Jens proceeded to the man at the folding-table, who settled his face in solemn folds and said: “I, Master Herman Köppen, executioner in the town of Aarhus, take you in the presence of these honest men, a journeyman to be and a journeyman’s work to perform, to the glory of God, your own preferment, and the benefit of myself and the honorable office of executioner,” and as he made this unnecessarily pompous speech, which seemed to give him immense satisfaction, he pressed the bright earnest-penny into Jens’s hand. Then he rose, took off his hat, bowed, and asked whether he might not have the honor of offering the honest men who had acted as witnesses a drink of half and half.
The three men at the long table looked inquiringly at one another, then nodded as with one accord.
The barefoot girl brought a clumsy earthenware cruse, and three green glasses on which splotches of red and yellow stars were still visible. She set the cruse down before Jens and the glasses before Sören and the bear-baiters, and fetched a large wooden mug from which she filled first the glasses of the three honest men, then the earthenware cruse, and finally Master Herman’s private goblet.
Rasmus drew his glass toward him and spat, the two others followed suit, and they sat a while looking at one another, as if none of them liked to begin drinking. Meanwhile Marie Grubbe came up to Sören and whispered something in his ear, to which he replied by shaking his head. She tried to whisper again, but Sören would not listen. For a moment she stood uncertain, then caught up the glass and emptied the contents on the floor, saying that he mustn’t drink the hangman’s liquor. Sören sprang up, seized her arm in a hard grip, and pushed her out of the door, gruffly ordering her to go upstairs. Then he called for a half pint of brandy and resumed his place.
“I’d like to ha’ seen my Abelone—God rest her soul—try a thing like that on me,” said Rasmus, drinking.
“Ay,” said Salmand, “she can thank the Lord she isn’t my woman, I’d ha’ given her somethin’ else to think o’ besides throwin’ the gifts o’ God in the dirt.”
“But look ’ee, Salmand,” said Rasmus, with a sly glance in Master Herman’s direction, “your wife she isn’t a fine lady of the gentry, she’s only a poor common thing like the rest of us, and so she gets her trouncin’ when she needs it, as the custom is among common people; but if instead she’d been one of the quality, you’d never ha’ dared to flick her noble back, you’d ha’ let her spit you in the face, if she pleased.”
“No, by the Lord Harry, I wouldn’t,” swore Salmand, “I’d ha’ dressed her down till she couldn’t talk or see, and I’d ha’ picked the maggots out o’ her. You just ask mine if she knows the thin strap bruin’s tied up in—you’ll see it’ll make her back ache just to think of it. But if she’d tried to come as I’m sitting here and pour my liquor on the floor, I’d ha’ trounced her, if she was the emperor’s own daughter, as long’s I could move a hand, or there was breath in my body. What is she thinking about,—the fine doll,—does she think she’s better than anybody else’s wife, since she’s got the impudence to come here and put shame on her husband in the company of honest men? Does she s’pose it ’ud hurt her if you came near her after drinkin’ the liquor of this honorable man? Mind what I say, Sören, and”—he made a motion as if he were beating some one—“or else you’ll never in the wide world get any good out of her.”
“If he only dared,” teased Rasmus, looking at Sören.
“Careful, Squint, or I’ll tickle your hide.”