HEMMING. She is gone now, come along!
ARNE. [Sits down on the bench to the left.] Hemming! it is well that the wedding is to be held tonight. Tomorrow I go home; yes, that I will. Not a day longer will I remain in Lady Kirsten's house.
HEMMING. Why, master! is there enmity again between you?
ARNE. Is it not enough, do you think, that she and all her superior relatives look down on me; at supper they laughed and jested among themselves because I could not bring myself to eat of all those ungodly, outlandish dishes. And what was it that we got to drink? Sweet wine and cider that will stay in my stomach for eight days. No, the good old homebrewed ale for me.
[Drinks and adds softly and bitterly.]
ARNE. Of this I had sent the wretched woman three full barrels. And what has she done? Thrown it to her servants, and here I must steal myself a drink,—yes, Hemming! steal myself a drink of my own ale, that they may not revile me as a coarse peasant, who doesn't understand the more refined drinks.
HEMMING. Well, master! I gave you warning.
ARNE. Ah—gave me warning! You are stupid, Hemming! You think I haven't noticed it myself; but wait, just wait!
ARNE. [Flaring up.] To place my good nourishing ale before the house servants, as though it were not worthy to be put on the table of a lord.—
HEMMING. Yes, Lady Kirsten treats you ill, that is certain.