He never let me bring the flying rowan into his room.”
Tryg Thorwaldsen moved his right hand gently back and forth in a slow gesture of negation. “No,” he said softly, “no, there was no spell upon the parson.”
“But why,” began the beggar, who had sat quietly through these two speeches, shaking only intermittently, like a man in the grip of a heavy chill, “why,” he repeated, “did Parson let them kill him? He knew quite well that he did not murder me.”
Five
The man who painted the sign of the Red Horse Inn at Vejlby was a realist rather than a theorist. He painted what he saw, like an artist, rather than what he knew, like a child or a farmer. Therefore the red horse of the sign stood with his forelegs close together, one obscuring the other, and his hind legs properly apart, as had stood the model for the sign. It was something of a joke in the surrounding country, but the painter had long since gone his wandering way, and even had he been at hand when the criticism began to accumulate, the owner of the inn would not have cared to spend more money to add another leg to his horse.
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