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Sintram took the smack and retreated two steps
before he answered, “It is the Broby parson, Brother
Melchior.”
Melchior Sinclaire had many better friends than
the Broby parson. There was a feud of many years’
standing between them. There were stories of the
great land proprietor having lain in ambush on dark
nights on the road where the parson must pass, and
having given many a good honest thrashing to that
toady and grinder of the poor.
And though Sintram had retreated a few steps,
he did not quite escape the great man’s anger. He
got a wineglass between his eyes and the whole
cask on his feet, but this was followed by a scene
which gladdened his heart for many a day.
“Does the Broby parson want my estate?”
screamed Sinclaire. “Are you standing there and
bidding for the Broby parson? You ought to be
ashamed; you ought to know better!” He caught
up a candlestick and an inkstand and flung them
at the crowd. It was his heart’s bitterness finding
expression. Roaring like a wild beast, he shook his
fist at the bystanders, and flung whatever he could
lay his hands on at them. The brandy bottles and
glasses flew across the room; he was beside himself
with rage. “The auction is over,” he shouted.
“Out with you! Never while I live shall the Broby
parson possess Björne. Out with you all; I’ll teach
you to buy in for the Broby parson!” He attacked
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