As for the ship at Bremen, which had interested them both so much, not another word, strangely enough, was ever again spoken about it.
On Sunday, they were married in Madame Torvestad's parlour, only a few intimate friends being present. In the afternoon, Sarah removed with Jacob Worse to his house.
At last Skipper Randulf returned, and Worse hastened to greet him. They plunged at once into conversation, narrating their mutual adventures; still it was not so pleasant as it might have been. The subject of Rio had grown rather out of date, and there was a certain constraint between them, until Randulf broke out: "Now, you old heathen! I hear you have married one of the eleven thousand wise virgins."
"Yes, my boy; she is one of the right sort," said Worse, winking at him.
"Well, take care that she does not make a fool of you, as Sivert Gesvint and the others did."
"Thank you for nothing; Jacob Worse knows what women are before to-day."
"Ah! do you know, Jacob, I sometimes think you were not very fortunate in your first wife."
"Don't talk about her, she was half mad. Mind you, Sarah is very different." And then he began a long story about all her perfections, sometimes sinking his voice to a whisper, although they were quite alone in Randulf's parlour.
Thomas Randulf, however, smiled incredulously, which secretly annoyed Worse; and the more earnest he became in describing his wife's merits and his own happiness, the more suspiciously did Randulf's long nose draw down towards the upturned corners of his mouth, until at last Worse, becoming bored with him, was about to leave.
"Oh, no! Come, just take a glass; there is no such hurry, Jacob."