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However, the son was so glad of an excuse to speak of some one other than Lars Gunnarson, that he asked with genuine concern what was wrong with Jan of Ruffluck. "Oh, he's just sick from pining for a daughter who went away about two years ago, and who never writes to him." "The girl who went wrong?" "So you knew about it, eh? But it isn't because of that he's grieving himself to death.
"Thord the Tall, Snaekol Gunnarson, and Thorfin of Skapstead. Snaekol and Thorfin are dead long since may God forgive them! but Thord the Tall lived to repent of the burning." "It was an ill deed," said Estein. "He was a heathen man then, King Estein but I forget, you know not of Christians." "I have heard of them," said Estein, half to himself.
A cow belonging to the Falla folk had gone down in a quagmire and Jan saw at once that it was the best cow they had on the farm, one for which Lars Gunnarson had been offered two hundred rix-dollars. She had sunk deep in the mire and was now so terrified that she lay quite still and sent forth only feeble and intermittant bellowings.
"Now you can have them for good and all," said Katrina. "There'll be no one to come and take them away from you, for Lars Gunnarson is dead." Katrina of Ruffluck Croft came into the kitchen at Lövdala Manor with some spun wool. Lady Liljecrona herself received the yarn, weighed it, paid for it, and commended the old woman for her excellent work.
They shrieked, Vandrad; they cried till the roof fell in, and then they died. My soul is safe with God, and they are in outer darkness. There they will shriek for ever." He paused for a moment, and then went on in the same strain of high excitement, "Now you know me. I am Thord the Tall, the burner of Olaf Hakonson." "And where are Snaekol Gunnarson and Thorfin of Skapstead?"
There was something the old man wanted to force from him something of a personal nature; but surely he could not expect it to be forthcoming here, before all this company? It was a great relief to the son of Ol' Bengtsa when on looking up he saw Lars Gunnarson and his wife standing at the gate. Not he alone, but every one was glad to see them.
Lars Gunnarson had just seized a bottle of brandy and put it to his mouth. His wife, screaming from terror, was trying to take it from him. He held her back until he had emptied half the contents, whereupon he set the bottle down and turned to his wife, his face flushed, his eyes staring wildly, his hands clenched. "Didn't you hear it was Jan who found the note?" he said in a hoarse voice.
"It won't be so easy, perhaps, for Jan to come up with one hundred rix-dollars," returned Lars Gunnarson, "but just the same I've got to know what's mine." "And so you're going to steal our hut?" "Nothing of the kind!" said Lars. "The hut is yours. It's the land I'm after." "Then we can move the hut off of your land," said Katrina.
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