The three were alone now—­his mother stood by the stove.  “Sit down,” said the father coldly, from his place.

Olof obeyed.  For a while nothing was heard but the slow beat of the clock on the wall.

“I know where your mother was last night.  Are you not ashamed?”

Olof bowed his head.

“’Tis a sound thrashing you should have—­and don’t be too sure but that you’ll have it yet.”

Olof did not venture to look up, but the voice told that his father was working himself into a passion.

“What’s to come of you, hey, d’you think?  Getting the wenches with child to begin with—­and what next?”

“Father!” It was his mother’s voice.  Her face was anxious, as if in dread of coming disaster.

A glance of cold anger was all her husband’s answer.  He turned to the boy once more, and went on: 

“What next, hey?  Bring home the brats for us to feed, maybe?  Is it that’s in your mind?”

A flush of indignation spread over the young man’s face.  Was this his father, speaking to him thus?  Or some brutal stranger that had taken his place?

And all at once a rush of feeling took possession of him, something new and fierce and strange, filling him altogether.  He raised his head, as if to speak, but said no word, only rose up, as if someone had taken him by the hand, and walked towards the door.

“Where are you going—­what?”

“I’ve my work to do.”

“He!  You—­you....”  The words were flung at him like a hand reaching for his throat.  “Not a step till you’ve answered me, d’you hear!  Was it that was in your mind?”

The young man hesitated.  But a little time since he had felt himself bowed down with shame, ready to make any reparation; now, in a moment, all seemed changed, he felt he must hit back, must strike one blow for all that had been growing and seething within him in secret these last few days.  He turned swiftly, and answered proudly and resolutely, with lifted head: 

“No!  But to marry her—­that was in my mind.”

The old man’s features set in a scornful sneer at the word.  But the look on his son’s face made him hesitate, uncertain how to proceed.

“Marry her?” He bent forward in his seat, as if doubting whether he had heard aright.

“Yes!” came the answer, more firmly than before.

And having spoken, Olof felt he must avenge the insult to himself and to the girl, must strike once more with the weapon he had seen could bite so keenly and so deep.

“And marry her I will!” The words fell like the snap of a lock.

“Boy—­you dare!” It was the roar of a wounded beast.  Furiously the old man sprang to the door, snatching up a stick as he rose, seized the boy by the collar, and flung him to his knees on the floor, making the beams shake.  It was all done in a moment.  “You dare!” he cried again, raising his stick.