“But the Bible is to you a holy book?” asked Louise, and colored.
“A venerable book!” returned Otto. “It contains the profoundest doctrines, the most interesting histories, but also much which belongs not at all to a holy book.”
“How can you say such things?” exclaimed Louise.
“Do not touch upon religion in her presence,” said Sophie; “she is a pious soul, and believes, without desiring to know wherefore.”
“Yes,” said Wilhelm, “this winter she became quite angry, and, as I believe, for the first time angry with me, because I maintained that Christ was a man.”
“Wilhelm!” interrupted the young girl, “do not speak of that; I feel myself unhappy at this thought; I can and will not see the Holy brought down to my level, and to that of every-day life. It lies in my nature that I commit a sin if I think otherwise than I have learned and than my heart allows me. It is profane, and if you speak longer of religion in this strain I shall leave the room.”
At this moment the mother entered. “The festival has commenced,” said she; “I have been forced to give my brightest silver skilling. Does Mr. Thostrup know the old custom which is observed here in the country, when beer is brewed for the mowing-feast?”
A piercing cry, as from a horde of savages, at this moment reached the ears of the party.
The friends descended.
In the middle of the brew-house stood a tub, around which danced all the female servants of the estate, from the dairymaids down to the girl who tended the swine; their iron-bound wooden shoes dashed against the uneven flag-stones. The greater number of the dancers were without their jackets, but with their long chemise-sleeves and narrow bodices. Some screamed, others laughed, the whole was blended together in a howl, whilst they danced hand in hand around the tub in which the beer should be brewed. The brewing-maid now flung into it the silver skilling, upon which the girls, like wild Maenades, tore off each other’s caps, and with bacchanalian wildness whirled round the tub. By this means should the beer become stronger, and work more intoxicatingly at the approaching mowing-feast.