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poor harvest of last year. Meanwhile the pastor was
casting sidelong glances at the mug and finally said: “Your
honor is always temperate—keeping to the natural drinks.
No doubt they are the healthiest. New milk is a blessed
gift of heaven, good both for a weak stomach and a sore
chest.”
“Indeed the gifts of God are all good, whether they come
from the udder or the tap. But you must taste a keg of
genuine mum that we brought home from Viborg the other
day. She’s both good and German, though I can’t see that
the customs have put their mark on her.”
Goblets and a large ebony tankard ornamented with
silver rings were brought in and set before them.
They drank to each other.
“Heydenkamper! Genuine, peerless Heydenkamper!”
exclaimed the pastor in a voice that trembled with emotion.
He leaned back blissfully in his chair and very nearly shed
tears of enthusiasm.
“You are a connoisseur,” smirked Erik Grubbe.
“Ah, connoisseur! We are but of yesterday and know
nothing,” murmured the pastor absent-mindedly, “though
I’m wondering,” he went on in a louder voice, “"whether
it be true what I have been told about the brew-house of
the Heydenkampers. ’T was a free-master who related it in
Hanover, the time I travelled with young Master Jörgen.
He said they would always begin the brew on a Friday
night, but before any one was allowed to put a finger to it he
had to go to the oldest journeyman and lay his hand on the
great scales and swear by fire and blood and water that he
harbored no spiteful or evil thoughts, for such might harm
the beer. The man also told me that on Sundays, when the
church-bells sounded, they would open all the doors and
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