“Now perhaps you will never care to come to see me again?”
“Oh, yes indeed! You were so young! It was nothing which you could help.—It was his fault for having such ideas.”
She smiled. These were the hard beaks which would have torn her to pieces. The truth was not dangerous nor lying either. The young men were not waiting outside her door.
Did she know or did she not know that her eldest daughter had that very morning left her home and had gone to her father?
The sacrifice which Matts Wik had made to save his wife’s honor became known. He was admired; he was derided. His letter was read aloud at the meeting. Some of those present wept with emotion. People came and pressed his hands on the street. His daughter moved to his house.
For several evenings after he was silent at the meetings. He felt no inspiration. At last they asked him to speak. He mounted the platform, folded his hands together and began.
When he had said a couple of words he stopped, confused. He did not recognize his own voice. Where was the lion’s roar? Where the raging north wind? And where the torrent of words? He did not understand, could not understand.
He staggered back. “I cannot,” he muttered. “God gives me no strength to speak yet.” He sat down on a bench and buried his head in his hands. He gathered all his powers of thought to discover first what he wanted to talk about. Did he have to consider so in the old days? Could he consider now? His head whirled.
Perhaps it would go if he should stand up again, place himself where he was accustomed to stand, and begin with his usual prayer. He tried. His face turned ashy-gray. All glances were turned towards him. A cold sweat trickled down his forehead. He found not a word on his lips.