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woman”—turning to Shoemaker’s Anne—“had best leave
us private.”
Anne quitted the room, and the pastor drew his chair
up to the bed, while Ulrik Christian laid his sword on the
coverlet.
Pastor Jens spoke fair words about sin and the wages
of sin, about God’s love for the children of men, and about
the death on the cross.
Ulrik Christian lay turning his sword in his hand,
letting the light play on the bright steel. He swore, hummed
bits of ribald songs, and tried to interrupt with
blasphemous questions, but the pastor went on speaking about the
seven words of the cross, about the holy sacrament of the
altar, and the bliss of heaven.
Then Ulrik Christian sat up in bed and looked the
pastor straight in the face.
“’T is naught but lies and old wives’ tales,” he said.
“May the devil take me where I stand, if it isn’t true!”
cried the pastor,—“every blessed word!” He hit the table
with his fist, till the jars and glasses slid and rattled against
one another, while he rose to his feet and spoke in a stern
voice: “’T were meet that I should shake the dust from
my feet in righteous anger and leave you here alone, a sure
prey to the devil and his realm, whither you are most
certainly bound. You are one of those who daily nail our Lord
Jesus to the gibbet of the cross, and for all such the courts
of hell are prepared. Do not mock the terrible name of hell,
for it is a name that contains a fire of torment and the
wailing and gnashing of teeth of the damned! Alas, the anguish
of hell is greater than any human mind can conceive; for
if one were tortured to death and woke in hell, he would
long for the wheel and the red-hot pincers as for Abraham’s
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