"Tell me I did not see it," he broke forth,
in a hoarse whisper, seizing her by the arm and
thrusting the burning brand close up to her face.
"Tell me it is a lie--a black, poisonous lie."

She raised her eyes slowly to his and gazed
steadfastly into his face. "Ah," he continued
in the same terrible voice, "it was what I told
them down there at the church--a lie--an infernal
lie. And I drew blood--blood, I say--I
did--from the slanderer. Ha, ha, ha! What
a lusty sprawl that was!"

The color came and departed from Brita's
cheeks. And still she was strangely self
possessed. She even wondered at her own calmness.
Alas, she did not know that it was a
calmness that is more terrible than pain, the
corpse of a forlorn and hopeless heart.

"Child," continued Bjarne, and his voice
assumed a more natural tone, "why dost thou
not speak? They have lied about thee, child,
because thou art fair, they have envied thee."
Then, almost imploringly, "Open thy mouth,
Brita, and tell thy father that thou art pure--
pure as the snow, child--my own--my beautiful child."

There was a long and painful pause, in which
the crackling of the brand, and the heavy