In fact, a knock, followed by two louder raps, was heard above the ever-increasing din of the storm. “It is he at last! It is Nychol!” And seizing the lamp, their hostess hurried downstairs. The two travellers had not had time to resume their conversation, when they heard a confused murmur of voices below, in the midst of which they caught these words, uttered in a voice which made Spiagudry start and shiver: “Be quiet, woman; we shall stay. The thunderbolt enters without waiting for the door to be opened.” Spiagudry pressed closer to Ordener. “Master, master,” he quavered, “we are lost!” The sound of footsteps was heard on the stairs, and two men in ecclesiastic dress entered the room, followed by the startled hostess. One of these men was tall, and wore the black gown and close-clipped hair of a Lutheran minister; the other was shorter, and wore a hermit’s robe tied with a girdle of rope. The hood drawn over his face concealed all but his long black beard, and his hands were entirely hidden by his flowing sleeves. When he saw these two peaceful strangers, Spiagudry recovered from the terror which the peculiar voice of one of them had caused. “Don’t be alarmed, my good lady,” said the minister. “Christian ministers do good even to those who injure them; why should they harm those who help them? We humbly beg for shelter. If the reverend gentleman with me spoke harshly to you just now, he was wrong to forget the gentle voice recommended to us in our ordination vows. Alas! the most saintly may err. I lost my way on the road from Skongen to Throndhjem, and could find no guide through the darkness, no shelter from the storm. This reverend brother, whom I encountered, being like myself far from home, deigned to allow me to accompany him hither. He praised your kind hospitality, dear lady; doubtless he was not mistaken. Do not say to us, like the wicked shepherd, ‘_Advene, cur intras?_’ Take us in, worthy hostess, and God will save your crops from the storm, God will protect your flocks from the tempest, as you give a refuge to travellers who have gone astray!” “Old man,” broke in the woman in a fierce voice, “I have neither crops nor flocks.” “Well, if you are poor, God blesses the poor more than the rich. You and your husband shall live to a good old age, respected, not for your wealth, but for your virtues; your children shall grow up blessed in the esteem of all men, and be what their father was before them.” “Silence!” cried the hostess. “If they continue to be what we are, our children must grow old as we have, scorned by all,--a scorn handed down from generation to generation. Silence, old man! Your blessing turns to curses on our heads.” “Heavens!” returned the minister, “who then are you? Amid what crimes do you pass your life?” “What do you call crime? What do you call virtue? We enjoy one privilege,--we can possess no virtue and commit no crime.”