“Fair, fair is earth,
And glorious Heaven;
Fair is the spirit’s journey long;
Through all the lovely earthly kingdoms,
Go we to Paradise with song.”
The “Great Power” sang with increasing strength, as though he would outsing Pelle. One of his feet was moving now, beating the time of the song. He lay with closed eyes, blindly rocking his head in time with the voices, like one who, at a drunken orgy, must put in his last word before he slips under the table. The saliva was running from the corners of his mouth.
“The years they come,
The years they go,
And down the road to death we throng,
But ever sound the strains from heaven—
The spirit’s joyful pilgrim song!”
The “Great Power” ceased; his head drooped to one side, and at the same moment the others ceased to sing.
They sat in the straw and gazed at him—his last words still rang in their ears, like a crazy dream, which mingled oddly with the victorious notes of the hymn.
They were all sensible of the silent accusation of the dead, and in the solemnity of the moment they judged and condemned themselves.
“Yes, who knows what we might come to!” said one ragged fellow, thoughtfully chewing a length of straw.
“I shall never do any good,” said Emil dejectedly. “With me it’s always been from bad to worse. I was apprenticed, and when I became a journeyman they gave me the sack; I had wasted five years of my life and couldn’t do a thing. Pelle—he’ll get on all right.”
Astonished, Pelle raised his head and gazed at Emil uncomprehendingly.
“What use is it if a poor devil tries to make his way up? He’ll always be pushed down again!” said Olsen. “Just look at the ‘Great Power’; could any one have had a better claim than he? No, the big folks don’t allow us others to make our way up!”