Sheriff Lönnegren stepped inside, followed by Dean Brusander. After them came the assistant pastor, Krusell, and the churchwarden, Per Persson of Åkerby, and lastly the village bailiff, and Sheriff Lönnegren’s hired man. Danjel followed the callers inside; six men entered the room where Danjel’s little flock waited in trepidation — three from the spiritual authorities and three from the temporal. Dean Brusander and Pastor Krusell were dressed in the official garb of the clergy. Both ministers were pale and serious, and their black garments inspired awe.
Sheriff Lönnegren removed his uniform cap but was still unable to stand erect under the low ceiling of the peasant cottage; he hit his forehead against a beam and half exploded in an oath before he remembered the clerical company. He turned to the owner of the farm. “What are these people doing here in the middle of the night?”
“We are gathered in a devotional repast,” answered Danjel calmly.
The sheriff looked sharply at the neighbors. “I recognize people who do not belong to your house, Danjel Andreasson. It seems to me an unlawful meeting is taking place here.”
The two neighboring wives whispered anxiously to their husbands as the sheriff requested their names and place of residence. Danjel again called on his guests to remain calm and unafraid.
Ulrika of Västergöhl did not seem alarmed, rather angry. She glared with disgust at the peacebreakers.
The dean still remained silent while he studied the parishioners gathered around the old table: Pihl, the old soldier, reveler and gambler, often reproved but never improving until at last dishonorable discharge ended his crown service; Sissa Svensdotter, a poor creature, crippled, lame, and committed twice for thievery; and Ulrika of Västergöhl, repulsive harlot to whom the devil had given a fair body to entice men for whoring, and who had been mainly responsible for adultery within the parish. Indeed, the new Åkian master had gathered the dregs of the community around him.
Brusander caught sight of the wine jug on the table, he looked at the cake plate with cookies in the form of crosses, and his face paled still more. He drew in his breath deeply, his voice vibrated with indignation, rising to despair: “Your poor confused creatures! You defile the holy sacrament!”
“We enjoy the dear sacraments,” answered Danjel, humble yet inflexible.
“Which you have denied us, Mr. Dean!” injected Soldier Pihl.
“Because we no longer crawl under the priest cape!” added Ulrika.
Without paying attention to these remarks the dean turned to Sheriff Lönnegren, pointing at the table. “What more is needed? Danjel Andreasson administers the holy sacrament to these people! We have caught him in the act in his own house. We are all your witnesses to this offense.”
The sheriff regarded Danjel’s Communion table with a thoughtful and somewhat annoyed expression: he had set out tonight on this business most unwillingly, at Brusander’s request. People gathering for devotion within four walls did not distress him as they did the dean. He liked to leave people alone as long as they were quiet within doors, didn’t disturb the peace in public places, and didn’t harm their fellow men. These here did not harm other people, they were poor, wretched creatures, in rags, with defects and ugliness, poor devils, but no nuisance here. And when others were allowed to gather in peace for gambling and drinking, why shouldn’t these poor drones in religion be left undisturbed, as long as they in their turn left others undisturbed? The sheriff had advised the dean to attempt a reconciliation between the dissenters and the church.
However, the reconciliation had not taken place; and their meeting was forbidden by law. Law was law, and duty was duty, and it behooved a crown sheriff to do his official duty in this place.
Lönnegren spoke to Danjel sternly: “Do you admit that you hold meetings and administer the holy sacrament?”
“Yes, Mr. Sheriff.”
“Have you tonight administered the sacrament to these people?”
“Not to all of them as yet. I was interrupted by you, Mr. Sheriff.”
“But you must know that no one is allowed to hold Communion without being ordained?”
“That I do not know.”
“But the dean here has told you so.”
“I do not obey the dean, but Holy Writ. The Bible says nowhere that our Lord Jesus was ordained.”
“Don’t get yourself into an argument with this hair-splitter,” advised the dean. “These things are too deep for the simple and ignorant.”
“You hear what your pastor says!” said Lönnegren. “Aren’t you going to obey him, you scoun — scou—” The sheriff’s usual term of address froze on his lips this time. He met the calm, fearless look of the little peasant, and swallowed the other half of the word. There was something strange in that man’s unchangeable meekness and unswerving politeness. In some way, through his gentleness and calm, he was beyond reach. It seemed to the sheriff that he couldn’t touch Danjel with his reprimands.
Lönnegren continued: “It has been proved that you have broken the law pertaining to the sacraments, Danjel Andreasson.”
“There is no law over those who live in Christ.”
“There, you hear for yourself!” interrupted Brusander. “He sets himself above the authorities and public ordinances.”
Danjel could only make matters worse through his fearless answers, and Lönnegren did not wish him to worsen his case. He might have a tedious investigation on his hands if this meeting came under the sedition paragraph; he wanted to finish the business as quickly as possible.
“I’ll call you in for questioning, Danjel,” he said. “After that you will be sued in civil court, as well as all others gathered here.”
Danjel listened unmoved to the sheriff. Of late he had felt the time of persecution nearing.
Lönnegren ordered the bailiff to take down the names of all present at the meeting. The neighbors, on hearing that their names would be taken, immediately rose from the table, slowly easing themselves in the general direction of the door.
The dean held a whispered consultation with his assistant, then he stepped forward and demanded attention. “I have once forbidden you, Danjel Andreasson, to meddle in anything pertaining to the ministry. You persist in your excesses and it is therefore necessary now to treat you according to the letter of the law. The same holds true for the others who have broken the sacramental law here tonight.
“But I beg you to think of your eternal salvation. Each one of you who regrets his transgressions, and recalls them, will be again received by me into the fold of the church. I cannot be responsible to my God unless I do all I can to save you from eternal fire.”
He now had tears in his eyes.
Ulrika of Västergöhl threw looks of hatred toward the spiritual guide of the parish. “We have our Redeemer here among us. We don’t have to hang on to the coat tails of a priest. To hell with you!” She spat.
“You blaspheme, woman!” Pastor Krusell exclaimed excitedly.
“This is our temple. Get out of the light, priests! You darken this room. You stand there black and evil like the devil himself!”
“This woman reviles the ministry!” said Pastor Krusell to the dean.
Dean Brusander turned to Ulrika of Västergöhl, in all his dignity. “I see that you have not mended your ways.” He looked at the wine mug in front of her, and repugnance and loathing crept into his voice: “You harlot, how dare you take Christ’s blood into your foul mouth!”
“I do as I damn well please, you God-damned priest!”
Brusander recoiled. He took a step backward and sucked in his breath; he mustn’t lose his head.
The churchwarden, Per Persson, stepped forward to help the parish pastor. He shouted to Ulrika: “How dare you insult the dean!”