But the sergeant, who had indulged in many drinks before, and had now seen the bottom of the jug, did not seem inclined to drop the subject.
"Do not look so fierce, old boy," he said in the same aggravating tone. "You peasants associate so much with oxen and sheep, that you become just like them yourselves. If you were a bit civil you would send a pretty girl to fill my jug. It is now empty, you see; as empty as your cranium. But you turnip-peelers do not appreciate the honour which is conferred upon you, of having a royal sergeant for guest. You see, old fellow, a soldier in these times is everything; he has a name that rings because he has a sword that rings. But you, old ploughshare, have nothing but porridge in your head and a turnip in your breast; fill your mug, old fellow; here's to Lieutenant Bertel's success! So you refuse to drink the health of an honest cavalier? Out upon you, peasant."
And the sergeant, in the consciousness of his dignity, struck the table with his fist, so that the wooden bowls jumped and seemed disposed to make for the floor with all their contents.
The first effect of this martial joke was to induce six or seven of the men to rise from their benches, with the object of giving the uninvited guest a salutary lesson in politeness. But old Bertila stopped them. He rose composedly from his seat, approached the rowdy sergeant with a firm step, and without saying a word, grasped him by the neck with his left hand, and with his right on his back, he lifted the soldier from the bench, carried him to the door and threw him out on a heap of chips outside the steps. The funny sergeant was so surprised at this unexpected attack, that he did not move a muscle to defend himself. If he had, it was not likely that the seventy-year-old man would have gained the victory in the struggle.
"Go," cried Bertila after him, "and keep your treatment as a remembrance of the peasants in Storkyro."
Nothing impresses the multitude so much as resolute courage combined with a strong arm. When the old man entered the room again he was surrounded by his people, who now greatly admired him; and this feat destroyed the difference which had existed a few moments before between them.
The conflict between the sword and the plough is as old as the world. The Peasants' War was based on this rivalry, and served to keep it fresh and alive in the minds of all. These independent peasants had not been subjected to the tyranny of the landed proprietors. They witnessed with delight their honour defended against the soldier's outrageous insults; they forgot at the moment that they might shortly be compelled themselves to don the soldier's jacket, and fight for their country. Even the old peasant chief, elated at his exploit, had surmounted his bad temper.
For the first time in a long while they saw a smile on his lips; and when the meal was over, he began to relate to them some of his former adventures.
"Never shall I forget how we cudgelled the rascal Abraham Melchiorson, the man who, here in Kyro, seized our best peasants, and had them broken on the wheel like malefactors. With fifty men he had gone up north. It was winter time. He was a fine gentleman, muffled up from the cold, and rode so grandly in a splendid wolf-skin cloak. But when he approached Karleby church we placed ourselves in ambush, and rushing upon him like Jehu, beat twenty-two of his men to death, and pommelled him black and blue; but every time he expected a rap he drew the wolf-skin cloak over his ears, so that no club could disable the traitor. 'Wait,' said Hans Krank, from Limingo, who led us on that wolf hunt, 'we will whip him out of his skin yet'; with this he drubbed Abraham so soundly that he was obliged to let go of his fine fur. Krank had nothing on but a jacket, and it was cold enough, God knows; he thought the fur cloak a good thing, and drew it unobserved over his own shoulders. But, as all this occurred in the twilight, we others did not notice who was now in the wolf-skin, and we kept on belabouring the cloak; it is very certain that Krank had a very warm time of it that evening. But Abraham Melchiorson became so light and nimble after getting rid of his cloak, that he ran off to Huso farm; but there he was taken by Saka Jacob from Karleby, and the rascal was taken to Stockholm; but he did not get much time to mourn over the loss of his cloak, for the duke soon made him a head shorter."
"Yes," said Larsson, who always tried to defend Fleming and his people, "that time you had the best of it. Eleven soldiers remained alive, but seeming to be dead, you took all their clothes. And at midnight they crept half dead with cold to the vicarage, and were there taken in; but in the morning you wanted to put them in the water underneath the ice, alive, as you had done in Lappfjard's River. You were wolves and not human beings. The water was so low in the river that you had to push the men down with poles to keep them there; and when they tried to get up, the women knocked them on their heads with buckets."