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“Lord Jesu! Alas the day! Yet it had to come some
time.”
“Ay, but when they’d waited so long, they might as
well have waited till folks had their harvest in.”
“’Tis the Skaanings who are back of it, I make no
doubt. They still feel the smart of the last war and would
seek balm in this.”
“Oh, it’s not only the Skaanings. The Sjaelland people
are ever spoiling for war. They know it will pass them by as
usual. Well, it’s a good time for neats and fools, when the
Councillors of the Realm have gone mad one and all!”
“’Tis said the Lord High Constable did not desire war.”
“May the devil believe that! Perhaps not—but there’s
little to be made of preaching quiet in an ant-hill. Well, the
war’s here, and now it’s every man for himself. We shall
have our hands full.”
The conversation turned to the journey of the morrow,
passed on to the bad roads, lingered on fatted oxen and
stall-feeding, and again reverted to the journey. Meanwhile
they had not neglected the tankard. The beer had gone to
their heads, and Erik Grubbe, who was just telling about
his voyage to Ceylon and the East Indies in the “Pearl,”
had difficulty in making headway through his own laughter,
whenever a new joke came to his mind.
The pastor was getting serious. He had collapsed in
his chair, but once in a while he would turn his head, look
fiercely around, and move his lips as though to speak. He
was gesticulating with one hand, growing more and more
excited, until at last he happened to strike the table with his
fist, and sank down again with a frightened look at Erik
Grubbe. Finally, when the squire had got himself quite
tangled up in a story of an excessively stupid scullery lad,
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