Once again a long winter had passed. The inhabitants of Bergstaden had frozen more than in any previous winter. The cold had been a heavy scourge, but hunger was harder. Bread made from ground bark and rye flour had been daily bread for months on the miners’ sand‐scoured tables. The Lord be praised for that bread, too! In many countries they hadn’t a bite to put in their mouths; travellers from afar could tell of that. Now starvation and pestilence, enveloped in the gun‐smoke of the cannons, crossed all the frontiers. In the south of the country Norwegian soldiers were fighting for more than their honor; they had covered themselves with glory in the engagement at Trangen. The name of Captain Dreyer was on everybody’s lips. Yes, so it was said by those who came driving in coaches from the south.

Early in the morning, long before the sun was up, the first of the vanguard of Colonel von Bang’s brigade came marching into Bergstaden.1 They were not completely unexpected. Mr.p. 195 Dopp, who was well informed about everything that had happened and would happen, had, at a tea party at the Misses Bjørnstrup, not been able to keep his knowledge of this to himself. “We can, any morning now, be awakened by trumpets,” he said.

“Swedish trumpets?” the elder Miss Bjørnstrup asked, and paled considerably.

“We must not believe anything so dreadful, beautiful lady.”

This apparently simple piece of information helped the lady to regain color in both her cheeks; Dopp knew what he was talking about. In his youth he was supposed to have been one of the irresistible young men, but now his eyes were dimmed and his hair grey; time consumes us all. And from the Bjørnstrups’ the news didn’t take long to reach Kathryn, and after that it ran briskly from house to house.

Oh, the soldiers, they could be as ragged and bearded as they liked, they were nevertheless soldiers, and from time immemorial welcome guests in Bergstaden. Even Swedish soldiers, out‐and‐out enemies, had been received with far‐too‐open arms. What hadn’t happened that Christmas when the Swedes under General de la Barre marched in?

The evening before Colonel von Bang’s brigade arrived, two lieutenants appeared with their orderlies. They rode up to Director Knoph’s office and tied up their horses outside the office window. Mr. Knoph came out in person, went hurriedly down the high stone steps and shook both the lieutenants by the hand while they were still in the saddle. Mine secretary Dopp, who saw this from his office window, polished his spectacles and remarked that Mr. Knoph, considering the high office he held, demeaned himself a little too much. A managing director of the Works didn’t fall over himself to press the hand of two lieutenants, two dressed‐up young whippersnappers. Later he heard from Brinchmann that the two lieutenants had handles to their names. At this, Dopp somewhat changed his opinion of Mr. Knoph’s courtesies.

David Finne, who had already been promoted from lance‐corporal to corporal, found a place in the director’s stables forp. 196 the lieutenants’ horses. The orderlies’ horses were let out to graze out by the Gjet tarn.

Posthaste the Works’ chiefs were called together in Knoph’s private office. The pastor was also called. During the winter he had had to give much assistance to the Works’ surgeon, Jens Mathisen, to fight a rather severe epidemic of bilious fever, which had ravaged Bergstaden. The pestilence, which they had also experienced in the black year of 1786, had already early in the winter filled the communal grave in the upper churchyard. Sigismund had also another assignment at the Works. He assisted the keeper of stores, Johannes Aas, at the stores depot. Benjamin Sigismund’s star was rising. He was also well versed in the law. Mr. Knoph had consulted him on legal matters quite a few times. Sigismund knew how to keep himself in the limelight.

A list was drawn up of the most well‐to‐do members of the bourgeoisie who, without particular inconvenience, could have the colonel’s officers billeted on them. Mine secretary Dopp, for whom the pastor’s penetration into the inner circle was a constant source of irritation, permitted himself quite often to make more or less reasonable remarks about the proposals which his Grace put forward. Whereupon Benjamin Sigismund answered curtly: “Mr. Secretary. You have no right whatsoever to delay the proceedings with your insubordination.”

