Now they came back to the town with them, driving them as if they
had been animals. A mad thirst for revenge had seized upon the
conquerors. They struck for the pleasure of striking. When one of
the prisoners clenched his fist at them, he received a blow on the
head which knocked him down, and thereupon blows hailed upon him,
until he got up and went on. The four men were almost dead.

The old poems are so beautiful. The captured hero sometimes must
walk in chains in the triumphal procession of his victorious enemy.
But he is proud and beautiful still in adversity. And looks follow
him as well as the fortunate one who has conquered him. Beauty's
tears and wreaths belong to him still, even in misfortune.

But who could be enraptured of poor Petter Nord? His coat was torn
and his tow-colored hair sticky with blood. He received the most
blows, for he offered the most resistance. He looked terrible, as
he walked. He roared without knowing it. Boys caught hold of him,
and he dragged them long distances. Once he stopped and flung off
the crowd in the street. Just as he was about to escape, a blow
from a cudgel fell on his head and knocked him down. He rose up
again, half stunned, and staggered on, blows raining upon him, and
the boys hanging like leeches to his arms and legs.

They met the old Mayor, who was on his way home from his game of
whist in the garden of the inn. "Yes," he said to the advance
guard,--"yes, take them to the prison."

He placed himself at the head of the procession, shouted and
ordered. In a second everything was in line. Prisoners and guards