She smiled.  These were the hard beaks which would have torn her to pieces.  The truth was not dangerous nor lying either.  The young men were not waiting outside her door.

Did she know or did she not know that her eldest daughter had that very morning left her home and had gone to her father?

***

The sacrifice which Matts Wik had made to save his wife’s honor became known.  He was admired; he was derided.  His letter was read aloud at the meeting.  Some of those present wept with emotion.  People came and pressed his hands on the street.  His daughter moved to his house.

For several evenings after he was silent at the meetings.  He felt no inspiration.  At last they asked him to speak.  He mounted the platform, folded his hands together and began.

When he had said a couple of words he stopped, confused.  He did not recognize his own voice.  Where was the lion’s roar?  Where the raging north wind?  And where the torrent of words?  He did not understand, could not understand.

He staggered back.  “I cannot,” he muttered.  “God gives me no strength to speak yet.”  He sat down on a bench and buried his head in his hands.  He gathered all his powers of thought to discover first what he wanted to talk about.  Did he have to consider so in the old days?  Could he consider now?  His head whirled.

Perhaps it would go if he should stand up again, place himself where he was accustomed to stand, and begin with his usual prayer.  He tried.  His face turned ashy-gray.  All glances were turned towards him.  A cold sweat trickled down his forehead.  He found not a word on his lips.

He sat down in his place and wept, moaning heavily.  The gift was taken from him.  He tried to speak, tried silently to himself.  What should he talk about.  His sorrow was taken from him.  He had nothing to say to people which he was not allowed to tell them.  He had no secret to disguise.  He did not need to romance.  Romance left him.

It was the agony of death; it was a struggle for life.  He wished to hold fast that which was already gone.  He wished to have his grief again in order to be able again to speak.  His grief was gone; he could not get it back.

He staggered forward like a drunken man to the platform again and again:  He stammered out a few meaningless words.  He repeated like a lesson learned by heart what he had heard others say.  He tried to imitate himself.  He looked for devotion in the glances, for trembling silence, quickening breaths.  He perceived nothing.  That which had been his joy was taken from him.

He sank back into the darkness.  He cursed, that he by his discourse had converted his wife and daughter.  He had possessed the most precious of gifts and lost it.  His pain was extreme.—­But it is not by such grief that genius lives.

He was a painter without hands, a singer who had lost his voice.  He had only spoken of his sorrow.  What should he speak of now?