Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Margarita Celsing
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Kevenhüller, man of many acquirements, who
had been the master builder of Ekeby mill and
forge during this stirring time, and Kristian Bergh,
the strong captain, stood at the open furnaces and
took charge of the smelting. Gösta and Julius drew
coal. Some sat on the anvil under the heavy hanging
hammer, others on the coal trucks and piles of
pig-iron. Lövenborg, the old mystic, was talking to
old Eberhard, the philosopher, who sat beside him
on the anvil.
“Sintram dies to-night,” he said.
“Why to-night?” asked Eberhard.
“You remember we made a contract last Christmas.
Now we have not done anything
uncavalier-like, and he loses.”
“If you believe that, my dear fellow, you must
also admit that we have done much that has not been
cavalier-like. Firstly, we did not help the Major’s
wife; secondly, we began to work; thirdly, it was not
quite correct that Gösta Berling did not kill himself
when he promised to do so.”
“I have thought of that too,” said Lövenborg,
“but I think you don’t quite grasp the subject
rightly. To work for our own narrow interests was
forbidden us, but not to do that which love or
honor or our own everlasting salvation required. I
think Sintram has lost.”
“You may be right.”
“I will tell you why I am sure of it. I have heard
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