The good old clergyman from Bro and the judge from Munkerud came forward now to Major Samzelius and tried to calm him. They said to him that it would be best to let all those old stories rest, to let everything be as it was, to forget and forgive. He shakes the mild old hands from his shoulder. He is terrible to approach, just as Christian Bergh had been. “It is no old story,” he cries. “I never knew anything till to-day. I have never been able before to punish the adulteress.” At that word the major’s wife lifts her head and regains her old courage. “You shall go out before I do. Do you think that I shall give in to you?” she says. And she comes forward from the door. The major does not answer, but he watches her every movement, ready to strike if he finds no better way to revenge himself. “Help me, good gentlemen,” she cries, “to get this man bound and carried out, until he gets back the use of his senses. Remember who I am and who he is! Think of it, before I must give in to him! I arrange all the work at Ekeby, and he sits the whole day long and feeds his bears. Help me, good friends and neighbors! There will be a boundless misery if I am no longer here. The peasant gets his living by cutting my wood and carting my iron. The charcoal burner lives by getting me charcoal, the lumber man by bringing down my timber. It is I who give out the work which brings prosperity. Smiths, mechanics, and carpenters live by serving me. Do you think that man can keep my work going? I tell you that if you drive me away you let famine in.” Again are many hands lifted to help the major’s wife; again mild, persuading hands are laid on the major’s shoulders. “No,” he says, “away with you. Who will defend an adulteress? I tell you that if she does not go of her own will I shall take her in my arms and carry her down to my bears.” At these words the raised hands are lowered. Then, as a last resource, she turns to the pensioners. “Will you also allow me to be driven from my home? Have I let you freeze out in the snow in winter? Have I denied you bitter ale and sweet brandy? Did I take any pay or any work from you because I gave you food and clothes? Have you not played at my feet, safe as children at their mother’s side? Has not the dance gone through my halls? Have not merriment and laughter been your daily bread? Do not let this man, who has been my life’s misfortune, drive me from my home, gentlemen! Do not let me become a beggar on the highway!” At these words Gösta Berling had stolen away to a beautiful dark-haired girl who sat at the big table. “You were much at Borg five years ago, Anna,” he says. “Do you know if it was the major’s wife who told Ebba Dohna that I was a dismissed priest?” “Help her, Gösta!” is the girl’s only answer. “You must know that I will first hear if she has made me a murderer.” “Oh, Gösta, what a thought! Help her, Gösta!”