With that he left them. When he came into the room where Marie was, he closed the door after him with a kick, and began to untie the rope that held their little bundle of clothing.
Marie was sitting on the edge of the rough board frame that served as a bed. “Are you angry, Sören?” she said.
“I’ll show you,” said Sören.
“Have a care, Sören! No one yet has offered me blows since I came of age, and I will not bear it.”
He replied that she could do as she pleased, he meant to beat her.
“Sören, for God’s sake, for God’s sake, don’t lay violent hands on me, you will repent it!”
But Sören caught her by the hair, and beat her with the rope. She did not cry out, but merely moaned under the blows.
“There!” said Sören, and threw himself on the bed.
Marie lay still on the floor. She was utterly amazed at herself. She expected to feel a furious hatred against Sören rising in her soul, an implacable, relentless hatred, but no such thing happened. Instead she felt a deep, gentle sorrow, a quiet regret at a hope that had burst—how could he?