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them to gambol,—that is also amusing for a time,—but
now I am tired of that game, Gösta; I want
to strike, I want to spread death and ruin.”
He was mad, quite mad. He began those devilish
tricks many years before in fun, but now
wickedness had taken the upper hand, now he thought
himself a spirit from hell. He had cherished and
fostered the evil within him, till it had taken
mastery over his soul. Thus, like love and trouble,
pride too can make people mad. He was furious,
was the wicked foundry proprietor, and in his anger
he began to pluck at the crape bands and wreaths
on the coffin; but Gösta cried, “Don’t touch the
coffin.”
“See, see, am I not to touch it? Yes, I shall cast
my friend Lennert out upon the ground and trample
on his wreaths. Don’t you see all the harm he
has done me? Don’t you see in what a splendid grey
calash I have come here?”
Gösta Berling saw that a pair of prison wagons
with the county police and court servants stood
and waited outside the churchyard wall.
“See, see, am I not to send the Captain’s wife at
Helgesäter some thanks for her having sat down
yesterday to hunt among old papers for proofs
against me in that gunpowder affair you know of?
Am I not to teach her that she would have done
better attending to her brewing and baking than in
sending the police after me? Am I not to be repaid
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