When he saw these two peaceful strangers, Spiagudry recovered from the terror which the peculiar voice of one of them had caused.
“Don’t be alarmed, my good lady,” said the minister. “Christian ministers do good even to those who injure them; why should they harm those who help them? We humbly beg for shelter. If the reverend gentleman with me spoke harshly to you just now, he was wrong to forget the gentle voice recommended to us in our ordination vows. Alas! the most saintly may err. I lost my way on the road from Skongen to Throndhjem, and could find no guide through the darkness, no shelter from the storm. This reverend brother, whom I encountered, being like myself far from home, deigned to allow me to accompany him hither. He praised your kind hospitality, dear lady; doubtless he was not mistaken. Do not say to us, like the wicked shepherd, ‘Advene, cur intras?’ Take us in, worthy hostess, and God will save your crops from the storm, God will protect your flocks from the tempest, as you give a refuge to travellers who have gone astray!”
“Old man,” broke in the woman in a fierce voice, “I have neither crops nor flocks.”
“Well, if you are poor, God blesses the poor more than the rich. You and your husband shall live to a good old age, respected, not for your wealth, but for your virtues; your children shall grow up blessed in the esteem of all men, and be what their father was before them.”
“Silence!” cried the hostess. “If they continue to be what we are, our children must grow old as we have, scorned by all,—a scorn handed down from generation to generation. Silence, old man! Your blessing turns to curses on our heads.”
“Heavens!” returned the minister, “who then are you? Amid what crimes do you pass your life?”
“What do you call crime? What do you call virtue? We enjoy one privilege,—we can possess no virtue and commit no crime.”
“The woman’s reason wanders,” said the minister, turning to the little hermit, who was drying his coarse robe before the fire.
“No, priest!” replied the woman. “Learn where you are. I would rather inspire horror than pity. I am not mad, but the wife of—”
A prolonged and violent knocking at the door drowned her words, to the great disappointment of Spiagudry and Ordener, who had silently listened to the dialogue.