Jörgen raised his head, covered with coarse, yellow hair, from his book. It was the second time he had heard them, far away on the hill; but, like the sentinels of Haakon Adelstensfostre at the beacon, of whom he was just reading, he did not dare to jump up from his reading and give the alarm until he was sure.
"I think there are bells on the road," he gently remarked, "far off."
"Nonsense! attend to your lesson."
But, notwithstanding he pretended that he was deeply absorbed in the esthetic depths of Hermoder, the captain also sat with open ears.
"The trader's bells—they are so dull and low," Jörgen put in again.
"If you disturb me again, Jörgen, you shall hear the bells about your own ears."
The trader, Öjseth, was the last one the captain could think of wishing to see at the farm. He kept writing and writing after those paltry thirty dollars of his, as if he believed he would lose them. "Hm! hm!" He grew somewhat red in the face, and read on, determined not to see the man before he was standing in the room.
The bells plainly stopped before the door.
"Hm! hm!"