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In the early afternoon a loud knock at the door
announced the entrance of the pastor of Trinity Church, Dr.
Jens Justesen. He was a tall, rather stout man, with coarse,
strong features, short black hair, and large, deep-set eyes.
Stepping briskly up to the bed, he said simply:
“Good-day!”
As soon as Ulrik Christian became aware that another
clergyman was standing before him, he began to shake with
rage, and let loose a broadside of oaths and railing against
the pastor, against Shoemaker’s Anne, who had not guarded
his peace better, against God in heaven and all holy things.
“Silence, child of man!” thundered Pastor Jens. “Is this
language meet for one who has even now one foot in the
grave? ’T were better you employed the flickering spark of
life that still remains to you in making your peace with the
Lord, instead of picking quarrels with men. You are like
those criminals and disturbers of peace who, when their
judgment is fallen and they can no longer escape the
red-hot pincers and the axe, then in their miserable impotence
curse and revile the Lord our God with filthy and wild
words. They seek thereby courage to drag themselves out
of that almost brutish despair, that craven fear and slavish
remorse without hope, into which such fellows generally
sink toward the last, and which they fear more than death
and the tortures of death.”
Ulrik Christian listened quietly, until he had managed
to get his sword out from under the coverlet. Then he
cried: “Guard yourself, priest-belly!” and made a sudden
lunge after Pastor Jens, who coolly turned the weapon aside
with his broad prayer-book.
“Leave such tricks to pages!” he said contemptuously.
“They’re scarce fitting for you or me. And now this
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