"Good God," cried she, and ran up to him.
"Go away, child," muttered he, in a voice
that sounded strangely unfamiliar, and he pushed
her roughly away. For a moment he stood
still, then stalked up to the table, and, with a
heavy thump, dropped down into a chair. There
he remained with his elbows resting on his
knees, and absently staring on the floor. His
long hair hung in wet tangles down over his
face, and the wrinkles about his mouth seemed
deeper and fiercer than usual. Now and then
he sighed, or gave vent to a deep groan. In a
while his eyes began to wander uneasily about
the room; and as they reached the corner where
Brita was sitting, he suddenly darted up, as if
stung by something poisonous, seized a brand
from the hearth, and rushed toward her.
"Tell me I did not see it," he broke forth,
in a hoarse whisper, seizing her by the arm and
thrusting the burning brand close up to her face.
"Tell me it is a lie--a black, poisonous lie."
She raised her eyes slowly to his and gazed
steadfastly into his face. "Ah," he continued
in the same terrible voice, "it was what I told
them down there at the church--a lie--an infernal
lie. And I drew blood--blood, I say--I
did--from the slanderer. Ha, ha, ha! What
a lusty sprawl that was!"
The color came and departed from Brita's
cheeks. And still she was strangely self
possessed. She even wondered at her own calmness.
Alas, she did not know that it was a
calmness that is more terrible than pain, the
corpse of a forlorn and hopeless heart.
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