“Are they weeping for his sake, all those people?” “Yes.” “What has he done?” “The last thing he did was to let big Mons kill him to save women and children from death.” Again she sits silent for a while and thinks. “What kind of a face did he have, colonel, when he came home two months ago?” The colonel started. Now he understands; now at last he understands. “Gösta had painted him.” “So it was on account of one of your pranks that I shut him out from his home? How will you answer for that, colonel?” Beerencreutz shrugged his broad shoulders. “I have much to answer for.” “But I think that this must be the worst thing you have done.” “Nor have I ever gone a heavier way than that to-day up to Helgesäter. Moreover, there are two others who are guilty in this matter.” “Who?” “Sintram is one, you yourself are the other. You are a hard woman. I know that many have tried to speak to you of your husband.” “It is true,” she answers. Then she begs him to tell her all about that evening at Broby. He tells her all he can remember, and she listens silently. Captain Lennart lies still unconscious on the bed. The room is full of weeping people; no one thinks of shutting out that mourning crowd. All the doors stand open, the stairs and the halls are filled with silent, grieving people; far out in the yard they stand in close masses. When the colonel has finished, she raises her voice and says,— “If there are any pensioners here, I ask them to go. It is hard for me to see them when I am sitting by my husband’s death-bed.” Without another word the colonel rises and goes out. So do Gösta Berling and several of the other pensioners who had followed Captain Lennart. The people move aside for the little group of humiliated men. When they are gone the captain’s wife says: “Will some of them who have seen my husband during this time tell me where he has lived, and what he has done?” Then they begin to give testimony of Captain Lennart to his wife, who has misjudged him and sternly hardened her heart against him. It lasted a long time before they all were done. All through the twilight and the evening they stand and speak; one after another steps forward and tells of him to his wife, who would not hear his name mentioned. Some tell how he found them on a sick-bed and cured them. There are wild brawlers whom he has tamed. There are mourners whom he has cheered, drunkards whom he had led to sobriety. Every one who had been in unbearable distress had sent a message to God’s wayfarer, and he had helped them, or at least he had waked hope and faith. Out in the yard the crowd stands and waits. They know what is going on inside: that which is said aloud by the death-bed is whispered from man to man outside. He who has something to say pushes gently forward. “Here is one who can bear witness,” they say, and let him pass. And they step forward out of the darkness, give their testimony, and disappear again into the darkness.