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The steel hammer had begun its wide-sounding
work.
“Hear it,” said Gösta; “there resounds
Margarita Celsing’s fame. It is not the mad prank of
drunken cavaliers. It is the conquest hymn of labor
raised in honor of a good old worker. Listen to
what the hammer says—‘Thanks for good work
and for the bread you have given to the poor!
Thanks for the roads you have made and the ground
you have cleared! Thanks,’ it says, ‘and sleep in
peace; your work will live and prosper! Your house
will ever be a haven for heaven-blessed labor!
Thanks,’ it says, ‘and do not judge us harshly who
have gone astray. You who are starting upon the
journey to the plains of peace, think kindly of us
who are still in life.’”
Gösta was silent, but the steel hammer continued
to speak, and all the voices that had ever spoken
in kindness to the Major’s wife blended in its
strokes; and gradually the strained look left her
face, her features relaxed, and it seemed as if the
shadow of death had already fallen upon her.
The Broby parson’s daughter came in and
announced that the gentleman from Högfors had
arrived. The Major’s wife sent him away; she would
not make the will.
“Oh, Gösta Berling, man of many conquests,”
she said, “you have conquered once again. Bow
down and let me bless you.”
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