Before Dopp in his excitement had managed to polish his spectacles and open his mouth, the matter had usually been settled as Sigismund wanted. An important contributory factor was that Dopp was not exclusively amongst friends in this gathering. He was not the man to spare an adversary when an occasion arose which gave him the opportunity to hit out. He always hit out with full strength—but, excited as he always was, he was not particularly accurate in his aim. In big and important questions he could show a fearless honesty. In small matters he was a great rogue. His exaggerated ideas about his forebears and, in general, his feeling of belonging to the upper ten often led him astray. This was something he shared with the rest of Bergstaden’s gentry. The whole of their lives theyp. 197 had been the bosses, and they had played Providence for so many thousands of people cowed by hard toil and poverty, that they thought they alone dominated existence. All this humble “yes Sir” and “no Sir,” all these poor men’s caps in thin, embarrassed hands, had nourished their inherited conceit until it became comic. They were blown‐up, one‐eyed trolls in the land of Lilliput. Was there, then, no one who dared murmer? No! Never! And yet they had a kindness of heart that was worth its weight in gold—but it always had a strange outcome. What didn’t Dopp do the other day? A peasant came into his office with his cap on. This angered Dopp to breaking point. He shouted and made angry gestures with his quill pen: “Out! Out! Out in the passage and take your cap off!” Well, the peasant went out and came in again with his cap under his arm. He greeted Dopp, and Dopp greeted him. Just as if they hadn’t seen each other for twenty years. Indeed, Dopp even patted him on the shoulder and asked him how many unconfirmed children he had now. “Nine,” the peasant said. “Nine?” Dopp said. “Have you really still nine unconfirmed?” And then the peasant, on Dopp’s express orders, was led out into the servants’ quarters by a confused bookkeeper so that he could eat porridge and milk.

Colonel von Bang’s soldiers filled all the streets and the alleys in Bergstaden. Their uniforms and their general appearance did little to distinguish them from the laborers at the Works. They were not far from being barefooted, and their tunics were covered with mud and with ash from campfires.

Their training was to take place at Faste Johannesen’s meadow out at Stormoen. The Works’ Corps also had a daily parade there now. Corporal Finne had been given the task of training some elderly miners, as so many of the young men had fled to Sweden. They were a collection of slow‐moving and stubborn fellows who preferred to sit along by the fences, chewing tobacco and telling each other stories about elves andp. 198 goblins—stories which were laced with juicy, down‐to‐earth folk humor from the mines, rather than stand here taking orders from that Finne boy.

None of the troops had any firing practice. Powder and bullets were as precious as gold. Their camp was set up at the Hitter Lake. It was here, too, that General Sparre had camped on the occasion when he burned Bergstaden. Here, on these blue August evenings, campfires were reflected, now as then, in the shining mountain lake. And, by a strange coincidence, three long Swedish swords lay in the earth just where Colonel Bang had his campfire. These were found later by two people who were collecting turf for an outbuilding roof down at Flanderborg.

Fiddlers and girls from the town went up to the camp. And here the hungry and ragged soldiers danced with the miners’ daughters until reveille sounded in the early hours of the morning. Here, on the grey matgrass and the rust‐brown heather, they forgot their hunger and many of their sorrows. Dancing also took the edge off their terror at what might happen in a few days time when they came into contact with Swedish lead and the hard, sharp edges of Swedish swords.

Down in Bergstaden, too, there was dancing. And much entertaining. And that was no less wrong—now, when hunger and shortage of corn were so widespread in the country.

Colonel von Bang and his two lieutenants, with their glittering uniforms, their swords, and their merry jests, came like rays of the sun into the houses of the gentry. French and German, those very elegant languages, which the good citizens only spoke haltingly, now had to be given an airing. Reading those languages! Heavens above, that was nothing! But when one had been out of practice for so long, it was much more difficult to express oneself in them. The few French books they possessed were now quickly dusted, corners of pages turned down, and casually arranged on sewing tables—and a well‐thumbed French novel immediately gave the place a better appearance—after all, even up here in the mountains one knew something.

