LITMIR.BIZ

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was learning afresh that doubt is a dreadful torment. And twenty-one years is a long time over which to recall a face of which you never took especial note. The excitement which had possessed the beggar a short time before had died away, and a greater fatigue had taken its place. He stared into the fire with eyes grown dull. Vibeke, watching him, thought again that the narrow forehead and the long nose with the remarkably long and narrow nostrils were very like the features of Niels Bruus. But the lines of the face were all cut much deeper than in the face she remembered, and the black stubble of the unshaved beard darkened them about the mouth and chin in an unremembered way. The lank black hair was like that of Niels. But, on the other hand, now that so much depended upon it, the likeness seemed not so great. And he had been one of Wallenstein’s men, Wallenstein who had been for two years and a half the scourge and terror of Jutland. He had said that he had no knife, but you could never trust a man who had been with Wallenstein. Perhaps this story of his was just a trick to get money, as the parson had suggested, or even, since he was so near starved and had been turned from the inn, a device to get a meal and a lodging for the night. She watched him carefully, lest he slip his hand into his pocket, or into his breast, and come forth with a knife, and the more she watched him, the more certain she became that he was only an impostor, and she wished that she were not alone in the house with him. She wished that she could send him out to the byre and lock the door upon him. But he would not stir; she knew that. He was waiting for the return of Parson Juste and the magistrate, and he was there by her own demand. He was calm enough about it now for anyone who knew himself to be a fraud. You would think he might be frightened at the thought of being questioned by so great a man as Judge Thorwaldsen. Indeed, he had not seemed pleased at the idea. Perhaps he would yet be frightened, and slip out before they came. Or perhaps he meant to strike her down and rob the house and escape. She watched him very carefully, and she reckoned that, even if he drew a knife, she could seize the parson’s stool and strike him with it.

      And then, the more she watched him, the more the face again began to resemble that of Niels, and the beggar became a man who had been dug from the ground before her very eyes. She remembered again how awfully the corpse had stunk, and the odor of filth which surrounded the beggar became to her nostrils the odor of corruption. A deep unholy terror possessed her. This was not Niels returned to explain the corpse, but the corpse of Niels returned to harry the soul of old Vibeke. She sat very still for fear that her fear would cross the small intervening space to the living corpse and that he would know his power over her. Little by little she forced her fear of him back, but only by the power of a greater fear, that he should know she feared him. She thought that if he talked, he would have less time to think of what harm he might do. She felt also that she would be less frightened if she spoke. So she began:

      “That must have been a dreadful battle when you lost your arm.”

      “Aye,” he said.

      “And a long time ago. Fourteen years you have been doing without that arm.”

      “So long?” he said. “I hadn’t counted.”

      “I cannot write but I can reckon,” said Vibeke.

      “Fourteen years of begging. And all that time you never once came near Jutland?”

      “As I told you,” he said.

      “Nor met a Jutlander?”

      “Mistress Vibeke,” said the beggar, “you ask me questions. Parson asks me questions. Master Thorwaldsen will ask more questions. I can wait until Parson and Magistrate come back, and answer them all at once.”

      Vibeke gave a short laugh.

      “No doubt but you are a Jutlander, whatever else,” she said.

      The beggar lifted his shoulders, let them drop in a slow shrug.

      “I answer questions. You do not believe me. Why do I waste my breath?”

      There was justice in the remark, so that Vibeke did not reply. They sat, one on each side of the fire, in silence, while Vibeke’s fear grew larger and pressed against her heart, as she said to herself, like an indigestion. Presently the beggar said:

      “As you know something about it, how would you reckon Morten’s wealth?”

      “In money, I would not know,” said the old woman. “In land, he had more than when he was born.”

      “You are a Jutlander also,” said the beggar.

      “But I know this,” said she. “The one that inherits the wealth will inherit no good will with it.”

      Again the beggar lifted his shoulders in that sluggish gesture of unconcern.

      “Who has wealth needs no good will,” he said.

      “Never believe that,” said the old woman.

      The beggar made no answer, and they waited, Vibeke never taking her eyes from the figure across from her, the beggar now and again stealing a covert glance at the old woman from beneath his heavy slanting brows. The time went slowly. Only once again did the beggar open his lips.

      “Yet how should Master Thorwaldsen know Niels?” he said. “How many times did he meet Niels on the road, or at the market, and stop to speak with him? I shall ask for Anna Sörensdaughter, I shall.”

      Vibeke pressed her old lips more firmly together. The beggar continued to stare into the fire. Not for the world would she let him know what tenderness, what sense of loss the mention of that name brought into this hour of fear and dislike. She closed her eyelids slowly to press away the tears that gathered; opened them again upon a blurred figure in the firelight.

      The coming of Judge Tryg Thorwaldsen and Pastor Juste changed all this. An eddy of damp air entered with them and made the chimney smoke. Vibeke ran to take the judge’s cloak, to help the pastor off with his boots. At Thorwaldsen’s command she drew up a trestle table to the middle of the floor, set chairs, brought candles, replenished the fire. The low roof seemed lower still because of the height of Thorwaldsen’s figure, and the room smaller because of the shift of furniture.

      “We will have light,” said the judge, “so that I can look well at this man. And, Pastor, fetch your paper and ink. We will have a record of all that is said. Sit here by the table, Pastor. Vibeke, set the lights here.”

      The door being shut, the chimney drew properly again. The air cleared. The candle flames steadied themselves. Vibeke brought a pewter mug of beer and set it by the fire to warm for Judge Tryg Thorwaldsen. They began with the examination.

      “It is established,” said Pastor Juste, “that we have here a man who declares himself to be Niels, the brother of Morten Bruus, lately of Ingvorstrup in the parish of Vejlby. He further deposes that he left the province of Jutland in nutting time in the autumn before the defeat of King Christian, whom God save, at Lutter-am-Barenberge. That would have been, then, shall we say, in October 1625?”

      The judge nodded. “As you say, Pastor Juste.” The beggar also assented.

      “Then, having been a soldier for seven years, off and on, he lost an arm at Lützen, and that would be in 1632.”

      Again Tryg nodded and the beggar copied him.

      “He then begged his bread throughout the German duchies, as also in Bohemia and in Slesvig-Holstein, for the space of fourteen years. He is now returned to Aalsö parish in the month of November, and the year 1646, to lay claim to the fortune of his brother Morten. He has as yet called upon no one living and able to identify him.”

      “Write that all down,” said Tryg, and after a pause the pastor answered, “It is written.”

      “And now, Master Thorwaldsen,” said the beggar, “do you not remember Niels Bruus?”

      “You could be Niels,” said Thorwaldsen. “Or you could not be. I was present when they buried the body of Niels—so called.”

      The beggar grinned at that, and Tryg said, “I hope that you understand that it is a serious matter for you to represent yourself as someone

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