"Ung-Joel," he cried to his brother, who was still keeping away behind the rest. "Open the door there, quick!"
The boy obeyed instinctively; it was as if he could not disregard an order given in that house. In a moment Sven had gripped Olaus by the middle, lifted him off his feet, and flung him out.
Corfitzson rushed forward to the rescue, but found himself gripped in turn by a pair of strong arms, lifted, and flung out after his leader.
Then it was that Ung-Joel stepped forward and stood by his brother's side. There was a moment of wild tumult, and the place was cleared.
Ung-Joel bolted the door behind his former comrades. Then, solemnly, he stepped up to his brother and offered his hand.
"How did you manage it?" he asked, after a pause, with frank admiration. "I'll get you to teach me that throw."
The elder brother's face was flushed with the fight; his look of patient resignation was gone.
"You've given them a lesson, you may be sure," went on the younger. "They'll know better than to trouble you again. But what made you take it so patiently all this time, when you're a match for the worst of them?"
Now for the first time Sven Elversson lost his self-control. Sinking down in a chair, he buried his face in his hands.
"What's the use?" he cried, desperately. "How can I defend myself when all the time I hate myself more than any of them can ever do? Hate and loathe myself worse than you can ever think. Horrible, horrible. No one knows as well as I do what it is I've done—what it is I've sinned against. Is it any comfort to me to stop the mouths of a drunken crowd when all the time I've that on my mind that's ghastlier than all?"