“Pastor Juste Pedersen,” said the old woman, “here is the man who claims to be the brother of Morten Bruus.”
“Sit down, my friend,” said the old man. “Sit down, Vibeke.”
He motioned toward the bench by the fire, and the housekeeper seated herself as she had been formerly. The pastor drew up a stool and seated himself so that he could face both the housekeeper and the beggar. The light from the hearth shone full upon him, gilding the shabby robe, the bosses of the high, bony forehead, the lean hands with heavy knuckles which lay quietly upon his knees.
“Now then,” said Pastor Juste sensibly, “let us get at the truth of this matter.” He looked the beggar over, unhurriedly, with the eye of a man who has had much experience at reading countenances, and the intense excitement held in check by the advance of authority did not escape him. “Vibeke Andersdaughter,” he said, “tells me that you claim to have been formerly of my parish, and that you now are come to demand the fortune of Morten Bruus. Tell me, how did it happen that you left this country in the first place?”
“Morten sent me away,” said the beggar.
“Ah! And when was it you left?”
The beggar considered.
“It was after harvest, and before snow. And the year, it was before Lutter-am-Barenberge. It was the autumn before the summer when the King was defeated at Lutter. Yes, that was it.”
“Were you perhaps at Lutter?” asked the pastor.
“I was at Lutter, yes.”
“Was it there that you lost your arm?”
“No, that was much later. I was at Lutter, with Wallenstein.”
“You mean to say that you fought against your King?” said the pastor.
“Well, Morten told me to get clear out of Jutland. So I went into Germany. And what could I do? It was winter; no one wanted a farm hand. But there was always fighting. Besides, Wallenstein paid much better than the King.”
“It has nothing to do with the case,” said the pastor, “still, I should be interested to know where you did lose your arm.”
“That was at Lützen,” said the beggar. “That was in ’thirty-two, I mind. We had a bad time at Lützen. And since then I beg.”
“It was a sorrowful thing for Jutland,” said the pastor, “the defeat of the King. Now, that was 1626, in August. So that I reckon that you left Jutland in the fall of 1625. You have been gone then full one and twenty years, and more than half that time you have 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.