eadly rain of steel. She
bent her head and knew that she must die. But when they came near,
quite near to her, she had to look up. Then she saw that the gray
birds were all these old women.

One of them began to speak. She knew what was proper, what was
fitting in a house of mourning. They had now been silent long
enough. But the wife started up as from a blow. What did the woman
mean to say? "You, Matts Wik's wife, Anna Wik, confess! You have
lied long enough before God and before us. We are your judges. We
will judge you and rend you to pieces."

No, the woman began to speak of husbands. And the others chimed in,
as the occasion demanded. What was said was not in the husbands'
praise. All the evil husbands had done was dragged forward. It was
as consolation for a deserted wife.

Injury was heaped upon injury. Strange beings these husbands! They
beat us, they drink up our money, they pawn our furniture. Why on
earth had Our Lord created them?

The tongues became like dragons' fangs; they spat venom, they
spouted fire. Each one added her word. Anecdotes were piled upon
anecdotes. A wife fled from her home before a drunken husband.
Wives slaved for idle husbands. Wives were deserted for other
women. The tongues whistled like whip lashes. The misery of homes
was laid bare. Long litanies were read. From the tyranny of the
husband deliver us, good Lord!

Illness and poverty, the children's death, the winter's cold,
trouble with the old people, everything was the husband's fault.
The slaves hissed at their masters. They turned their stings
against them, before whose feet they crept.

The deserted wife felt how it cut and stabbed in her ears. She
dared to defend the incorrigible ones. "My husband," she said, "is
good." The women started up, hissed and snorted. "He has run away.
He is no better than anybody else. He, who is an old man, ought to
know better than to run away from wife and child. Can you believe
that he is better than the others?"

The wife trembled; she felt as if she was being dragged through
prickly bramble-bushes. Her husband considered a sinner! She
flushed with shame, wished to speak, but was silent. She was
afraid; she had not the power. But why did God keep silent? Why
did God let such things be?

If she should take the letter and read it aloud, then the stream
of poison would be turned. The venom would sprinkle upon her. The
horror of death came over her. She did not dare. She half wished
th