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And then the Colonel held a big reception. He was a soldier. And, perforce, it had to be arranged in a soldierly way. Up by the Hitter Lake a large dance floor was laid out, true enough only of rough planks. With Dopp’s permission the planks were quietly borrowed from the Works’ depot. Well in advance the brigade’s band had been detailed off to practice some lively dance music, but no low‐class stuff—remember that! Tunics were washed, rinsed, and hung up on the trees to dry in the sun; and don’t forget your rifles and sabres, and get a good shine on them buttons! They had plenty of ash, just the thing for putting a polish on buttons and side arms.

When the gentry arrived everything was in tip‐top order. The soldiers were lined up on both sides of the road. The Colonel himself was on horseback. Looking at him, one could easily think of a certain emperor called Napoleon. He made a speech from the saddle to his guests. Whereupon he called on all ranks to give three cheers for King and country.

“What? Bless my soul, he’s forgetting the noble board of directors!”

It was Dopp who angrily mumbled this to apprentice engineer Ole‐Jensen.

“Oh, they won’t die of that, Dopp,” Ole‐Jensen answered.

Dopp started back, horrified. What sort of rebellious talk was this an apprentice engineer was permitting himself to utter? He had to polish his spectacles.

The reception was a unique occasion. Magnificent! The bigwigs shook each other by the hand. The whole thing was unforgettable. The ladies had tears in their eyes. And the noble board of directors felt themselves remarkably enlivened.

Up on the slag heap, and on the other side of the lake, the sentries walked to and fro with slow, measured steps, to and fro—their dark figures, with long gunbarrels over their shoulders, stood silhouetted against the clear sky and the mowed fields.

David Finne was on guard there as duty corporal.

Benjamin Sigismund came in his extraordinary riding garb with knee‐high jackboots. He looked more like an adventurerp. 200 than a minister of the gospel. He very seldom wore clerical attire now. He had even officiated at a wedding without it. Illegal, of course! Dopp had even remarked that this deliberate and blatant misdemeanor ought to be reported to his Lordship the Bishop—but when consideration was taken of the fact that the pastor had come direct from putting splints on a broken leg up at the smeltery, which one must confess was an act of human kindness, this somewhat delicate business was hushed up. If nothing worse than that could be laid at the door of the Reverend Benjamin Sigismund, one would have to wink at this little irregularity—that was the considered judgement of persons of rank and condition.

Sigismund was in his element today. He talked French to the officers. He made jokes. He laughed.

“But where is Ole Korneliusen?” he said, and looked around in the crowd. “He is a man, Colonel, you would have pleasure in meeting.”

“Who is this man? What sort of position does he have, your Reverence?”

“He is a blacksmith.”

“Blacksmith,” the Colonel repeated, and wrinkled his nose so that his long moustaches stood straight down like two wings. “Well! What interest should I have in meeting a blacksmith?”

“Tubal‐cain was also a blacksmith, Colonel, and now as then no small luster attaches to this blacksmith’s name.”

Colonel von Bang had never heard of a blacksmith of that name. His knowledge of blacksmiths was on the whole not very comprehensive.

“Good!” he said, and tried to hide his ignorance. “Bring the man here. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

Some zealous souls, who had heard this, began to call for Ol‐Kanelesa, but the reply came that he was not here. He had just been seen down in Mørstu Street. He was then wearing a leather apron and clogs.

And a piercing voice called out from the back of the crowd:

“He was drunk, too!”

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Benjamin Sigismund pretended not to have heard. He said to Gunhild Finne, who was standing there:

“Is your uncle not here, Gunhild?”

“Uncle hasn’t time. He had to work at the smithy, he said.”

“Will you not try and get him to come?”

She shook her head. She didn’t think it was any good.

That his Reverence, without further ceremony, addressed a woman of the people caused a certain consternation. The officers stood there for a while looking her up and down. She was a good‐looker, too. A mountain rose!

Yet, none of them could remember having seen her at any of the dinner parties. They would have remembered a face like that.

“Very well,” Benjamin Sigismund said. “I will come with you, Gunhild.”

She stood there for a while, uncertain. She felt many eyes on her.

The Colonel, with a bellowing roar, now summoned a noncommissioned officer to give him some pressing order.

