"Do you remember this tract thirty-four years ago, when Fleming's cavalry scoured the country like savages, the village lay in ruins, and the fields were trampled down by the horses' hoofs. Here, close to the village, was the desert; naked, charred stumps stood between mud puddles and quagmires; no road or path led here, and even the forest wolves avoided the desolate spot."
"I remember it well," said Larsson in a monotonous tone.
"Look now around, old friend, and say. Who rebuilt this village, more lovely than ever before? Who tilled this wilderness, made roads and paths, measured the land, drained the morass, ploughed this fertile soil, and sowed this great field which now waves in the breeze, and will soon supply hundreds of human beings with its harvest? Say, Larsson, who is the man who did this mighty work?" and the old man's eyes flamed with enthusiasm.
But the little, plump person at his side seemed to be possessed with quite another feeling. He humbly took off his old hat, clasped his hands, and earnestly said,
"Nothing is he who sows; nothing is he who waters; God alone gives the growth!"
Bertila, absorbed in thought, heeded him not, and continued,
"Yes, by God! I have seen evil times, days of want, misery, and despair, which the sword brought upon earth, and I have myself drawn the weapon to destroy my enemies. I have had victory and defeat, both to my injury. Hence I can rejoice in the work of peace. I know the fruit of the sword, and what the plough produces. In the sword lurks a spirit of evil, which revels in blood and tears; the sword kills and destroys, but the plough gives life and happiness. You see, Larsson, the plough has made this field. Over at Korsholm is the Finnish coat of arms, a lion with a naked sword. Were I king, I would say, Away with the sword and take the plough. The latter is the true weapon of Finland; if we possess bread we have plenty of arms; with arms we can drive our enemies from our homes. But without bread, Larsson, what use is steel and powder to us?"
"Bertila," said Larsson, "you are a singular man. You hate war, but that I understand; in war they burnt your farm, and drove your first wife and her little children into the woods to perish. You yourself have fought at the head of the peasantry, and barely escaped the blood bath on Ilmola's ice. Such things are not easily forgotten; but what I cannot comprehend is, that you, a friend of the peasants, a soldier hater, first took me, an old starving soldier, as overseer on your farm, then equipped my Lasse—God bless the boy—for the war, and finally sent your own grandson, Meri's child, little Gösta,* yet beardless, to the field among the king's cavalry."
* From Gustaf.
Old Bertila's look darkened. Some sensitive chord had been touched, and he glanced around as if he feared a listener behind the barn walls.