The priest was utterly at a loss. If Enok were the thief, then Rolandsen had only been making a jest of the letter he had sent him. And what for? The heat was growing unbearable; the three men moved down towards the water, the fire at their heels. They were forced to get into the boat, and then to push off away from land altogether. “Anyhow, this is Mack’s policy,” said the priest. “We must report what has happened. Row back home, Levion.” Enok was annihilated, and sat staring gloomily before him. “Ay, let’s go and report it,” he said. “That’s all I want.” The priest gave him a troubled look. “Do you, I wonder?” he said. And he closed his eyes in horror at the whole affair. Enok, in his covetousness, had been too simple. He had carefully preserved the insurance paper that he could make nothing of. It was an imposing-looking document, with stamps on, and a great sum of money written there; who could say but he might be able to go away some day and sell it? It was surely too valuable to throw away. The priest turned and looked back at the fire. Men were at work in the woods, trees were falling, and a broad trench was spreading darkly across. More helpers had come up to join in the work. “The fire’ll stop of itself,” said Levion. “Do you think so?” “Soon as it gets to the birches it’ll stop.” And the boat with the three men on board rowed in to the _Lensmand’s_. [Illustration] XII When the priest came back that evening he had been weeping. Evil and wrong-doing seemed to flourish all about him. He was wounded and humbled with sorrow; now his wife could not even have the shoes she needed so badly. Enok’s rich offering would have to be returned to the giver, as being stolen goods. And that would leave the priest blank and bare. He went up to his wife at once. But even before he had passed the door of her room, new trouble and despair came to meet him. His wife was sewing. Garments were strewn about the floor, a fork and a dishcloth from the kitchen lay on the bed, together with newspapers and some crochet-work. One of her slippers was on the table. On her chest of drawers lay a branch of birch in leaf and a big grey pebblestone. He set about, from force of habit, putting things in order. “You’ve no need to trouble,” said she. “I was going to put that slipper away myself as soon as I’d done my sewing.” “But how can you sit and work with the place in such a mess?” At this she was offended, and made no answer. “What do you want that stone for?” he asked. “It’s not for anything particular. I just found it on the beach, and it was so pretty.” He swept up a little heap of faded grass that lay beside the mirror, and put it in a newspaper. “I don’t know if you want this for anything?” he asked, checking himself. “No, it’s no good now. It’s sorrel; I was going to use it for a salad.” “It’s been lying here over a week,” he said. “And it’s made a stain here on the polish.”