ABOUT a month later, on an April evening, there was a crowd gathered outside of Ribe cathedral. The Church Council was in session, and it was customary, while that lasted, to light the tapers in church three times a week, at eight o’clock in the evening. The gentry and persons of quality in town as well as the respectable citizens would assemble and walk up and down in the nave, while a skilful musician would play for them on the organ. The poorer people had to be content to listen from the outside.

Among the latter were Marie Grubbe and SÖren.

Their clothing was coarse and ragged, and they looked as if they had not had enough to eat every day; and no wonder, for it was not a profitable trade they plied. In an inn between Aarhus and Randers, SÖren had met a poor sick German, who for twenty marks had sold him a small, badly battered hurdy-gurdy, a motley fool’s suit, and an old checked rug. With these he and Marie gained their livelihood, going from market to market; she would turn the hurdy-gurdy, and he would stand on the checked rug, dressed in the motley clothes, lifting and doing tricks with some huge iron weights and long iron bars, which they borrowed of the tradesmen.

It was the market that had brought them to Ribe.

They were standing near the door, where a faint, faded strip of light shone on their pale faces and the dark mass of heads behind them. People were coming singly or in pairs or small groups, talking and laughing in well-bred manner to the very threshold of the church, but there they suddenly became silent, gazed gravely straight before them, and changed their gait.

SÖren was seized with a desire to see more of the show, and whispered to Marie that they ought to go in; there was no harm in trying, nothing worse could happen to them than to be turned out. Marie shuddered inwardly at the thought that she should be turned out from a place where common artisans could freely go, and she held back SÖren, who was trying to draw her on; but suddenly she changed her mind, pressed eagerly forward, pulling SÖren after her, and walked in without the slightest trace of shrinking timidity or stealthy caution; indeed, she seemed determined to be noticed and turned out. At first no one stopped them, but just as she was about to step into the well-lit, crowded nave, a church warden, who was stationed there, caught sight of them. After casting one horrified glance up through the church, he advanced quickly upon them with lifted and outstretched hands, as if pushing them before him to the very threshold, and over it. He stood there for a moment, looking reproachfully at the crowd, as if he blamed it for what had occurred, then returned with measured tread, and took up his post, shuddering.

The crowd met the ejected ones with a burst of jeering laughter and a shower of mocking questions, which made SÖren growl and look around savagely, but Marie was content; she had bent to receive the blow which the respectable part of society always has ready for such as he, and the blow had fallen.

On the night before St. Oluf’s market, four men were sitting in one of the poorest inns at Aarhus, playing cards.

One of the players was SÖren. His partner, a handsome man with coal-black hair and a dark skin, was known as Jens Bottom, and was a juggler. The other two members of the party were joint owners of a mangy bear. Both were unusually hideous: one had a horrible harelip, while the other was one-eyed, heavy jowled, and pock-marked, and was known as Rasmus Squint, plainly because the skin around the injured eye was drawn together in such a manner as to give him the appearance of being always ready to peer through a key-hole or some such small aperture.

The players were sitting at one end of the long table which ran under the window and held a candle and an earless cruse. Opposite them was a folding-table, fastened up against the wall with an iron hook. A bar ran across the other end of the room, and a thin, long-wicked candle, stuck into an old inverted funnel, threw a sleepy light over the shelf above, where some large, square flasks of brandy and bitters, some quart and pint measures, and half-a-dozen glasses had plenty of room beside a basket full of mustard seed and a large lantern with panes of broken glass. In one corner outside of the bar sat Marie Grubbe, knitting and drowsing, and in the other sat a man with body bent forward and elbows resting on his knees. He seemed intent on pulling his black felt hat as far down over his head as possible, and when that was accomplished, he would clutch the wide brim, slowly work the hat up from his head again, his eyes pinched together and the corners of his mouth twitching, probably with the pain of pulling his hair, then presently begin all over again.

“Then this is the last game to play,” said Jens Bottom, whose lead it was.

Rasmus Squint pounded the table with his knuckles as a sign to his partner, Salmand, to cover.

Salmand played two of trumps.

“A two!” cried Rasmus; “have you nothing but twos and threes in your hand?”

“Lord,” growled Salmand, “there’s always been poor folks and a few beggars.”

SÖren trumped with a six.

“Oh, oh,” Rasmus moaned, “are you goin’ to let him have it for a six? What the devil are you so stingy with your old cards for, Salmand?”

He played, and SÖren won the trick.

“Kerstie Meek,” said SÖren, playing four of hearts.

