“The Brethren—no. I’ve done with them for good and all.”
“All right, then, just as you please,” said she. And no more was said.
Towards evening, Egholm took his stick, and went for a walk through the town and down along the quay.
The black gliding waters of the Belt slapped softly against the stonework, and patted like flat hands under the tarred beams. He went right out to the point, where some boys were fishing with lines, and calling to one another in their singing dialect, as often as they fancied a bite.
A big Norwegian timber ship with a heavy deck-load lay in the harbour, and all the fishing-boats of Knarreby were gathered along the side of the quay.
The background was dominated by the church, the Custom House, and Vang’s hotel. To the west, little fisher huts set all up a steep slope, that rose farther on to the great beeches of Kongeskoven. Knarreby itself was on an elevation; the ground line of St. Nicholas Church was level with the roof of the Custom House. From where he stood, Egholm could see two gravestones showing white in the churchyard.
Loud voices could be heard from the terrace of Vang’s hotel; three gentlemen had just come out, and were sniffing and wiping their foreheads with handkerchiefs. Evidently, they had been dining. Somebody gave an order to a waiter, with a heavy slap on the back. There was a certain noisiness apparent.
Egholm pricked up his ears—that was Rothe’s voice and no other.
Ah—and now he recognised the other two: the warlike editor and Vang with a silk skull-cap.
Here were three men who, he felt sure, never bowed the knee to God. And yet they seemed to enjoy themselves.