"Now we must get out and run a little," said the father suddenly. Ditte was unwilling to move, she was so warm and comfortable. There was no help for it however. "We must get the blood to run again," said he, lifting her out of the cart. Then they ran for some time by the side of the nag, which threw out its big hoofs in a jog-trot, so as not to be outdone.
"Shall we soon be home?" asked Ditte, when she was in the cart again, well wrapped up.
"Oh-h, there's a bit left--you've run seven miles, child! Now tell me what's the meaning of your running about like this."
Then Ditte told him about the school, the injustice she had had to bear, the whipping and everything. In between there were growls from Lars Peter, as he stamped his feet on the bottom of the cart--he could hardly tolerate to listen to this tale. "But you won't tell Sörine, will you?" she added with fear. "Mother, I mean," she hastily corrected herself.
"You needn't be afraid," was all he said.
He was silent for the rest of the journey, and was very slow in unharnessing; Ditte kept beside him. Sörine came out with a lantern and spoke to him, but he did not answer. She cast a look of fear at him and the child, hung up the lantern, and hurried in.
Soon after he came in, holding Ditte by the hand, her little hand shaking in his. His face was gray; in his right hand was a thick stick. Sörine fled from his glance; right under the clock; pressing herself into the corner, gazing at them with perplexity.
"Ay, you may well gaze at us," said he, coming forward--"'tis a child accusing you. What's to be done about it?" He had seated himself under the lamp, and lifting Ditte's frock, he carefully pressed his palm against the blue swollen weals, which smarted with the slightest touch. "It still hurts--you're good at thrashing! let's see if you're equally good at healing. Come and kiss the child, where you've struck her, a kiss for each stroke!"
"Oh, you think your mouth's too good to kiss what your hand's struck." He reached out for the stick.
Sörine had sunk down on the ground, she put out her hands beseechingly. But he looked inexorably at her, not at all like himself. "Well----"
Sörine lingered a few moments longer, then on her knees went and kissed the child's bruised limbs.
