A moment later he was tearing down the street with the big family Bible all uncovered under one arm.
Oh, but this was the most wonderful day of his life! The Bible itself had revealed its darkest secrets to him—to him alone. What would they say, all those whose minds were yet in darkness? what would old Angel Karlsen say? what would young Evangelist Karlsen look like with his wrinkled face—when they heard that the Community of the Brethren of St. John was built on sand—nay, upon a swamp, into the bottomless depth of which their money sank never to be seen again? He, Egholm, was a new Luther, wielding the Bible as a mighty club against heresy and false doctrine. They would have to make him Angel, ay, Archangel, after this. In every land where the Brethren of St. John were known, his name would be named with honour. He would write a new Book of Laws for the Brotherhood, and it should be translated into seven tongues. Into seven tongues! Almost like a new Bible.
Karlsen’s shop was at a corner of the market square. It was a very old house, with a steep red roof. At the bottom two small windows had been let in to make it look like a shop, and through them one could discern, in spite of a thick layer of cobwebs and dust, the rows of shelves with yellow jars in all sizes. The modest store was suited to the taste of the peasant customers. They could stand for ages pondering over the choice of a shovel or rake, and weighing it in the hand. Karlsen was understood to be a wealthy man.
Egholm inquired of a chilblainy youth if he could speak with Angel Karlsen.
H’m. He didn’t know. Would go in and ask.
“Say it’s something of importance,” said Egholm.
As the door in the corner was opened, Egholm heard a sound of voices in dispute from the office beyond. Two voices—and he could not recognise either. Or was it—yes, surely that was old Karlsen’s, after all? Egholm listened in wonder, as one might listen to a familiar air played out of time or at a different pace.
“Call me a scoundrel if you like,” shouted the one, a nasal trumpeting voice with a twang of city jargon—“call me a thief, a convict, or anything you damn well please, but I won’t be called a fool!”
“But the contract, the contract, the contract!” screamed out the angelic voice of Karlsen the Elder.