“What are you doing here?” growled Tord at last in a thick voice.
Herman and Laura were embarrassed to have been taken unawares and in their haste resorted to jeers.
Laura pushed some beetles on to Tord’s bread and butter.
“Here you are! a beetle sandwich!”
Tord turned pale. This was his refuge, his peaceful retreat. Here he had all his trophies from Träskängen, his lonely and glorious hunting ground for frog spawn, lizards, divers, birds’ eggs and bats—and now his poor secrets were captured by intruders. He stood there swinging his long bare arms. He gave one the impression of a dumb captive creature like the fox beside him. It was as if he could only express his feelings by a shriek. But now he clenched his fist and his face twitched with sudden and violent anger.
“Go away,” he cried. “Get away. This is my place.”
“All right, we are going.”
Laura dragged Herman with her. In the bushes beside them they heard the flop of a stone that Tord had cast after them. And then he called out something coarse after them, one of those impossible, foul expressions of impotent boyhood. Herman wanted to rush back and thrash him, but Laura stamped her foot on the ground and commanded him to take her home at once. She was suddenly short, cold, and offended, just as if Herman had injured her.
“You are silly,” she snapped. “What business had we up in that stupid quarry? Tell me what business we had there!”
In reality Laura was not in the least angry. She was afraid, and she sought relief for her fear in scolding him. Love had touched the egoism of her heart with a burning finger, and she felt restless in the twilight. That was the reason why she was so anxious to get home.