Egholm stops at the Eriksens’ gate, glances round, and kneels.
Kneels down full in the mire, while the gale flings the cape of his ulster over his head. Now he snatches off his hat and crushes it in his fingers; his bald head looks queerly oblong, like a pumpkin, seen from above.
“He’s praying!”
And the two at the window shudder, as if they were witnessing some dreadful deed.
“Where am I to hide?” blubbers Sivert.
The mother pulls herself together—she must find strength for two.
“You need not hide to-day. Take your little saw and be doing some work. You’ll see, it will be all right to-day.”
“But suppose he counts the money?”
“Oh, heaven...!”
“Hadn’t we better tell him at once? Shout out and tell him as soon as he comes in, and say Hedvig took it?”