“And her half-crazy sister,” continued Rasmus, putting on four of diamonds.

“Maybe an ace is good enough,” said SÖren, covering with ace of trumps.

“Play, man, play, if you never played before!” cried Rasmus.

“That’s too costly,” whimpered Salmand, taking his turn.

“Then I’ll put on my seven and another seven,” said Jens.

SÖren turned the trick.

“And then nine of trumps,” Jens went on, leading.

“Then I’ll have to bring on my yellow nag,” cried Salmand, playing two of hearts.

“You’ll never stable it,” laughed SÖren, covering with four of spades.

“Forfeit!” roared Rasmus Squint, throwing down his cards. “Forfeit with two of hearts, that’s a good day’s work! Nay, nay, ’tis a good thing we’re not goin’ to play any more. Now let them kiss the cards that have won.”

They began to count the tricks, and while they were busy with this, a stout, opulently dressed man came in. He went at once to the folding-table, let it down, and took a seat nearest the wall. As he passed the players, he touched his hat with his silver-knobbed cane, and said: “Good even to the house!”

“Thanks,” they replied, and all four spat.

The newcomer took out a paper full of tobacco and a long clay pipe, filled it, and pounded the table with his cane.

A barefoot girl brought him a brazier full of hot coals and a large earthenware cruse with a pewter cover. He took out from his vest-pocket a pair of small copper pincers, which he used to pick up bits of coal and put them in his pipe, drew the cruse to him, leaned back, and made himself as comfortable as the small space would allow.

“How much do you have to pay for a paper o’ tobacco like the one you’ve got there, master?” asked Salmand, as he began to fill his little pipe from a sealskin pouch held together with a red string.

“Sixpence,” said the man, adding, as if to apologize for such extravagance, “it’s very good for the lungs, as you might say.”

“How’s business?” Salmand went on, striking fire to light his pipe.

“Well enough, and thank you kindly for asking, well enough, but I’m getting old, as you might say.”

“Well,” said Rasmus Squint, “but then you’ve no need to run after customers, since they’re all brought to you.”

“Ay,” laughed the man, “in respect of that, it’s a good business, and, moreover, you don’t have to talk yourself hoarse persuading folks to buy your wares; they have to take ’em as they come, they can’t pick and choose.”

“And they don’t want anything thrown in,” Rasmus went on, “and don’t ask for more than what’s rightly comin’ to ’em.”

“Master, do they scream much?” asked SÖren in a half whisper.

“Well, they don’t often laugh.”

“Faugh, what an ugly business!”

“Then there’s no use my counting on one of you for help, I suppose.”

“Are you countin’ on us to help you?” asked Rasmus, and rose angrily.

“I’m not counting on anything, but I’m looking for a young man to help me and to take the business after me, that’s what I’m looking for, as you might say.”

“And what wages might a man get for that?” asked Jens Bottom, earnestly.

“Fifteen dollars per annum in ready money, one-third of the clothing, and one mark out of every dollar earned according to the fixed rate.”

“And what might that be?”

“The rate is this, that I get five dollars for whipping at the post, seven dollars for whipping from town, four dollars for turning out of the county, and the same for branding with hot iron.”

“And for the bigger work?”

“Alack, that does not come so often, but it’s eight dollars for cutting off a man’s head, that is with an axe: with a sword it’s ten, but that may not occur once in seven years. Hanging is fourteen rix-dollars, ten for the job itself and four for taking the body down from the gallows. Breaking on the wheel is seven dollars, that is for a whole body, but I must find the stake and put it up too. And now, is there anything more? Ay, crushing arms and legs according to the new German fashion and breaking on the wheel, that’s fourteen—that’s fourteen, and for quartering and breaking on the wheel I get twelve, and then there’s pinching with red-hot pincers, that’s two dollars for every pinch, and that’s all; there’s nothing more except such extras as may come up.”

“It can’t be very hard to learn, is it?”

“The business? Well, any one can do it, but how—that’s another matter. There’s a certain knack about it that one gets with practice, just like any other handicraft. There’s whipping at the post, that’s not so easy, if ’tis to be done right,—three flicks with each whip, quick and light like waving a bit of cloth, and yet biting the flesh with due chastisement, as the rigor of the law and the betterment of the sinner require.”

“I think I might do it,” said Jens, sighing as he spoke.

“Here’s the earnest-penny,” tempted the man at the folding-table, putting a few bright silver coins out before him.

“Think well!” begged SÖren.

