answer." He took up a paper, and held it toward the accused, reading out the contents at the same time:

"'Do you, Julius Martin Lamprecht, confess to having murdered Jonas Mikaelson with an axe on the night following the twelfth of February 1909?

"'Do you, Julius Martin Lamprecht, confess to having murdered Brita Gustava, wife of the aforesaid Jonas Mikaelson, with an axe on the night following the twelfth of February 1909?

"'Do you, Julius Martin Lamprecht, confess to having been aware that the two persons aforesaid possessed a bank book showing a deposit of two hundred _kronor_, and to having committed the murder in order to gain possession of the same?'"

The notary laid the paper on the table.

"You can think it over," he said. "You know that there is no prospect of your being acquitted, but a confession given of your own free will may lead to a mitigation of the sentence. Here is the paper; I will have pen and ink brought in."

The accused was by no means pleased at the manner in which his mode of expressing himself had been criticized; he was indeed altogether out of humour now. He stared blankly before him.

"You heard what I said?" the notary went on. "You understand that there are three questions here for you to answer, with your signature?"

The accused drew a deep breath. He was annoyed, and made no attempt to hide it. He spat on the paper and going back to his bench, lay down and closed his eyes.

"I will have a new copy of the paper brought in at once," said the judge as calmly as before.

"You have an hour. I shall wait in the building that time for your answer. You are too fond of delay and prevarication; I intend to show you that the time for such evasions is now past."

The accused answered only with an oath.

A moment after, he heard the door open, and imagined that the visitors had left. He did not trouble himself to open his eyes and look.

"That slip of a boy will never dare to condemn me," he thought. "Not as long as I stick to a firm denial. As for his paper, I've no need to answer that. Why should I?"

And, lying stretched on his bench, he saw in his mind's eye the same scenes as he had seen before; repeated his former arguments, growing ever more and more convinced of his entire innocence. He was certain now that the two old villagers had been in the habit of laying traps for lonely wanderers; they must have had more than one such life on their conscience.

At the same time, he found something pleasant in the thought that the judge had come in person to ask him to confess. It was proof that they regarded him as an important and dangerous man, whom they were loth to release.

"There you are!" he said to himself proudly. "That's how it is. People all round are afraid the murderer may escape after all. All that crowd there was in the court this morning. And the papers taking it up so eagerly. And the judge himself uncertain what to do; yes, it's all easy enough to understand. They'd like to condemn, but they haven't proof enough. And so they're trying to wring out a confession to help them. They know they can't condemn a man without proof as long as he denies it and sticks to it."

He felt so sure of his safety now that he began to whistle.

Perhaps, after all, it might turn out that this sore trial had not been in vain. "After this," he thought to himself, "there'll be no need to be content with cold potatoes and scrapings of porridge when you come to a lonely hut. After this, you'll only have to say your name, Julius Martin Lamprecht, and people 'll know what they've got to do. They'll get busy then, soon enough, with pots and pans on the fire, and serve up the best they've got. No more lying on a bit of mattress on the floor; no, it 'll be the visitor, the stranger within their gates, that sleeps in the best bed, and the others can sleep on the floor or out in the shed, if they like."

But here the accused was again interrupted in his train of thought. A quiet, gentle voice close by him:

"Five minutes have gone already."

He opened his eyes. The man dressed like a workman, who had followed the others into the cell, stood by his side, watch in hand, pointing to the dial as he spoke.

"What are you doing here? Who are you?" cried the accused, unpleasantly surprised to find that he was not alone. He wondered uneasily if he had been thinking aloud.

"I--I am nobody to speak of," said the other. "My name is Sven Elversson, son of Joel Elversson from Grimön. But it just occurred to me that you might perhaps fall off to sleep, or forget about the time, until it was too late. And so I asked them to let me stay in here and talk to you."

