Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Beggar
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“Who the devil is screaming like that?” a harsh
voice called.
“I want to know what this man has done with my
meal-sack and my sledge,” sobbed the child,
continuing to beat with clenched fists on the beggar’s
breast.
“Is it a frozen man you are treating like that?
Off with you, you wild cat!”
The new arrival was a big, rough woman. She got
out of her sledge, and came to the drift; she lifted
up the child by the back of her neck and flung her
into the road, stooped, and slipping her arms under
the unconscious man, carried him to her sledge and
laid him gently down.
“Come with me to the tavern, wild cat,” she called
to the parson’s daughter, “and we will see what you
have to do with this affair.”
An hour later the beggar was sitting on a chair
near the door of the best room in the tavern, and
before him stood the imperious woman who had
saved his life.
As Gösta Berling now saw her, on her way home
from inspecting the charcoal-burning in the forest,
with sooty hands, a clay pipe in her mouth, dressed
in a short jacket of unlined sheepskin over a striped
woollen homespun skirt, with tarred boots on her
feet and a sheathed knife thrust into the breast of
her jacket,—as he saw her thus, with her grey hair
brushed away from her beautiful face, he had heard
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