Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Forest Hut
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But none of his comrades could say he had done
anything worse than the rest of them. He had
fought like a good soldier. It was the cruelty he
had been a witness to which had so frightened him
that afterwards he saw nothing else. All his troubles
dated from the war. He felt all nature hated him,
because he had taken part in such things. Those
possessing wider knowledge could comfort themselves
with the idea of having fought for their country
and its honor. What did he know of such things?
He only knew that everything hated him because
he had spilled so much blood and caused so much
harm.
At the time when the Major’s wife had been
driven from Ekeby, he lived alone in his hut. His
wife was dead, and his sons were scattered. But at
fair-time the forest hut filled with guests. Black-haired,
dark-faced vagabonds turned in thither. They were
most at home with those whom others avoided.
Little shaggy-haired horses climbed up the steep
forest roads, dragging carts loaded with iron
implements, children, and rag-bags. Women, aged early,
with features swollen from smoking and drinking,
and men with pale, sharp faces followed the carts.
And when they reached the forest hut, a merry life
awoke there. They brought gin and cards, loud
laughter and speech with them—they told of
thieving and horse exchanges and bloody fighting.
On Friday Broby Fair had begun, and Captain
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