“Liar—­devil—­coward!” Olof’s rage broke loose.  A step forward, almost a spring, and with the strength of fury he seized the man by his coat with both hands and lifted him from the floor.

“Say your prayers!” hissed Olof between his teeth, still holding the man in mid-air, the shirt-front crushing under his grip.  The man struggled helplessly once or twice, then hung limp; the cigar fell from his mouth, and Olof felt the body a dead weight in his hands.

“I ...  I’ve been drinking,” he gasped—­“drinking... don’t know what I’ve been saying....”  The words bubbled pitifully from the pale lips, like the last drops from an empty barrel.

“Well for you!” Olof set the man down and loosed his hold.  “Or I’d....  Huh!  Get out of this—­d’you hear?”

The man staggered, looking this way and that, then turned and stole from the room without a word.

* * * * *

Olof stood alone.  His brain was in a whirl, dazzling lights floated before his eyes.

“It must be true!  No one would ever dare unless....”  There was no doubt in his mind—­it was only too natural that it should be so.  The retribution he had feared so long—­it had come at last, and ruined all in a moment.

The fiddler was playing louder than before; the whole house shook—­they were dancing again.  To Olof the music seemed like a mighty peal of scornful laughter, as if the host of people there were laughing and dancing for joy at his shame.

“Make an end—­make an end!” he cried to himself, and he rushed from the room.  How he was to end it he did not know—­only that this was unendurable—­it was hell!

* * * * *

Smiling faces greeted Olof as he appeared in the doorway and stood a moment, unable to get through the press.  His brain cleared a little—­after all, he could not drive the guests from the house like a madman with a knife in his hand.

They stood aside to let him pass, and he slipped round by the wall to the farther end of the room, and went up to the fiddler.

“Will you sell it,” he whispered—­“sell your fiddle?  There’s a man wants to buy it—­he’s asked me.  Never mind about the price—­say what you like.”

“Why ...  I don’t know.  ’Tis an old friend,” answered the man, playing more softly as he spoke.

“Will you sell it?  At your own price.  Yes or no?”

“H’m ... well, say thirty marks?”

“Good!  The man’ll be here directly.  And now, play a polka—­and play like the devil himself, as if you were kissing your girl for the last time.  The fastest you’ve ever played.”

The fiddler nodded.

* * * * *

Olof walked up to a young girl and bowed.  The fiddler broke off, and struck up a polka at such a furious pace that the dancers stopped and looked at one another in surprise.

But Olof went off in wild career with his partner, and several other pairs followed.  These, however, soon fell out, and all stood watching the bridegroom, who danced like a man bewitched.  His eyes blazed, a strange smile played about his lips, and his head was lifted defiantly.