But the next one was two, being Ulrik’s fellow-rascals both; quiet and wondering they were now, and no longer holding their ribs in an ache of laughter. “You! You’re children,” cried Rolandsen to the pair. “But if you want to be crumpled up....” The _Lensmand_ intervened, and talked the two disturbers to their senses; they had better pick up their comrade and help him on board then and there. “I’m in your debt,” he said to Rolandsen. But Rolandsen, watching the three desperadoes as they moved off down the road, was far from satisfied yet. He shouted after them as long as they could hear, “Come again to-morrow! Smash a window down at the station and I’ll know. Huh! Children!” As usual he did not know when to stop, but went on with his boastful talk. But the crowd was moving away. Suddenly a lady comes up, looks at him with glistening eyes, and offers her hand. _Præstefruen_ and no other. She too has seen the fight. “Oh, it was splendid!” she says. “I’m sure he won’t forget it in a hurry.” She noticed that his shirt was open. The sun had browned a ring about his neck, but he was naked and white below. He pulls his shirt together and bows. It was by no means unwelcome to be accosted thus by the chaplain’s lady in sight of all; the victor of that battle feels himself elated, he can afford to speak kindly for a moment to this slip of a child that she is. Poor lady, her shoes were none too impressive, and it was but little homage or deference any paid to her there! “’Tis misusing such eyes to trouble them looking at me,” said he. Whereat she blushed. He asked her again, “Don’t you miss things, living away from town?” “Oh no,” she answered. “It’s nice living here too. But look here, wouldn’t you care to walk up and spend the day with us now?” Rolandsen thanked her, and was sorry he could not. Sunday or Monday, it was all one to the telegraph station. “But I thank you all the same,” he said. “There’s one thing I envy the priest, and that is you.” “What do you...?” “Politely, but firmly, I envy him his wife.” There--he had done it now. Surely it would be hard to find the like of Ove Rolandsen for shedding little joys abroad. “What ridiculous things you do say,” said Fruen, when she had recovered herself a little. But Rolandsen, walking back homeward, reflected that, taking it all round, he had had a nice day. In his intoxication and triumph he dwelt on the fact that this young wife, the priest’s wife, was so inclined to stop and talk with him at times. He formed his own ideas about it, and grew cunning, ay, he began already to plot and plan. Why should not Fruen herself get rid of Jomfru van Loos for him, and file through his fetters? He could not ask it of her directly, no--but there were other ways. Who could say? Perhaps she would do him that service, since they were such good friends. [Illustration] VIII