“Yes, yes.” Gunhild tied the black silk ribbons of her bonnet with white, quivering hands. “We can try. If Uncle listens to anybody, he’ll listen to you.”

And without looking either to the right or to the left, they ran rather than walked down the shortcut over the sandy ground to the smeltery. They talked and laughed and jumped over stones and mounds. Benjamin Sigismund was not the man to be left behind.

Even now nobody dared look up or notice anything. Mrs. Sigismund was standing there, of course. She stood arm in arm with the Misses Bjørnstrup. And they were just talking to her about a new way of embroidering.

But now Mrs. Sigismund was seized with an unpleasant fit of coughing. Her cough had again been rather trying of late—up until now it had come and gone. She coughed so much now that tears came into her eyes. And she had to sit down on a stone by the lake shore and rest a little. It usually got better when she sat down. And then there was her heart! Benjaminp. 202 thought that it was quite good—but it made her feel afraid. Especially at night.

The elder Miss Bjørnstrup knew something about it too. Mrs. Bjørnstrup—that is, the wife of the Bjørnstrup in Amsterdam—had been plagued with heart trouble for many years, also brought on by coughing. She also used to get it when she cried. And for her, too, the night was the worst time. She was much better now.

The Misses Bjørnstrup exchanged half‐concealed glances. And then with pursed lips and black expression they shook their heads behind Kathryn’s back. They felt really sorry for her. She had been delivered into hard and ruthless hands.

The elder Miss Bjørnstrup was very good at finding words of comfort: Mrs. Sigismund must not think that there was any danger in the pain around her heart. Once she had become accustomed to the climate, she would see that she would master the condition—but it took time. The same thing happened to their sister, Mrs. pastor Wilden, when she moved from Løiten to Arendal. Then, for many years she was affected by the change of air—but now she too was better.

But Kathryn was difficult to console. She had always been optimistic about her illness—but today everything was so black and hopeless.

“Here comes Sigismund with old Ola!”

Two carpenters in leather aprons and with hammers, who had just completed laying the dance floor, stood nibbling at a plug of tobacco with their front teeth and stared with a wicked glint in the corners of their eyes down towards the slope along the Hitter Lake, which the pastor and Ol‐Kanelesa were now crossing.

“Looks like parson has lost his Gunhild, don’t it mate?”

“Then we’ll have to send out a search‐party; if we find her, Sigismund will pay the reward for return of lost property. He’ll be real glad to get her back.”

The carpenters’ jests were both coarse and daring. And many of the bystanders heard them. They turned away so thatp. 203 no one should see them laughing. They were madcaps, these carpenters. Supposing Mrs. Sigismund heard what they were saying?

Kathryn dried her tears quickly. Benjamin mustn’t for anything in the world see that she had been crying.

“Nobody can see anything from my eyes, can they?” she whispered to the Misses Bjørnstrup. “No, well, no, no one can see anything now.”

“Benjamin!” she called out. “Just think, Benjamin, you have got the sacristan to come.”

“Yes, of course. Our wise man allowed himself finally to be persuaded. Heh! Heh!”

And he patted her on the shoulder. And that made Kathryn smile and look up gratefully at her husband.

“This evening we, too, must dance, Kathryn.”

“We? Can we dance?”

“Why not? Dancing in the open air is good for the health.” He straightened himself up and looked out over the gathering. “We who mourn with the afflicted, shall we not also rejoice with them that rejoice?”

“Yes, but—your parishioners, Benjamin?”

“What, my parishioners? I will tell you what, my dear, I shall teach them to distinguish between the sheep and the goats.”

“Perhaps so,” she sighed. “If that is what you want.”

She was so very grateful. No one was like Benjamin. . . . The dejection he had caused her from time to time was nothing compared with the joy he had so often given her. Now, for the first time, she fully realized how much she owed her husband. Yes, with the years, everything became clearer. A strangely vivid light now illuminated everything. The range of one’s vision became extended, one saw more and more. . . . She saw now, as never before, that Benjamin was the one man, the one will.

