But on Sundays, when the church-
bells called the parishioners together, they could
not very well avoid seeing each other on the
church-yard; and then, one day, many years
ago, when the sermon had happened to touch
Bjarne's heart, he had nodded to Hedin and
said: "Fine weather to-day;" and Hedin had
returned the nod and answered: "True is that."
"Now I have done my duty before God and
men," thought Bjarne, "and it is his turn to
take the next step." "The fellow is proud,"
said Hedin to himself, "and he wants to show
off his generosity. But I know the wolf by his
skin, even if he has learned to bleat like
a ewe-lamb."
What the feud really was about, they had
both nearly forgotten. All they knew was
that some thirty years ago there had been a
quarrel between the pastor and the parish about
the right of carrying arms to the church. And
then Bjarne's father had been the spokesman of
the parish, while Hedin's grandsire had been a
staunch defender of the pastor. There was a
rumor, too, that they had had a fierce encounter
somewhere in the woods, and that the one had
stabbed the other with a knife; but whether that
was really true, no one could tell.
Bjarne was tall and grave, like the weather-
beaten fir-trees in his mast-forest. He had a
large clean-shaven face, narrow lips, and small
fierce eyes. He seldom laughed, and when he
did, his laugh seemed even fiercer than his
frown. He wore his hair long, as his fathers
had done, and dressed in the styles of two
centuries ago; his breeches were clasped with large
silver buckles at the knees, and his red jerkin
was gathered about his waist with a leathern
girdle.
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