Restlessly rolled on the waves, and burst with a hiss into white foam on the sand of the shore. Far out in the fog sounded the roaring of the distant ocean, and two gulls took their slow flight over the waves and vanished in the mist. Frida's eyes followed them dreamily, and she started violently when Sandow, who till now had preserved silence, suddenly asked--
"What was the name of the clergyman with whom you lived in New York?"
"Pastor Hagen."
"And there you heard those remarks about Jenkins and Co.?"
"Yes, Mr. Sandow."
Frida seemed about to add something, but the abruptness with which the last question was uttered closed her lips.
"I might have supposed so. These clerical gentlemen with their extravagant views of morality, are always ready with a sentence of damnation, when a thing does not exactly fit their measure. From the pulpit it is much easier to look down on a sinful world, than it is to us who must live and struggle in the midst of it. These gentlemen should for a moment try what it is, they would soon lose some of their virtuous calm and Christian spotlessness, but they would learn to judge better of other things of which now they understand absolutely nothing."
The bitter sarcasm of these last words would perhaps have terrified another, but Frida's spirit rose energetically against it.
"Pastor Hagen is mildness and consideration itself," with a blaze of indignation. "Certainly he will never condemn anyone unjustly. It was the first and only time that I heard a harsh judgment from his lips, and I know that only care for the dangerous position of his countrymen drew it from him."
"Does that perhaps mean that he is right?" asked Sandow sharply, while almost threateningly he advanced a step nearer.