Seized with a sudden intuition, Larsson hurried out to meet the travellers, and quick as lightning Meri followed him. The door swung to behind them, and there was a moment's delay before it opened again.
But now a young man in a soldier's garb entered with bowed head, threw aside his plumed hat, white with snow, and going straight to old Bertila, knelt down, and bent his beautiful curly head still lower, as he said:
"Father, I am here, and ask your blessing!"
And behind him stood Meri and old Larsson, both with clasped hands, and raising their pleading eyes to the stern old man, with the same words:
"Father, here is thy son, give him thy blessing!"
For a brief moment Bertila struggled with himself, his lips slightly trembled, and his hand was unconsciously stretched out, as if to lift up the young man at his feet. But soon his bald head rose higher, his hand drew back, his keen eyes flashed darker than ever, and his lips trembled no more.
"Go!" said he, short and sharp; "go, you reprobate boy, back to your brother noblemen, and your sisters, the fine ladies. What seek you in the plain peasant's 'stuga,' which you despise? Go! I have no longer a son!"
But the youth went not.
"Do not be angry, my father," he said, "if in my youthful ambition I have at any time violated your commands. Who sent me out amongst the great and illustrious ones of the earth, to win fame and honour? Who bade me go to the war to ennoble my peasant name with great deeds? Who exposed me to the temptation of all the brilliant examples which surrounded the king? You, and only you, my father; and now you thrust away your son, who for your sake twice refused a patent of nobility."
"You!" exclaimed the old man with foaming rage. "You renounce a patent of nobility, you, who have blushed for your peasant name and taken another which would look more imposing? No, on your knees have you begged for a coat of arms. What do I know about its being offered you; what do I care. I only know that since your earliest childhood I have tried to implant in your soul, recreant, that there are no other rightful powers than the king and people, that all who place themselves between, whether they bear the name of aristocrats, ecclesiastics, or what not, are monstrosities, a ruin, a curse to State and country ... all this have I tried to teach you, and the fruit of my teachings has been that you have smuggled yourself among this nobility, which I hate and despise, that you have coveted its empty titles, paraded with its extravagant display, imbibed its prejudices, and now you stand here, in your father's house, with a lie on your lips, and aristocratic vanity in your heart. Go, degenerate son! Aron Bertila is what he has always been—a peasant! He curses and rejects you, apostate!"