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"But a proper exciting story!" cried Earl, who was feeling bored. "Oh, if only Vinslev were here he has such droll ideas!" "Be quiet, boy!" said Marie crossly. "Pelle makes proper speeches before whole meetings," she said, nodding solemnly to the others. "What is the story called?" "Howling Peter." "Oh, it's a story with Peter in it then it's a fairy-tale! What is it about?"
"But a proper exciting story!" cried Earl, who was feeling bored. "Oh, if only Vinslev were here he has such droll ideas!" "Be quiet, boy!" said Marie crossly. "Pelle makes proper speeches before whole meetings," she said, nodding solemnly to the others. "What is the story called?" "Howling Peter." "Oh, it's a story with Peter in it then it's a fairy-tale! What is it about?"
But then perhaps the dwarf Vinslev would come out of his den, and would once again tell them the story of how he had sailed off with the King's gold and sunk it out yonder, in the King's Deep, when the Germans were in the land. A whole ship's crew took out the King's treasure, but not one save Vinslev knew where it was sunk, and even he did not know now.
Now and again a faint vibrating note rose upward, and all fell silent. This was the dwarf Vinslev, who sat playing his flute somewhere in his den deep within the "Ark." He always hid himself right away when he played, for at such times he was like a sick animal, and sat quaking in his lair.
The notes of his flute were so sweet, as they came trickling out of his hiding place, that they seemed like a song or a lament from another world. And the restless creatures in the "Ark" must perforce be silent and listen. Now Vinslev was in one of his gentle moods, and one somehow felt better for hearing him.
There stood the crazy Vinslev, playing on his flute; and when the cracking of the fire was muffled for a moment one could hear his crazy music "Listen! Listen! He is playing the march!" they cried. Yes, he was playing the march, but it was interwoven with his own fantasies, so that the well-known melody sounded quite insane on Vinslev's flute.
But there was nothing to be said about the matter; Vinslev played the flute, and Johnsen's suicide was a death like any other. Now the devil was going about with a ring in his nose; Vinslev's playing was like a gentle breeze that played on people's hearts, so that they opened like flowers. This was his good time. Pelle knew all this, although he had not long been here; but it was nothing to him.
But there was nothing to be said about the matter; Vinslev played the flute, and Johnsen's suicide was a death like any other. Now the devil was going about with a ring in his nose; Vinslev's playing was like a gentle breeze that played on people's hearts, so that they opened like flowers. This was his good time. Pelle knew all this, although he had not long been here; but it was nothing to him.
The notes of his flute were so sweet, as they came trickling out of his hiding place, that they seemed like a song or a lament from another world. And the restless creatures in the "Ark" must perforce be silent and listen. Now Vinslev was in one of his gentle moods, and one somehow felt better for hearing him.
Now and again a faint vibrating note rose upward, and all fell silent. This was the dwarf Vinslev, who sat playing his flute somewhere in his den deep within the "Ark." He always hid himself right away when he played, for at such times he was like a sick animal, and sat quaking in his lair.
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