“Think and starve, wait and freeze—that’s two pair of birds that are well mated,” answered Jens, rising. “Farewell as an honest and true guild-man,” he went on, giving SÖren his hand.

“Farewell, guild-mate, and godspeed,” replied SÖren.

He went round the table with the same farewell and got the same answer. Then he shook hands with Marie and with the man in the corner, who had to let go his hat for the moment.

Jens proceeded to the man at the folding-table, who settled his face in solemn folds and said: “I, Master Herman KÖppen, executioner in the town of Aarhus, take you in the presence of these honest men, a journeyman to be and a journeyman’s work to perform, to the glory of God, your own preferment, and the benefit of myself and the honorable office of executioner,” and as he made this unnecessarily pompous speech, which seemed to give him immense satisfaction, he pressed the bright earnest-penny into Jens’s hand. Then he rose, took off his hat, bowed, and asked whether he might not have the honor of offering the honest men who had acted as witnesses a drink of half and half.

The three men at the long table looked inquiringly at one another, then nodded as with one accord.

The barefoot girl brought a clumsy earthenware cruse, and three green glasses on which splotches of red and yellow stars were still visible. She set the cruse down before Jens and the glasses before SÖren and the bear-baiters, and fetched a large wooden mug from which she filled first the glasses of the three honest men, then the earthenware cruse, and finally Master Herman’s private goblet.

Rasmus drew his glass toward him and spat, the two others followed suit, and they sat a while looking at one another, as if none of them liked to begin drinking. Meanwhile Marie Grubbe came up to SÖren and whispered something in his ear, to which he replied by shaking his head. She tried to whisper again, but SÖren would not listen. For a moment she stood uncertain, then caught up the glass and emptied the contents on the floor, saying that he mustn’t drink the hangman’s liquor. SÖren sprang up, seized her arm in a hard grip, and pushed her out of the door, gruffly ordering her to go upstairs. Then he called for a half pint of brandy and resumed his place.

“I’d like to ha’ seen my Abelone—God rest her soul—try a thing like that on me,” said Rasmus, drinking.

“Ay,” said Salmand, “she can thank the Lord she isn’t my woman, I’d ha’ given her somethin’ else to think o’ besides throwin’ the gifts o’ God in the dirt.”

“But look ’ee, Salmand,” said Rasmus, with a sly glance in Master Herman’s direction, “your wife she isn’t a fine lady of the gentry, she’s only a poor common thing like the rest of us, and so she gets her trouncin’ when she needs it, as the custom is among common people; but if instead she’d been one of the quality, you’d never ha’ dared to flick her noble back, you’d ha’ let her spit you in the face, if she pleased.”

“No, by the Lord Harry, I wouldn’t,” swore Salmand, “I’d ha’ dressed her down till she couldn’t talk or see, and I’d ha’ picked the maggots out o’ her. You just ask mine if she knows the thin strap bruin’s tied up in—you’ll see it’ll make her back ache just to think of it. But if she’d tried to come as I’m sitting here and pour my liquor on the floor, I’d ha’ trounced her, if she was the emperor’s own daughter, as long’s I could move a hand, or there was breath in my body. What is she thinking about,—the fine doll,—does she think she’s better than anybody else’s wife, since she’s got the impudence to come here and put shame on her husband in the company of honest men? Does she s’pose it ’ud hurt her if you came near her after drinkin’ the liquor of this honorable man? Mind what I say, SÖren, and”—he made a motion as if he were beating some one—“or else you’ll never in the wide world get any good out of her.”

“If he only dared,” teased Rasmus, looking at SÖren.

“Careful, Squint, or I’ll tickle your hide.”

With that he left them. When he came into the room where Marie was, he closed the door after him with a kick, and began to untie the rope that held their little bundle of clothing.

Marie was sitting on the edge of the rough board frame that served as a bed. “Are you angry, SÖren?” she said.

“I’ll show you,” said SÖren.

“Have a care, SÖren! No one yet has offered me blows since I came of age, and I will not bear it.”

He replied that she could do as she pleased, he meant to beat her.

“SÖren, for God’s sake, for God’s sake, don’t lay violent hands on me, you will repent it!”

But SÖren caught her by the hair, and beat her with the rope. She did not cry out, but merely moaned under the blows.

“There!” said SÖren, and threw himself on the bed.

Marie lay still on the floor. She was utterly amazed at herself. She expected to feel a furious hatred against SÖren rising in her soul, an implacable, relentless hatred, but no such thing happened. Instead she felt a deep, gentle sorrow, a quiet regret at a hope that had burst—how could he?