A coach was heard driving in at the gate. They knew it must be Palle Dyre, and Sören stole away to the menservants’ quarters.
Three of the men were sitting there on their beds, besides the gamekeeper, Sören Jensen, who stood up.
“Why, there’s the baron!” said one of the men, as the coachman came in.
“Hush, don’t let him hear you,” exclaimed the other with mock anxiety.
“Ugh,” said the first speaker, “I wouldn’t be in his shoes fer’s many rosenobles as you could stuff in a mill-sack.”
Sören looked around uneasily and sat down on a chest that was standing against the wall.
“It must be an awful death,” put in the man who had not yet spoken, and shuddered.
Sören Gamekeeper nodded gravely to him and sighed.
“What’re you talkin’ about?” asked Sören with pretended indifference.
No one answered.