The bridegroom came last. Suddenly it occurred to him to fetch something for the fiddler, and he turned back. Having found what he wanted, he was leaving the room, when a stranger barred his way.
Olof started; the man had come suddenly and silently as a ghost. There was something uncanny about him as he stood there—a short, heavily-built fellow, standing without a word, one hand in his trousers pocket, a cigar in his mouth, and a red rosette, such as peasants wear on holidays, in the buttonhole of what was evidently his best coat. There he stood, gazing fixedly at Olof, with a curious glitter in his eyes.
"I've a word to say to the bridegroom, if so be he's time to hear," said the man in a hoarse voice, still keeping the cigar between his teeth.
"Why … here I am, if you want me," said Olof, "though I don't know who you are…."
"No," said the man, "you don't know who I am. And yet we're sort of related—yes, that's the word—for all we've never met before."
He took a step forward.
"'Tis your wedding night—and I've come to wish you joy of it. You've played with many a woman's heart in your time, and driven more than one good lad to despair—maybe 'twill do you good to learn…."
"What?" cried Olof, with sudden fury. "Out with it, man!"
The fellow's glassy eyes seemed to be straining forward, the pupils were glittering points of light.
"You, that have worked your will on any and all as it pleased you—robbed your betters of all they had and cared for—'twill do you good, maybe, to know that…. Do you think you're taking an innocent girl for your bride?"