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Four
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150 Four After Vibeke had seen the pastor cloaked and mounted and upon his way to Vejlby, she brought fresh wood to the fire and then, latching the door against a slight wind that seemed to be rising from the west, returned to her seat behind the fire. The beggar had not stirred from his place on the other side of the hearth. Vibeke was learning afresh that doubt is a dreadful torment . And twenty-one years is a long time over which to recall a face of which you never took especial note. The excitement which had possessed the beggar a short time before had died away, and a greater fatigue had taken its place. He stared into the fire with eyes grown dull. Vibeke, watching him, thought again that the narrow forehead and the long nose with the remarkably long and narrow nostrils were very like the features of Niels Bruus. But the lines of the face were all cut much deeper than in the face she remembered, and the black stubble of the unshaved beard darkened them about the mouth and chin in an unremembered way. The lank black hair was like that of Niels. But, on the other hand, now that so much depended upon it, the likeness seemed not so great. And he had been one of Wallenstein’s men, Wallenstein who had been for two years and a half the scourge 151 t h e t r i a l o f S ö r e n Q v i s t and terror of Jutland. He had said that he had no knife, but you could never trust a man who had been with Wallenstein. Perhaps this story of his was just a trick to get money, as the parson had suggested, or even, since he was so near starved and had been turned from the inn, a device to get a meal and a lodging for the night. She watched him carefully, lest he slip his hand into his pocket, or into his breast, and come forth with a knife, and the more she watched him, the more certain she became that he was only an impostor, and she wished that she were not alone in the house with him. She wished that she could send him out to the byre and lock the door upon him. But he would not stir; she knew that. He was waiting for the return of Parson Juste and the magistrate, and he was there by her own demand. He was calm enough about it now for anyone who knew himself to be a fraud. You would think he might be frightened at the thought of being questioned by so great a man as Judge Thorwaldsen. Indeed, he had not seemed pleased at the idea. Perhaps he would yet be frightened, and slip out before they came. Or perhaps he meant to strike her down and rob the house and escape. She watched him very carefully, and she reckoned that, even if he drew a knife, she could seize the parson’s stool and strike him with it. And then, the more she watched him, the more the face again began to resemble that of Niels, and the beggar became a man who had been dug from the ground before her very eyes. She remembered again how awfully the corpse had stunk, and the odor of filth which surrounded the beggar became to her nostrils the odor of corruption. A deep unholy terror possessed her. This was not Niels returned to explain the corpse, but the corpse of Niels returned to harry the soul [3.149.234.251] Project MUSE (2024-04-17 12:42 GMT) 152 Janet Lewis of old Vibeke. She sat very still for fear that her fear would cross the small intervening space to the living corpse and that he would know his power over her. Little by little she forced her fear of him back, but only by the power of a greater fear, that he should know she feared him. She thought that if he talked, he would have less time to think of what harm he might do. She felt also that she would be less frightened if she spoke. So she began: “That must have been a dreadful battle when you lost your arm.” “Aye,” he said. “And a long time ago. Fourteen years you have been doing without that arm.” “So long?” he said. “I hadn’t counted...