Marie held his hand fast.
Well, now he was going.
No, he must stay; there was no one in all the world she loved like him.
Oh, that was just something she said because she was afraid he’d come back and haunt her, but she might make herself easy on that score, for he didn’t bear any grudge against her and would never come near her after he was dead; that he’d both promise and perform, if she would only let him go.
No, she would never let him go.
Then if there was nothing else for it—Sören tore his hand away, and ran out of the brew-house and across the yard.
Marie was right on his heels, when he darted into the menservants’ quarters, slammed the door after him, and set his back against it.
“Open the door, Sören, open the door, or I’ll call the servants!”
Sören made no answer, but calmly took a bit of pitchy twine from his pocket and proceeded to tie the latch with it, while he held the door with his knee and shoulder. Her threat of calling the other servants did not alarm him, for he knew they were all haymaking in the outlying fields.