Lamprecht could find nothing to disapprove of in the stranger. There was something extremely humble about his manner, his smile, the tone of his voice. Even the way his hair was done seemed to have something of humility about it. He was clean-shaven, too, which added to the impression. All that could indicate selfishness, pride, superiority, was effaced. "Must be one of those well-meaning folk that go about doing good," thought the prisoner to himself. "Well, he won't get much out of me, anyhow."

"D'you think for a moment I'm ever going to write a word on that paper there?" he asked, scornfully.

"Do not say 'no' before you've had time to think," said Sven Elversson, with a glance of gentle humility and goodness. "You have had dealings with the law before, and you know well enough that you cannot be condemned in this court as long as you persist in a denial; they will have to acquit you for lack of proof. But before you decide, let me tell you that there are certain persons here who have ordered the sum of five thousand kronor to be placed at your disposal if you decide to confess. There is reason to believe that you would be glad of the money, although you will not, of course, be able to spend it yourself."

The accused felt a sudden shiver through his body from head to foot. At the same time, he could not help making a grimace. But he pulled himself together.

"What the devil is that you say?" he cried.

"Yes, it is true," said Sven Elversson. "We are ready to give you that money, if you confess. You understand that it is a matter of importance to us others that you should confess? Everyone in the district, perhaps in the whole country, is horrified. And we have resolved that you shall not go about the country asking for shelter of lonely folk if we can help it. That must not be. It is too great a temptation for a man like you. We want you imprisoned for life. We wish you no harm beyond that. We have no wish to take your life, or to hurt you at all, but we must have you in confinement. I and several others have watched you in court, and heard what you said. You are not exactly an intentional criminal, but you have fancies, and are easily frightened; you imagine that everyone is anxious to harm you. And if you think over it carefully, you will see that it is best for yourself that you should be shut up. You will be at peace then, and need have no fear of any one. I think, then, it would be better for you and for everyone else if you were to accept the five thousand kronor and confess."

"Not for a hundred thousand!" exclaimed the accused.

Sven Elversson had drawn gradually closer to the man while speaking, and sat down now on the bench beside him.

"Do not say that," he urged kindly, laying one hand on the other's sleeve. "Five thousand kronor is a good sum, and fully enough for the purpose for which you would use it. You cannot say otherwise. More would not be good for the one who is to have the money, and less would hardly do. Five thousand is as good as could be."

"I can't make you out," said the accused. "What do you think I should use it for? Who is the one I should give it to?"

"I am glad you asked me that," said Sven Elversson. "It was of that I wished to speak to you. There has been a great deal about you in the papers of late, and, among other things, how you are always asking after your daughter wherever you go. You were married, it seemed, before you committed that first murder two and twenty years ago, and on your release you tried at once to find out where your wife was. But she was dead. But you had a daughter--she would be a little over twenty now, and, as far as any one knows, she is alive, but no one could tell you where she had gone. And so you have been wandering about the country looking for her everywhere. As soon as you entered a house, the first thing you did was always to ask if any there knew anything of Julia Lamprecht. And"--here Sven lowered his voice and went on a little sadly--"it seemed to me that there was something I liked about that. There must be something good in a man who went about seeking for his daughter."

"But in the name of Heaven," cried the accused, "what have you to do with it all? Why are you here, talking to me like this? Can't you tell me what it is you want with me?"

"Thanks once more," said Sven Elversson in his gentlest voice, as if fearing to arouse the other's displeasure. "Those are just questions that I shall be only too glad to answer. I am from Grimön, as I said--a little island far out at sea, so far, at any rate, that I myself need have no fear of you, for you would hardly come there. But I have a mother who has warnings in her dreams at times. And on the morning of the thirteenth of February she asked me to go over to the mainland and see how things were with an old couple--relatives of ours--who lived in a little cottage among the stonehills, far from the high road, and with no neighbours near. She had dreamed something that made it seem best for someone to go and see how they were. And I did as she asked me. And so it came about that I was the first to discover what you had done that night. And I will not deny that it was a cruel sight, and ever since I have wished something could be done to prevent you from ever being free to go about again. And that is why I have been about collecting this money. I wish you no harm, do not think that. I have told you so already. I only want to see you imprisoned now for life."

