The toasting and cheers for Fru Norby were deafening; but she burst into audible weeping, for it was true. It had been a hard time.
At the mention of his mother and his illness, Einar was also touched, and went up and drank with his parents.
It had gradually grown so dark that the large hanging lamps over the table had to be lighted; and although there was nothing but home-made wine, spirits had risen, so that most of the faces shone red in the lamplight, the conversation was lively, and the laughter resounded.
The two jurymen were seated at the lower end of the table. One of them now said cautiously to the other: “Isn’t it customary to chair the guest of honour?”
“We musn’t be in a hurry,” said the other as cautiously.
“What was it we called Norby, when we were at the agricultural school with him?”
“Fatty,” said the other, surreptitiously taking up a bone in his fingers. His companion began to laugh; for it was so amusing to think that they had once been so intimate with Norby as to call him Fatty.
But now a silence fell on the assembly when Norby himself tapped his glass. He rose, a little red in the face, and looked first at Marit and then at the company assembled. His voice was hoarse when he said: “I must return thanks both for myself and my wife. And now I will ask you to drink to the health of one of whom I cannot help thinking this evening—the judge.” And when the health had been drunk, Fru Thora cried enthusiastically: “Long live the judge! Long live the jury!”
This evoked loud applause, and the saw-mill owner led the enthusiasm with his hip, hip. One of the jurymen started up, saying: “Come! Now we’ll take him!” “Don’t be in a hurry!” said the other. “Yes,” said the first. “We’ll show people that we repudiate Wangen’s charge of partiality!”