“The meaning is,” he said, “that as long as there are women on earth, there will be fools to dance after their piping.” The young count’s face grew red. “I ask what that means!” he repeated. “I ask that too,” sneered Beerencreutz. “I ask what it means when Henrik Dohna’s countess will not dance with Gösta Berling.” The count turned questioning to his wife. “I could not, Henrik,” she cried. “I could not dance with him or any of them. I thought of the major’s wife, whom they allowed to languish in prison.” The little count straightened his stiff body and stretched up his old-man’s head. “We pensioners,” said Beerencreutz, “permit no one to insult us. She who will not dance with us must drive with us. No harm has come to the countess, and there can be an end of the matter.” “No,” said the count. “It cannot be the end. It is I who am responsible for my wife’s acts. Now I ask why Gösta Berling did not turn to me to get satisfaction when my wife had insulted him.” Beerencreutz smiled. “I ask that,” repeated the count. “One does not ask leave of the fox to take his skin from him,” said Beerencreutz. The count laid his hand on his narrow chest. “I am known to be a just man,” he cried. “I can pass sentence on my servants. Why should I not be able to pass sentence on my wife? The pensioners have no right to judge her. The punishment they have given her, I wipe out. It has never been, do you understand, gentlemen. It has never existed.” The count screamed out the words in a high falsetto. Beerencreutz cast a swift glance about the assembly. There was not one of those present—Sintram and Daniel Bendix and Dahlberg and all the others who had followed in—who did not stand and smile at the way he outwitted stupid Henrik Dohna. The young countess did not understand at first. What was it which should not be considered? Her anguish, the pensioner’s hard grip on her tender body, the wild song, the wild words, the wild kisses, did they not exist? Had that evening never been, over which the goddess of the gray twilight had reigned? “But, Henrik—” “Silence!” he said. And he drew himself up to chide her. “Woe to you, that you, who are a woman, have wished to set yourself up as a judge of men,” he says. “Woe to you, that you, who are my wife, dare to insult one whose hand I gladly press. What is it to you if the pensioners have put the major’s wife in prison? Were they not right? You can never know how angry a man is to the bottom of his soul when he hears of a woman’s infidelity. Do you also mean to go that evil way, that you take such a woman’s part?” “But, Henrik—” She wailed like a child, and stretched out her arms to ward off the angry words. She had never before heard such hard words addressed to her. She was so helpless among these hard men, and now her only defender turned against her. Never again would her heart have power to light up the world. “But, Henrik, it is you who ought to protect me.”