been a beggar. Knowing that Morten was rich, and could have given you a home, why did you not return to Jutland, after Lützen?”
“I was afraid of Morten,” said the beggar without hesitation.
The pastor considered this.
“Did you then wrong your brother?”
“Oh no, Pastor, I never wronged him. I only did whatever he told me, and I was afraid of him. And he told me to stay out of Jutland.”
“Then,” inquired the pastor, “how did you come to hear of his death? Is the name of Morten Bruus known as far away as Lützen?”
“Well,” said the beggar, “as you say, twenty-one years is a long time, and I speak like a Jutlander still. People are much kinder to a man who doesn’t talk like a stranger. So in the end I came back to Slesvig, just a bit over the border, to hear a bit of natural talk. I was in Slesvig on a farm in the Black parish, and there was a man there who had once traded a horse from Morten. He had heard that Morten was dead, and he was telling his wife. So I heard it. So I came north. In Aebeltoft I heard it too. So it seemed safe to come home.”
“It is true that you speak like a Jutlander,” said the pastor. “Still, that alone is hardly enough to prove you Morten’s brother. Did anyone tell you that you resembled Morten?”
The beggar grinned and showed his blackened teeth.
“I was never so handsome as Morten,” he said.
“You were baptized in this parish?”
“But surely.”
“How old were you when you left Jutland?”
“I was eighteen years, I think.”
“And how old was Morten at that time?”
The beggar counted on his fingers.
“Morten was twenty-six years then. We were living at Ingvorstrup then, in Vejlby parish.”
“Since Peder Korf is gone, could you name anyone in this parish, or in Vejlby, who knew you when you were a boy?”
The beggar had to think a little while, and the first name that he brought forth caused the pastor to glance at Vibeke.
“It is a pity,” said the pastor, “that Erland Neilsen of Ingvorstrup was dead before my day. Think again.”
The beggar then, without great hesitation, tried half a dozen names, but at each of them the pastor shook his head.
“All these are either dead, or gone away, years since. Consider now, it is not enough that you know these names, and the ages of Niels and Morten. You could have learned any of this over a can of beer at the last inn. If you are to prove yourself Morten’s brother you must think of someone who can stand before us and swear to recognizing you.”
“Well, then,” said the beggar slowly, very slowly, “there could be Sören Qvist, who was pastor at Vejlby.”
At this the pastor and Vibeke again exchanged glances. Then the pastor rose.
“That about settles it,” he said.
“Settles what?” said the beggar.
“That you are not Niels Bruus. Look here, my friend. I am sorry for you. Since you are crippled and homeless, it is a great temptation to seek for wealth that does not belong to you. Still, you should know better than to set yourself up as being a man long since dead. There are those who would bring punishment upon you for pretending to be other than you are. Take my advice, and say no more about it.”
The beggar also rose to his feet.
“That is all very well to say talk no more about it, but I am telling the truth. I think I know who I am. And I have as much right to Morten’s money as any man alive. Perhaps you will be telling me Pastor Sören is gone too. Well, I forgot that he would be an old man, a very old man, even, but he was strong and hale when last I saw him, and he would remember me. Anna Sörensdaughter would remember me too, and she will not be old.”
He spoke vehemently, so much so that the pastor was constrained to lift his hand to quiet him. But Vibeke, the old Vibeke, now came forward and said:
“Pastor, I have been thinking. He has, as you have noticed, a strong look of Morten Bruus. There was always something we never understood about the whole affair. God help us all, I was sure there was witchcraft in it. God protect us, but indeed I think he is Niels. Make him stay and tell us what Morten buried, was it a dead cat or a wax baby like the wax babies of Kalmar. Tryg Thorwaldsen would know him, and Tryg is still alive.”
The pastor turned to the beggar. “Do you know a man by the name of Tryg Thorwaldsen?” he asked.
“The magistrate from Rosmos?” said the beggar. “Yes, I know him. Yes, he would know me. He was not one of my friends, but he is an honest man.”
“Are you willing to be questioned by him?” said the pastor.
“Yes, yes,” said the beggar. “Yes, I am willing. He is an honest man, and he will see that I come by my money. After all, I have a right to my money.”
“Then, in the morning,” said the pastor, “I will ride over and fetch him.”
“Oh, fetch him tonight!” cried the old woman.
“What need?” said Pastor Juste. “The man can sleep here, no matter who he is, and in the morning I can fetch Thorwaldsen. Or we can go together, all of us, to Rosmos.”
“Tonight, tonight!” cried the old Vibeke, catching at his arm with both her hands. The hands dug into his arm as if to steady themselves, but the pastor could feel how they trembled, and turning to look into her face, he saw that the blue eyes were almost black, the pupils distended in a great fear. He smiled to reassure her, laying his hand over hers.
“He will not vanish like an apparition,” he said.
“Ah, but he might,” she whispered. “You do not understand, you were not here when it happened.”
“But he has much to gain by staying,” said the pastor.
“Do you think I will run away, mistress?” said the beggar. “Oh no, oh no. Who would run away from a fortune like that of my brother Morten?”
“God might strike you dead before morning,” retorted the old woman. “Or the devil might put out a hand for you. Then we should never know.” But to the pastor she said, pleading, her heart in her voice, “Those of us who loved him have a right to know how it happened. Tryg has a right to know.”
The beggar interrupted harshly, “I have already told you how it happened. God’s wounds, the trouble is you don’t believe me.”
“That is true,” said the old woman. “With one breath I believe you are Niels. With the next, you are only a beggar of the roads has picked up part of an old story. How can I sleep in peace until someone else tells me, ‘Yes, it is Niels,’ or ‘No, it is not Niels; Niels is in Vejlby churchyard’?”
“It
