At sight of him standing thus above the crowd, Sven Elversson felt an indescribable sympathy for this man, whom he had so disliked before. The fine head was indeed the same, but the features were thinner, giving a more spiritual appearance. "A splendid man," thought Sven Elversson. "He bears the mark of self-sacrifice upon his face."
As Pastor Rhånge, in a few introductory words, was greeting his former parishioners, someone pulled Sven Elversson by the sleeve.
He turned, and perceived Lotta Hedman standing beside him. She was pale, with glowing eyes, and her hair so unruly and wild that it seemed as if it would lift the hat from her head.
"No, I did not come with him," whispered Lotta, in answer to Sven's question. "He has been here some days already. I came alone. I was 'called.'"
Just then the speaker by the grave said a few words which claimed Sven Elversson's attention.
"Here, on the verge of this wide grave," he was saying, "I would speak to you, my friends, of the sacredness of death and of life.
"And I venture to say that there is none here among us who has not from youth up realized the sacredness of death. If any sinned against the inviolable holiness of death, he should be visited with the severest punishment.
"There was once a man here in Applum named Sven Elversson. His sin was that he had violated the sacredness of death. And we felt that he was more to be contemned than any amongst us. There may perhaps be some now present who were in the church that day when his sin was declared from the pulpit; some who remember how he looked as he stole away, humiliated and wretched. Some may, perhaps, have been among those who sent him on his way with words of scorn. He was a man who almost seemed to invite such treatment. Seeing how he smiled with the same patience whatever was done to him, how he moved aside and humbled himself in every way, one felt perhaps it was almost a duty to add a little to his shame.
"And so it was that at last we made him leave the place. And I do not think anyone missed him greatly when he went. For there was something about him that was always asking our respect. Whenever anything difficult had to be done, and none of us were very willing to undertake it, that man stepped forward. He was trying to persuade us to give him back his honour as a man. And we could not do it, for we felt he was under the judgment of God.
"And so he went on his way through life, as a man under the judgment of God. Always with the same humility, always fearing to stand in the way of others. And he kept apart from us, choosing rather those who were less hard to please—the vagabonds of the roads, and children, who had less knowledge of right and wrong. We found nothing strange in this; it was natural that the man should wish for some company of his fellows. And when we heard time after time how some poor child from the streets had been placed in a good home through his help, or that vagabonds and tramps had begun to seek honest work, we found nothing very strange in that, thinking only that the man had no doubt his own end in view all the time. He was always trying to win back some honour and respect for himself. And we were growing almost tired of his constant endeavours.