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the pastor rose and began to speak in a hollow, solemn
voice.
“Verily,” he said, “verily, I will bear witness with my
mouth—with my mouth—that you are an offence and one
by whom offence cometh—that it were better for you that
you were cast into the sea—verily, with a millstone and
two barrels of malt—the two barrels of malt that you owe
me, as I bear witness solemnly with my mouth—two
heaping full barrels of malt in my own new sacks. For they
were not my sacks, never kingdom without end, ’t was your
own old sacks, and my new ones you kept,—and it was
rotten malt—verily! See the abomination of desolation,
and the sacks are mine, and I will repay—vengeance is
mine, I say. Do you not tremble in your old bones—you
old whoremonger? You should live like a Christian—but
you live with Anne Jensdaughter and make her cheat a
Christian pastor. You’re a—you’re a—Christian
whoremonger—yes —”
During the first part of the pastor’s speech, Erik Grubbe
sat smiling fatuously and holding out his hand to him across
the table. He thrust out his elbow as though to poke an
invisible auditor in the ribs and call his attention to how
delightfully drunk the parson was. But at last some sense
of what was being said appeared to pierce his mind. His
face suddenly became chalky white; he seized the tankard
and threw it at the pastor, who fell backward from his chair
and slipped to the floor. It was nothing but fright that caused
it, for the tankard failed to reach its mark. It merely rolled
to the edge of the table and lay there, while the beer flowed
in rivulets down on the floor and the pastor.
The candle had burned low and was flaring fitfully,
sometimes lighting the room brightly for a moment, then
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