Old Kristin had to run after her with her coat and hat.
At last the carriage was full and they started off. Out in the yard in the sunshine it was still temptingly warm. The lilac bushes had great green buds and the damp soil of the flower beds was steaming round the bulbs. But in the avenue they met the cold air from the dirty snow in the ditches. And whenever a little cloud hid the sun for a moment, they were back in winter again. It was one of those treacherous and dangerous days when the cautious and the wise, such as old Hermansson, prefer to keep their fur coats on.
It was some distance to the Church, which was situated at a crossing of two roads, by the side of a plain which was chequered by the black, brown, and green of fallow land, pastures, and young rye.
Behind it rose a bare slope sprinkled with juniper trees which resembled dark solid flames. The Church was very old, without a tower. With its high black roof, its coarse walls of rustic stone, it resembled a fortress, a barn, or a cellar. And there was a musty smell beneath the vaulted roof, for in spite of the big rusty stove, the cold winter air still lingered.
With the troop of children close upon his heels old Hermansson squeezed himself into the high narrow pew. He did so the more calmly as the pew was at this moment the most respectable place. But to Mr. Brundin the hard wooden seat of duty at once seemed repugnant.
Hedvig stealthily joined the other children who were to be confirmed, and sat down under the pulpit.
The clergyman was an old shaggy-bearded man with a face like granite and reindeer-moss. This teacher of Our Lord began the catechism in a dry, hard voice, as if he were engaged in an interrogation on the four rules of arithmetic rather than in partaking of the divine sacrament. In this severe old Church, confronted by this severe old man, the gospel seemed to be a vain mockery and punishment, the great punishment, the only reality. It was strange to hear the young girlish voices answer his lifeless voice as it spelled out, without a spark of fire, the long record of judgment. It was as if Death had been sitting on a stone and piped a tune on a dry bone, while frightened Echo answered from the green shores of life. There was in the quick, breathless repetition of the lesson every degree of fear, from the side-glance which would avoid the whip, down to the low trembling sigh that dies out in a sob. But he who had ears to hear would nevertheless have been startled by Hedvig’s voice. She knew her lesson and her voice did not shake, but there was something unnaturally tense, something of keenest anguish in her voice.