“Things are going badly here now,” said Morten, looking at him with a peculiar smile.
“Yes, I know very well you can’t stand it—all the same, they must hold together.”
“And supposing they don’t get better conditions?”
“Then they must accept the consequences. That’s better than the whole Cause should go to the wall!”
“Are those the new ideas? I think the ignorant have always had to take the consequences! And there has never been lacking some one to spit on them!” said Morten sadly.
“But, listen!” cried Pelle, springing to his feet. “You’ll please not blame me for spitting at anybody—the others did that!” He was very near losing his temper again, but Morten’s quiet manner mastered him.
“The others—that was nothing at all! But it was you who spat seven times over into the poor devil’s face—I was standing in the shop, and saw it.”
Pelle stared at him, speechless. Was this the truth-loving Morten who stood there lying?
“You say you saw me spit at him?”
Morten nodded. “Do you want to accept the applause and the honor, and sneak out of the beastliness and the destruction? You have taken a great responsibility on yourself, Pelle. Look, how blindly they follow you—at the sight of your bare face, I’m tempted to say. For I’m not myself quite sure that you give enough of yourself. There is blood on your hands—but is any of it your own blood?”