appeared, carrying his wife under his left arm like a sack. He
held her round the waist, feet first, her face downwards and
hidden by her hair, her hands convulsively clutching his left
thigh, her legs sometimes hanging down, sometimes straight out. He
walked composedly out with her, holding in his right hand a bunch
of long fresh birch twigs. A little way from the gallery he
paused, and laying her across his left knee, he tore off some of
her clothes, and beat her until the blood flowed. She never
uttered a sound. When he put her from him, she tremblingly
rearranged--first her hair, thus displaying her face just as the
blood flowed back from it, leaving it deadly white. Tears of pain
and shame rolled down her cheeks; but still not a sound. She tried
to rearrange her dress, but her tattered garments trailed behind
her as she went back to the house. She shut the door after her,
but had to open it again; her torn clothes had caught fast in it.

The women stood aghast; some of the children screamed with fright:
this infected the rest, and there was a chorus of sobs. The men,
most of whom had been sitting smoking their pipes, but who had
sprung to their feet again, stood filled with shame and
indignation.

It had not been without a pang that Harald Kaas had done this, his
face and manner had shown it for a long time and still did so; but
he had expected that a roar of laughter would greet his
extraordinary vagary. This was evident from the composure with
which he had carried his wife out; and still more from the glance
of gratified revenge with which he looked round him afterwards.
But there was only dead stillness, succeeded by weeping, sobbing,
and indignation. He stood there for a moment, quite overcome, then