As he spoke, he moved a little closer, and stroked the other's sleeve gently. He was evidently anxious that Lamprecht should not think he bore him any personal ill will. Had the man been a lion escaped from its cage, its keeper might have coaxed it back behind the bars in the same way.

It would be untrue to say that the accused did not regard him with uneasiness. Everyone filled him with uneasiness: judge and gaoler, magistrate and witnesses. But he could not help feeling that this Sven Elversson was little to be feared--he seemed, indeed, something weak in his mind. "One of those fellows that go about doing good," he told himself again. "Philanthropists, they call them."

"I seem to understand a little now," he said aloud. "As soon as you found out that I went about looking for my daughter you thought you could use her as a bait to catch a poor fellow again for good."

And he laughed in Sven's soft face. The lion was determined to keep its freedom, and cared nothing for the bait offered.

"Thank you," said Sven Elversson, with his humblest smile. "What you say brings me just to the very thing I wanted to tell you. Look you, last summer I was doing some building work in the district. Not for myself, you understand, but to order. And I had to get some stone from a quarry just above the fishing village of Knapefiord, where we are now, and in that way I came into contact with a good many of the people there. And among them was a young woman named Julia Lamprecht. It was an unusual name, and as soon as I saw your name in the papers I remembered her."

The accused rose to his feet. Again he felt that shiver through his body. His face twitched, his eyelids quivered; it was evident that some emotion took possession of him at the mention of his daughter, though, truth to tell, he had been seeking her hitherto less from any warmth of real feeling than in the hope that she might perhaps be well off and able to give him a home.

He thrust Sven Elversson aside carelessly, and stood up in the middle of the cell.

"Is she here?" he asked. "I want to see her."

His tone was that of a man who expects immediate obedience to his orders. But Sven Elversson did not lose countenance.

"You shall see her," he said, kindly and gently as before, but not without firmness. "You shall sit and talk with her as you are doing now with me. But there is one thing to be done first. You must write the answers on that paper. You may think, perhaps, that we are cruel in trying to separate father and daughter in this way, but we must have that paper signed first."

The accused flushed angrily. He was not accustomed to have any reasonable request refused. Ever since he had been arrested, he had been treated with the greatest leniency, to make him thrive, as it were, in captivity, and render him more willing to give the confession that would keep him there. He felt now as if he could spring at this stranger and thrash him soundly, but he controlled himself. He threw himself face downward on the bench, keeping his face hidden. He did not know himself what made him do so, but he felt it was best to conceal his feelings.

"I am glad, I am grateful to you for thinking it over," said Sven. "I must tell you that Julia Lamprecht is not very happy as she is. Her mother died early, as you know. And since then she has, as one might say, grown up in the streets. She came here in company with a workman from the quarries. They were not married, but quarrymen hereabouts do not always trouble about marrying, so no one paid much heed to that. And Julia is a good girl; there are many worse than she. But a few days back, when the man heard she was your daughter, he left her. Couldn't bear the sight of her, he said. And now she is all alone. She is handsome, like her father, with fair hair, and no doubt there will be others ready to be friends with her in a way, but it will only be the same again. Now, if she had a little money, say five thousand kroner, then she could buy a little house and be properly married. Five thousand would be just about right. More would not be well for her, and less would be hardly enough. Well, now you see how we have thought it out. As soon as you have answered the questions there, you can see her, and give her the five thousand. You would like that, I think. Then she would feel she had a father. She would feel that, whatever you might have done, you had still some affection for her."

The accused was silent for a long time. He moved to and fro restlessly on the bench, moaning from time to time. There was, after all, something in the man that cried for his child. Fair, handsome, like her father, she was. And perhaps even then sitting outside and waiting....

Suddenly he sat up, brushed his hair from his forehead, and looked Sven Elversson straight in the face.

"Can you tell me," he said, "why I should write on that paper at all? I shall be acquitted to-morrow."