Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 4).djvu/254

 king beside the grave].
 * Now, when the soul has gone to meet its doom,
 * and here the dust lies, like an empty pod,-
 * now, my dear friends, we'll speak a word or two
 * about this dead man's pilgrimage on earth.
 * He was not wealthy, neither was he wise,
 * his voice was weak, his bearing was unmanly,
 * he spoke his mind abashed and faltering,
 * he scarce was master at his own fireside;
 * he sidled into church, as though appealing
 * for leave, like other men, to take his place.
 * It was from Gudbrandsdale, you know, he came.
 * When here he settled he was but a lad;-
 * and you remember how, to the very last,
 * he kept his right hand hidden in his pocket.
 * That right hand in the pocket was the feature
 * that chiefly stamped his image on the mind,-
 * and therewithal his writhing, his abashed
 * shrinking from notice wheresoe'er he went.
 * But, though he still pursued a path aloof,
 * and ever seemed a stranger in our midst,
 * you all know what he strove so hard to hide,-
 * the hand he muffled had four fingers only.-
 * I well remember, many years ago,
 * one morning; there were sessions held at Lunde.
 * 'Twas war-time, and the talk in every mouth
 * turned on the country's sufferings and its fate.
 * I stood there watching. At the table sat
 * the Captain, 'twixt the bailiff and the sergeants;
 * lad after lad was measured up and down,
 * passed, and enrolled, and taken for a soldier.
 * The room was full, and from the green outside,
 * where thronged the young folks, loud the laughter rang.