The Misses Bjørnstrup once again exchanged expressive glances; but they were glances of a considerably milder kind.p. 204 Pastor Sigismund was, in spite of all his faults, a charmer. The good ladies couldn’t resist it. . . . He had a marvelously winning smile, that man.

“Ole Korneliusen!” Benjamin Sigismund called out. “Will you not sit down and talk a while with Mrs. Sigismund?”

Kathryn shifted her position on the stone—as if moving away from something; it was not always so amusing to have this Ole Korneliusen about continually. And least of all here. Well—it wasn’t his fault. All the same she would prefer to be let off now. And then she had the dear Misses Bjørnstrup.

Ol‐Kanelesa took his time. He lit his pipe with an ember. He also got the opportunity to whisper to an old smelter, “Give me a shout after a bit, Øven.” Yes, Øven would give him a shout.

And then he came up. He greeted Kathryn modestly in the manner of the common people. He inquired as to her health.

“Yes, thank you. Better than expected.”

“Aren’t you thinking of getting married soon now, Ole Korneliusen?” the elder Miss Bjørnstrup asked.

“I think of it day and night; without a doubt it’s the thought of matrimony that gives me my queer look, I might say.”

Miss Bjørnstrup blushed; Ol‐Kanelesa aimed well, he scored a bullseye this time too. The point was that Miss Bjørnstrup had been hopelessly in love for the past twenty years—it was a heavy burden which she was reluctant to lay down; the gentleman in question was a mining engineer called Olsen, who was now at Kongsberg—but her prospects of getting him had not increased with the years.

Benjamin Sigismund’s happy and animated voice was now heard from over by the bonfire, where the officers stood. And then Øven called out, “Ol‐Kanelesa!”

Ol‐Kanelesa got up; but then strangely enough Mrs. Sigismund gripped him by the arm. He mustn’t go. Not yet.

“Yes,” Ol‐Kanelesa said. “I must see what’s doing. He’s surely never burning up?”

The Miss Bjørnstrup, the one Ol‐Kanelesa had scored off,p. 205 couldn’t contain herself. She felt a great need to get her own back. And so she asked:

“Have you seen anybody burn up then, Ole?”

“He can burn up, internally. He, like so many others.”

Miss Bjørnstrup felt a blast of cold air from that arrow too. She blushed again. She wouldn’t answer him.

The band struck up for the dance. The gentry led off. And to the great amusement of the lower orders.

It was not exactly seductive ballroom melodies they were dancing to—it was more like dancing to a thunderstorm.

Sigismund danced with his wife. It was the first time the people had seen a pastor dance. It was rather a painful spectacle. . . . The Colonel danced with Mrs. Dopp; they danced as if for dear life. His riding boots, his spurs and long sabre; no, it was no joke.

Kathryn couldn’t dance for long. She also had an unpleasant feeling that it was not quite proper. Yes, wouldn’t people think it scandalous? She asked to be allowed to rest. She curtsied and made her thanks. He bowed.

And Kathryn was handed over to the Misses Bjørnstrup. Benjamin Sigismund went over to Ol‐Kanelesa and old Øven and sat down there.

“You are enjoying yourselves,” he said. “What are you both laughing so heartily about?”

“Our Ol here has been telling the story of when Maasaa‐Jørn sold seven billy goats to old nasty von Krogh. Ugh! I could kill myself with laughing.”

When they saw that the pastor didn’t seem to want to hear about Maasaa‐Jørn and his goat deal with von Krogh, they began to talk about other things. Benjamin Sigismund, deep in thought, was making himself a spill out of some birch bark, to light his pipe. He sat for a while sucking at it—and then made himself another spill and generally speaking looked very abstracted.

“Has Gunhild Finne not come back, Ole?”

Øven started. He could scarcely believe his own ears. Wasp. 206 there, all the same, something in what people had been saying?

“No. She went off home, I think.”

“Yes, I see.”

