remained standing a moment silent, with the book in his hands, while he closed one eye and glanced round the room with the other, a sly triumphant smile, dedicated to thoughts of the Provst, stealing over his face, which was answered gleefully by the men at the back of the room. At last he said in his guileless voice—
"Now, friends all, I suppose we must have a song to open with! Pastor Hansted has no partikler choice, so we can e'en please ourselves. What will ye have?"
Different songs were called for from the assemblage. At last they agreed on "Forward, peasants forward."
"Yes, let's sing that," said the weaver, with a meaning smile, "that'll just suit us."
He gave the note himself in a stentorian voice, and the other voices broke out deafeningly on all sides. It was not song. It was a wild enthusiastic shout, a delight in their own lung power, which threatened to blow the roof off.
Emanuel took his place on the basket chair, where he sat leaning forward with his legs crossed, running his hands uneasily through his hair from time to time. He did not join in the singing, and was not at all at his ease. The dark, gloomy room, the many free glances, and this noisy discordant singing, had for the moment put him out of spirits.
Besides which, he was a prey to conscientious scruples, because, on account of unavoidable
