One evening they were busy making candles in the hall at Tjele. Marie was standing beside the straw-filled vat in which the copper mould was placed. She was busy dipping the wicks, while the kitchen-maid, Anne Trinderup, Sören’s cousin, was catching the drippings in an earthenware dish. The cook was carrying the trays back and forth, hanging them up under the frame, and removing the candles when they were thick enough. Sören sat at the hall table looking on. He wore a gold-laced cap of red cloth trimmed with black feathers. Before him stood a silver tankard full of mead, and he was eating a large piece of roast meat, which he cut in strips with his clasp-knife on a small pewter plate. He ate very deliberately, sometimes taking a draught from his cup, and now and then answering Marie’s smile and nod with a slow, appreciative movement of his head.
She asked him if he was comfortable.
H’m, it might have been better.
Then Anne must go and fetch him a cushion from the maids’ room.
She obeyed, but not without a great many signs to the other maid behind Marie’s back.
Did Sören want a piece of cake?
Yes, that mightn’t be out of the way.
Marie took a tallow dip and went to get the cake, but did not return immediately. As soon as she was out of the room, the two girls began to laugh uproariously, as if by agreement. Sören gave them an angry, sidelong glance.
“Dear Sören,” said Anne, imitating Marie’s voice and manner, “won’t you have a serviette, Sören, to wipe your dainty fingers, Sören, and a bolstered foot-stool for your feet, Sören? And are you sure it’s light enough for you to eat with that one thick candle, Sören, or shall I get another for you? And there’s a flowered gown hanging up in master’s chamber, shan’t I bring it in? ’Twould look so fine with your red cap, Sören!”