Benjamin Sigismund sat there smoking for a long time, without saying a word. The others, too, smoked and said nothing. Ol‐Kanelesa sat thinking of how it looked here in his youth, when Ellen was alive. The Hitter Lake was bluer then than now. And everywhere was covered with flowers, red, yellow, and blue ones. And just here, there was a big rowan tree. And under it was a red‐painted bench; the illustrious Peder Hjort was supposed to have had it put there as a resting place for the tired of foot—himself included. According to what old people had told him, he used often to walk here with his long, silver‐mounted walking stick after the end of the day’s work, this noble director with his white wig. Now the rowan tree had been cut down and the bench burnt; nowadays, everything had to be destroyed, that was how the new age was.

“Why did she not come back?”

Benjamin Sigismund stared along the road to the south. She had given him her word that she would come. She had also promised to dance with him—a single dance. And then—she daren’t do either. And solely because he was a pastor. Pastor! Pastor! The mirror of the Hitter Lake grew dark when she was not here, and the sounds of the horn and the clarinet became a tortured whining, ear‐splittingly out of tune. The stars of the heavens didn’t shine. The whole of nature was depressed. He got up quickly. He would go down to the town and look for her. She must know that he waited here, tortured with longing—disturbed in his innermost soul.

Oh, he felt like shouting out so that everybody could hear: “She’s mine, stone us! Strike us to death! Tread our names underfoot. Tread them down in shame and disgrace. Well done! We will not submit ourselves to your judgment, because you are the unjust. You self‐righteous hypocrites, you yourselves shall wet the steps of heaven with tears and climb them on bloody knees!”

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A lieutenant stood in front of him stiffly to attention and at the salute.

“Our Colonel wishes to drink a toast with your Reverence.”

“Your servant, Lieutenant. Please convey to Colonel von Bang my most obliged thanks for this honor.”

The Colonel handed Benjamin Sigismund with his own hands a beaker filled to the brim, an ancient, dented stoup, embellished with inscriptions which, in resounding phrases, praised the heroic deeds of its many owners; its last and present owner, Colonel von Bang, not least.

Other persons of rank and condition already stood with glass in hand. Some of them had to make do with an earthenware beaker. One of the lieutenants made a sign to the band to stop playing. And then the Colonel bellowed forth a speech in honor of his guests. He thanked them on behalf of the brigade for the hospitable reception they had received here in Bergstaden. Now, at this very moment, the brigade had got its marching orders. They had to proceed without delay into enemy country. For many of the soldiers of the brigade this attack against the enemy would mean that, in a few hours, the sand in their hour‐glass would have run out. He asked his Reverence to pray for their souls. And for the Fatherland. And for Norwegian arms, that they might be granted an honorable victory. I give you the toast of His Majesty, the toast of the Fatherland! Three cheers and a royal salvo for them both! But only one shot from the smallest field gun thundered out. Before the sun rose they would perhaps find a better use for their powder than using it to shoot salvos into the air.

After this Benjamin Sigismund spoke. He lifted the ancient, dented silver stoup high in the air.

“Soldiers! Noble sons of Norway! Brave men from the mountains, from the valleys! You shall never die a forgotten death. Your memory shall be wreathed and adorned with the unfading roses of honor and love unto the most far‐flung generations. And when you exchange sword blows with the enemy, then know, that across your shoulders you are wearingp. 208 a chain armor whose every link has been forged with our most fervent wishes for your victory. Let him be dubbed knight who fights with a true and upright mind for this kingdom, for this ancient, Christian kingdom!” And then he said something which aroused consternation: “The day may be near, it has already given warning of its approach in the clear, shining glimpse of day in the east, when you will be called to battle, no longer under the banner which has descended from heaven, but under the ancient banner of the Norwegians, the banner of the raven. Then, even more than at this late night‐hour, you must show that you are Norwegians.”2

The clinking of beakers after this speech was in no wise overwhelming—many of them were not at all sure if they dared drink to it. What had he meant by it? Was he being disloyal to the king? Of course, Colonel von Bang drank with the pastor; but before they clinked their beakers he mumbled something about soldiering in general. He hoped that in this way the toast got a somewhat more indefinite character.

The reveille sounded.