"You come in the name of God?" said he. "Come, then, in peace."
But the preacher, brandishing his sword, fell on the old priest, crying in anger, "I was right, then! I guessed that there was still an accursed Papist in my parish!"
"You were indeed right," said the old man. "It is he you are now assaulting."
"It is not you that I quarrel with," said the Lutheran, "but the error of your ways, and the black artifices you employ to turn the heads of my parishioners."
"Your parishioners?" repeated the old priest with dignity. "Do you know who I am? I am Sylvester, the legitimate pastor of those poor souls whom you call your parishioners, and the last Catholic priest left in this unhappy country. With cunning and force you have made war on the religion which has made Norway what it is. You have robbed her people of their faith; you have sacked our churches and banished our priests. Far from my flock, I have eaten my bread in tears and exile for long years; I have wept and prayed; almost have I died of grief at leaving my poor children deserted. But I could not die away from them. In spite of a thousand dangers, I returned and buried myself here in the ruins of my dear church. Only the inhabitants of one farm know of my return, and from them I receive the bread on which I live and the straw which is my couch. As for my 'artifices'—alas! I am old and incapable of doing anything for my children, who still love and reverence the Church of their fathers. All I can do for them is to pray and to celebrate Mass for them on the great feasts under cover of the charitable darkness. These are my ruses, these my terrible mysteries. Now that I have told you them, raise your sword against the last of God's anointed priests living in my unhappy land. Strike—for I wish to die here."
OLD AGE, TELEMARKEN
The ci-devant Danish soldier was touched.
"No," he said. "God forbid that I should raise my hand against an old man. Live, and die when God shall call you, in this spot. Adieu, and may God enlighten you at your last hour."