The old man in the high seat, who had not yet quite overcome his temper, although he appeared to be calm, rose from his chair, but at once sat down again.
"Sit down, countryman," said the old man softly; "Aron Bertila has room at his table for self-invited guests also."
"Very well," continued the new-comer, helping himself freely to the food, which seemed to be a familiar habit with him. "You are Bertila, then. I am glad to hear it, comrade. Confidence for confidence, I will now tell you that I am Bengt Kristerson, from Limingo, sergeant in his Majesty's brave East Bothnians. I am sent here to look after the conscripts. Some more ale in the tankard, peasants ... well, do not be afraid, girls, I will not bite you. Bertila," added the soldier with his mouth full, "what the deuce is this? Are you Lieutenant Bertel's father, peasant?"
"I do not know that name," replied the old man, who was nettled by the soldier's impudent remarks.
"Are you mad, old man? You do not know Gustaf Bertel, who six months ago called himself Bertila?"
"My son! my son!" cried the old man in a voice of anguish. "I am an unfortunate father! He is ashamed of a peasant's name!"
"Peasant's name," said the soldier laughing, and striking the table violently, so that the tankards and dishes jumped. "Do ye peasants also have names? I think I will go without mine. You are a fine fellow, old man; tell me what the d——l you want with a name?"
He then looked at his host with such an air of naïve impudence, that the insulting words were somewhat modified in effect.
Old Bertila, however, scarcely honoured him with a glance.
"Fool that I was! I sent out a beardless boy and thought that I sent a man," he gloomily said to himself.