But who could be enraptured of poor Petter Nord?  His coat was torn and his tow-colored hair sticky with blood.  He received the most blows, for he offered the most resistance.  He looked terrible, as he walked.  He roared without knowing it.  Boys caught hold of him, and he dragged them long distances.  Once he stopped and flung off the crowd in the street.  Just as he was about to escape, a blow from a cudgel fell on his head and knocked him down.  He rose up again, half stunned, and staggered on, blows raining upon him, and the boys hanging like leeches to his arms and legs.

They met the old Mayor, who was on his way home from his game of whist in the garden of the inn.  “Yes,” he said to the advance guard,—­“yes, take them to the prison.”

He placed himself at the head of the procession, shouted and ordered.  In a second everything was in line.  Prisoners and guards marched in peace and order.  The villagers’ cheeks flushed; some of them threw down their cudgels; others put them on their shoulders like muskets.  And so the prisoners were transferred into the keeping of the police, and were taken to the prison in the market-place.

Those who had saved the town stood a long time in the market-place and told of their courage and of their great exploit.  And in the little room of the inn, where the smoke is as thick as a cloud, and the great men of the town mix their midnight toddy, more is heard of the deed, magnified.  They grow bigger in their rocking-chairs; they swell in their sofa corners; they are all heroes.  What force is slumbering in that little town of mighty memories!  Thou formidable inheritance, thou old Viking blood!

The old Mayor did not like the whole affair.  He could not quite reconcile himself to the stirring of the old Viking blood.  He could not sleep for thinking of it, and went out again into the street and strolled slowly towards the square.

It was a mild spring night.  The church clock’s only hand pointed to eleven.  The balls had ceased to roll on the bowling alley.  The curtains were drawn down.  The houses seemed to sleep with closed eyelids.  The steep hill behind was black, as if in mourning.  But in the midst of all the sleep there was one thing awake—­the fragrance of the flowers did not sleep.  It stole over the linden hedges; poured out from the gardens; rushed up and down the street; climbed up to every window standing open, to every skylight that sucked in fresh air.

Every one whom the fragrance reached instantly saw before him his little town, although the darkness had gently settled down over it.  He saw it as a village of flowers, where it was not house by house, but garden by garden.  He saw the cherry trees that raised their white arches over the steep wood-path, the lilac clusters, the swelling buds of glorious roses, the proud peonies, and the drifts of flower-petals on the ground beneath the hawthorns.

The old Mayor was deep in thought.  He was so wise and so old.  Seventy years had he reached, and for fifty he had managed the affairs of the town.  But that night be asked himself if he had done right.  “I had the town in my hand,” he thought, “but I have not made it anything great.”  And he thought of its great past, and was the more uncertain if he had done right.