“Yes.”
Olsen called vaguely to mind the interesting episode of the morning; he lit the lamp, and sat down again on the edge of Sivert’s bed.
“No need to be frightened of me. I shan’t hurt you.”
He thrust his hand under the bedclothes, and stroked the child’s knobby spine. It gave him a curious sensation, something promising and yet uncanny. He had felt like that once before, when he had bought a bottle of spirits for the night, but mislaid it.
Drowsy as he was, but still obstinate, he sat like a beast of prey, watching his time. Now and again he sniffed at Sivert’s scalp—he had noticed the smell of it that morning when he was holding him.
“What d’you want to have long hair like that for?” he asked.
Sivert felt it would be dangerous to be at a loss for an answer. And, diving swiftly into the primeval forest growth of his mind, he snatched the first fruit that came to hand.
“That’s for the executioner to hold on by, when he’s cut off the body,” he said.
“Executioner—what the devil!—cut off the body. It’s the head that’s cut off, stupid.”
“Oh,” said Sivert. “Not the body, then?”