Ellida. Well, and then?

Lyngstrand. It was one evening in rough weather. All hands were
on deck--except the boatswain and myself. For he had sprained his
foot and couldn't walk, and I was feeling rather low, and was
lying in my berth. Well, he was sitting there in the forecastle,
reading one of those old papers again.

Ellida. Well, well!

Lyngstrand. But just as he was sitting there quietly reading, I
heard him utter a sort of yell. And when I looked at him, I saw
his face was as white as chalk. And then he began to crush and
crumple the paper, and to tear it into a thousand shreds. But he
did it so quietly, quietly.

Ellida. Didn't he say anything? Didn't he speak?

Lyngstrand. Not directly; but a little after he said to himself,
as it were: "Married--to another man. While I was away."

Ellida (closes her eyes, and says, half to herself). He said
that?

Lyngstrand. Yes. And think--he said it in perfect Norwegian. That
man must have learnt foreign languages very easily--

Ellida. And what then? What else happened?