holding in his right hand a bunch of long fresh birch twigs.  A little way from the gallery he paused, and laying her across his left knee, he tore off some of her clothes, and beat her until the blood flowed.  She never uttered a sound.  When he put her from him, she tremblingly rearranged—­first her hair, thus displaying her face just as the blood flowed back from it, leaving it deadly white.  Tears of pain and shame rolled down her cheeks; but still not a sound.  She tried to rearrange her dress, but her tattered garments trailed behind her as she went back to the house.  She shut the door after her, but had to open it again; her torn clothes had caught fast in it.

The women stood aghast; some of the children screamed with fright:  this infected the rest, and there was a chorus of sobs.  The men, most of whom had been sitting smoking their pipes, but who had sprung to their feet again, stood filled with shame and indignation.

It had not been without a pang that Harald Kaas had done this, his face and manner had shown it for a long time and still did so; but he had expected that a roar of laughter would greet his extraordinary vagary.  This was evident from the composure with which he had carried his wife out; and still more from the glance of gratified revenge with which he looked round him afterwards.  But there was only dead stillness, succeeded by weeping, sobbing, and indignation.  He stood there for a moment, quite overcome, then went indoors again, a defeated, utterly broken man.

In every encounter with this delicate creature the giant had been worsted.

After this, however, she never went beyond the grounds.  For the first few years she was only seen by the people about the estate, and by them but seldom.  Sometimes she would take her boy out in his little carriage, or, as time went on, would lead him by the hand, sometimes she was alone.  She was generally wrapped in a big shawl, a different one for each dress she wore, and which she always held tightly round her.  This was so characteristic of her that to this day I hear people from the neighbourhood talk about it as though she were never seen otherwise.

What then did she do?  She studied; she had given up writing:  for more than one reason it had become distasteful to her.  She had changed roles with her husband, giving herself up to mathematics, chemistry, and physics, she made calculations and analyses—­ sending for books and materials for these objects.  The people on the estate saw nothing extraordinary in all this.  From the first they had admired her delicacy and beauty.  Every one admired her; it was only the manner and degree that varied.

Little by little she came to be regarded as one whose life and thoughts were beyond their comprehension.

She sought no one, but to those who came to her she never refused help—­more or less.  She made herself well acquainted with the facts of each case; no one could ever deceive her.  Whether she gave much or little, she imposed no conditions, she never lectured them.  Her opinion was expressed by the amount that she gave.