And think how they must have looked when they came to Rissäter’s inn, living, but shaken like shot in a leather pouch.
“What does this mean, Captain Christian?” says the bishop, as he opens the door for them.
“It means that you shall think twice, bishop, before you make a new journey of inspection to Gösta Berling,” says Captain Christian; and he had thought that sentence well out beforehand, so as not to get it wrong.
“Tell Gösta Berling,” says the bishop, “that to him neither I nor any other bishop will ever come again.”
This exploit the mighty Captain Christian stands and relates at the open window in the summer night. For Captain Christian has only just left the horses at the inn, and has come directly to the minister with his news.
“Now you can be at rest, comrade,” he says.
Ah, Captain Christian, the clergymen sat with pale faces behind the leather curtains, but the priest at the window looks in the bright summer night far, far paler. Ah, Captain Christian!
The minister raised his arm and measured a terrible blow at the giant’s coarse, stupid face, but checked himself. He shut the window with a bang, and stood in the middle of the room, shaking his clenched fist on high.
He in whom the fire of inspiration had flamed, he who had been able to proclaim the glory of God, stood there and thought that God had made a fool of him.