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“I know they can’t go round,” he said. “I know
how many there were. But the cook was not at a
loss, Kristian Bergh; they have roasted crows for
us at the little table.”
But Colonel Beerencreutz’s lips unbend only to
a faint smile, and Gösta Berling had looked all day
as if he were considering the advisability of
murdering some one.
“Is n’t anything good enough for cavaliers?” he
said.
Captain Bergh was furious. Had n’t he cherished
a lifelong hatred for crows, those abominable
cawing things? He hated them so bitterly that he
dressed himself in a woman’s fluttering skirt and
tied a kerchief over his head, and made himself
a laughing-stock to every man, in the autumn, for
the purpose of creeping within gunshot of them
when they were feeding on the fresh grain in the
corn-fields.
In spring he followed them to their dances on
the bare meadows in mating time and shot them.
He sought their nests in summer, and destroyed
their half-hatched eggs and the screaming
unfeathered young.
He now clutched the plate of grouse.
“Don’t you think I recognize them?” he thundered
to the servant. “Do you suppose I must hear
them caw to know them? The devil—to offer
Kristian Bergh a crow—the devil!”
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