"Lord Jesus! Do not shoot!" was heard in the fog.
The commissioner seemed to have heard this voice before, but a very long time ago, perhaps in his youth. And now when he approached the place, where the unknown stood, and saw its silhouette outlines gray to gray, there awoke old memories of these contours of a human being. The inward bowed knees, the arms all too long and the deformed left shoulder had a counterpart picture in memory's storage of a schoolmate in the third class in the high school. But when he caught sight of the colporteur's American whiskers appearing through the mist, the picture did not correspond longer, and he only saw the man upon the rock, who had applied the Revelation to the mirage.
With a raised cap and a frightened look he approached the commissioner, who did not feel himself safe with this sneaking pursuer, for in reality he carried no firearms. To disguise his uncertainty he assumed a sharp tone, when he asked:
"Why do you hide from me?"
"I have not hidden myself, the mist did it," answered the preacher softly and insinuatingly.
"But why were you not sitting at the tiller in your boat?"
"Hm, I did not know that one was obliged to sit on the stern sheet and therefore I sat to windward to keep the boat buoyant! For you see I had a sheet on the end of the tiller such as we use up in Roslagen."
The explanations were acceptable, but still did not answer the question, why he followed the commissioner out here. And he felt now, that here must be a close fight of souls, for it was not by chance that they had met out here.
"What do you seek out here so early in the morning?" the commissioner took up the broken thread.
"Yes, how shall I say it, I feel sometimes, as though I am in need of being alone with myself." The answer found a certain echo in the questioner, and at the expression of sympathy, which the preacher could read in his face, he added: