The priest and his lady are awakened in the night; wakened by song. No such thing had ever happened to them before, but here it was; somebody singing outside the house down below. The sun looks out over the world; the gulls are awake; it is three in the morning.

“Surely there’s someone singing,” says the priest to his wife in the adjoining room.

“Yes, it’s here, outside my window,” says she.

Fruen listened. She knew the voice—wild Rolandsen’s voice it was, and his guitar. Oh, but it was too bad of him really, to come singing of his “true love” right underneath her window. She felt hot all over.

Her husband came in to look. “It’s that man Rolandsen,” he said, and frowned. “He’s had a keg of brandy sent just lately. Disgraceful!”

But Fruen was not inclined to frown upon this little diversion; he was quite a nice young fellow really, this Rolandsen, who could fight like any rough, and sing like a youth inspired. He brought a touch of mild excitement into the quiet, everyday life of the place.

“It’s meant to be a serenade, I suppose,” she said, with a laugh.

“He’s no business to be serenading you,” said her husband. “I don’t know what you think of it yourself?”

Oh, but of course he must be nasty about it! “There’s no harm in it, surely,” said his wife. “It’s only his fun.” But at the same time she resolved never again to make beautiful eyes at Rolandsen and lead him on to escapades of this sort.

“He’s beginning again, as sure as I’m here,” cried the priest. And he stepped forward to the window then and there, and rapped on the pane.

Rolandsen looked up. It was the priest himself standing there in the flesh. The song died away. Rolandsen collapsed, stood a moment hesitating, and walked away.

“Ah!” said the priest. “I soon got rid of him.” He was by no means displeased to have accomplished so much by merely showing himself. “And he shall have a letter from me to-morrow,” he went on. “I’ve had my eye on him for some time past, for his scandalous goings-on.”

“Don’t you think if I spoke to him myself,” said his wife, “and told him not to come up here singing songs in the middle of the night?”

But the priest went on without heeding. “Write him a letter, yes.... And then I’ll go and talk to him after.” As if his going and talking to Rolandsen after meant something very serious indeed.

He went back to his own room, and lay thinking it all over. No, he would endure it no longer; the fellow’s conceit, and his extravagant ways, were becoming a nuisance to the place. The priest was no respecter of persons; he wrote his epistles to one as to another, and made himself feared. If the congregation stumbled in their darkness, it was his business to bring light. He had not forgotten that business with Levion’s sister. She had not mended her ways, and the priest had been unable to retain her brother as lay-helper. Ill-fortune had come upon Levion; his wife had died. But the priest lost no time; he spoke to Levion at the funeral. It was an abominable business. Levion, simple soul, setting out to bury his helpmeet, recollected that he had promised to bring up a newly slaughtered calf to Frederik Mack at the factory. It was all on the way, and with the hot weather it would not do to leave the meat over-long. What more natural than that he should take the carcase with him? The priest learned the story from Enok, the humble person with the permanent earache. And he sent for Levion at once.

“I cannot retain you as lay-helper,” he said. “Your sister is living a sinful life within your gates; your house is a house of ill-fame; you lie there fast asleep at night and let men come in.”

“Ay, more’s the pity,” says Levion. “I’ll not deny it’s been that way more than once.”

“And there’s another thing. You follow your wife to the grave, and drag a dead calf along after her. Now I ask you, is that right or decent?”

But Levion, fisherman-peasant, found such niceties beyond him; he stared uncomprehendingly at the priest. His wife had always been a thrifty soul; she would have been the first to remind him herself to take the calf along if she could have spoken. “Seeing it’s up that way,” she would have said.

“If as Pastor’s going to be so niggling particular,” said Levion, “you’ll never get a decent helper anywhere.”

“That’s my business,” said the priest. “Anyhow, you are dismissed.”

Levion looked down at his sou’wester. It was a blow to him and a disgrace; his neighbours would rejoice at his fall.

But the priest had not finished yet. “For Heaven’s sake,” he said, “can’t you get that sister of yours married to the man?”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” said Levion. “But the worst of it is, she’s not quite sure which one it is.”

