“I’m praying to Him Who is to judge us all,” he said, looking steadily at Pelle.
Pelle recognized that look. It was the same in expression as that of the man the other day—the one that had been sent by God. Only there was no reproach in it.
“Haven’t you any bed to sleep in then?” asked Pelle. “I always say my prayers under the clothes. He hears them just as well! God knows everything.”
The young man nodded, and began moving about the stones on the cairn.
“You mustn’t hurt that,” said Pelle firmly, “for there’s a little baby buried there.”
The young man turned upon him a strange look.
“That’s not true!” he said thickly; “for the child lies up in the churchyard in consecrated earth.”
“O—oh, inde—ed?” said Pelle, imitating his father’s slow tones. “But I know it was the parents that drowned it—and buried it here.” He was too proud of his knowledge to relinquish it without a word.
The man looked as if he were about to strike him, and Pelle retreated a little, and then, having confidence in his legs, he laughed openly. But the other seemed no longer aware of his presence, and stood looking dully past the cairn. Pelle drew nearer again.
The man started at Pelle’s shadow, and heaved a deep sigh. “Is that you?” he said apathetically, without looking at Pelle. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”