“Dry food to the dry priest,” said the sixth.
The people who came after see what they are doing and hear what they say. Now they get the answer to their long questioning.
“Give him what belongs to him! He has brought the drought on us.”
And each one stops, each one says his word and throws his branch before he goes on.
In the corner by the path there soon lies a pile of sticks and straw,—a pile of shame for the Broby clergyman.
That was their only revenge. No one lifted his hand against the clergyman or said an angry word to him. Desperate hearts cast off part of their burden by throwing a dry branch on the pile. They did not revenge themselves. They only pointed out the guilty one to the God of retribution.
“If we have not worshipped you rightly, it is that man’s fault. Be pitiful, Lord, and let him alone suffer! We mark him with shame and dishonor. We are not with him.”
It soon became the custom for every one who passed the vicarage to throw a dry branch on the pile of shame.
The old miser soon noticed the pile by the roadside. He had it carried away,—some said that he heated his stove with it. The next day a new pile had collected on the same spot, and as soon as he had that taken away a new one was begun.