The priest looked at him open-mouthed. “Not quite what did you say?” And then at last, realising what it meant, he clasped his hands. “Well, well!... I must find another helper, that is all.”

“Who’ll it be?”

“That’s no concern of yours. As a matter of fact, I am taking Enok.”

Levion stood thoughtful for quite a while. He knew this Enok, and had an old account to settle with him. “Enok, is it?” he said, and went out.

Enok was certainly a good man for the post. He was one of your deep-thinking sort, and did not carry his head in the air, but bowed on his breast; an earnest man. It was whispered that he was no good man to share with in a boat; there was some story of his having been caught, many years back, pulling up other folk’s lines. But this, no doubt, was pure envy and malice. There was nothing lordly or baronial about him in the way of looks; that everlasting kerchief round his ears did not improve him. Moreover, he had a way of blowing through his nostrils; on meeting anyone, he would lay a finger first on one side and blow, then on the other side, and blow again. But the Lord took no account of outward things, and Enok, His humble servant, had doubtless no other thought with this beyond smartening himself up a little on meeting with his fellows. When he came up he would say, “Freden!” and when he went away, “Bliv i Freden.”[6] Sound and thoughtful, an earnest man. Even his tollekniv, the big knife at his belt, he seemed to wear with thankfulness, as who should say, “Alas, there’s many that haven’t so much as a knife to cut with in the world.” Only last Offering, Enok had created a sensation by the amount of his gift; he had laid a note on the altar. Had he been doing so well of late in ready cash? Doubtless some higher power must have added its mite to his savings. He owed nothing in Mack’s books at the store; his fish-loft was untouched, his family were decently clad. And Enok ruled his house with strictness and propriety. He had a son, a very model of quiet and decorous behaviour. The lad had been out with the fishing fleet from Lofoten, and earned the right to come home with a blue anchor on his hand, but this he did not. His father had instructed him early in humility and the fear of God. It was a blessed thing, in Enok’s mind, to walk humbly and meekly....

The priest lay thinking over these things, and the morning wore on. That miserable Rolandsen had spoiled his night’s rest; he got up at six, which was all too early. But then it appeared that his wife had already dressed and gone out without a sound.

During the forenoon Fruen walked in to Rolandsen and said, “You must not come up like that and sing songs outside at night.”

“I know; it was wrong of me,” he said. “I thought Jomfru van Loos would be there, but she had moved.”

“Oh!... So it was for her you sang?”

“Yes. A poor little bit of a song to greet the day.”

“That was my room,” said she.

“It used to be Jomfruen’s room in the old priest’s time.”

Fruen said no more; her eyes had turned dull and stupid.

“Well, thanks,” she said, as she went. “It was very nice, I’m sure, but don’t do it again.”

“I won’t, I promise.... If I’d known ... of course, I wouldn’t have dared....” Rolandsen looked utterly crushed.

When Fruen came home she said, “Really I’m so sleepy to-day.”

“No wonder,” said her husband. “You got no sleep last night, with that fellow shouting down there.”

“I think Jomfru van Loos had better go,” said she.

“Jomfru van Loos?”

“He’s engaged to her, you know. And we shall have no peace at night.”

“I’ll send him a letter to-day!”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to send her away?”

The priest thought to himself that this was by no means the simplest way, seeing it would mean further expense for a new housekeeper. Moreover, Jomfru van Loos was very useful; without her, there would be no sort of order anywhere. He remembered how things had been managed at first, when his wife looked after the house herself—he was not likely to forget it.

“Whom will you get in her place?” he asked.

“I would rather do her work myself,” she answered.

At that he laughed bitterly, and said, “A nice mess you will make of it.”

But his wife was hurt and offended at this. “I can’t see,” she said, “but that I must look after the house in any case. So the work a housekeeper did would not make much difference.”

The priest was silent. It was no use discussing it further, no earthly use—no. “We can’t send her away,” he said. But there was his wife with her shoes all sorely cracked and worn, pitiful to see. And he said as he went out, “We must manage to get you a new pair of shoes, and that soon.”

“Oh, it’s summer now,” she answered.