"Oh, he's all right," said Ditte, bristling, "he wouldn't do any harm." She pushed the man's hand away, and like a little mother drew the boy towards her. "Don't cry, dear," said she, drying his wet cheeks with her apron. "Nobody'll dare to touch you."
The man grinned and looked taken aback. "Do him harm?" said he loudly. "And who is it sets fire to other folk's houses and sets on peaceful womenfolk, but vagabonds. And that's just the way they begin."
But Ditte and Kristian had rushed off. She held him by his hand, scolding him as they went along. "There, you can hear yourself what the man says! And that's what they'll think you are," said she. "And you know it worries Father so. Don't you think he's enough trouble without that?"
"Why did Mother do it?" said Kristian, beginning to cry.
He was worn out, and as soon as they got home Ditte put him quickly to bed. She gave him camomile tea and put one of her father's stockings—the left one—round his throat.
During the evening she and her father discussed what had happened. The boy lay tossing feverishly in bed. "It's those mischievous children," said Ditte with passion. "If I were there, they wouldn't dare to touch him."
"Why does the boy take any notice of it?" growled Lars Peter. "You've been through it all yourself."
"Ay, but then I'm a girl—boys mind much more what's said to them. I give it them back again, but when Kristian's mad with rage, he can't find anything to say. And then they all shout and laugh at him—and he takes off his wooden shoe to hit them."
Lars Peter sat silent for a while. "We'd better see and get away from here," said he.
Kristian popped his head over the end of the bed. "Yes, far, far away!" he shouted. This at all events he had heard.