This minimalist audio experiment elegantly captures the raw essence of Lagerlöf’s spiritual themes by stripping away modern distractions. It is a sophisticated tribute to the idea that profound personal growth often emerges from silence and simplicity.
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The Spirit of Fasting and Petter Nord by Selma Lagerlöf | B&W | Rode NTG experiment | Chap 1 & 2Added:
Part two.
Petanord felt that this was happiness, to be the favorite of the ladies, to dare to talk to them, to be in the midst of lights, of movement, to be made much of, to be petted. Surely this was happiness.
When the ball was over, he was too happy to think about it.
He needed to come home to be able to think over quietly what had happened to him that evening.
Halverson was not married, but he had in his house a niece who worked in the office.
She was poor and dependent on Halerson, but she was quite haughty towards both him and Peter Nord.
She had many friends among the more important people of the town and was invited to families where Halersonen could never come.
She and Petanord went home from the ball together.
Do you know Nord asked Edith Halerson that a suit is soon to be brought against Halerson for illicit trading in Brandy?
You might tell me how it really is.
There is nothing worth making a fuss about, said Petanord.
Edith sighed. Of course there is nothing.
But there will be a lawsuit and fines and shame without end.
I wish that I really knew how it is.
Perhaps it is best not to know anything, said Petanord.
I wish to rise in the world, do you see?
Continued Edith.
And I wish to drag Halerson up with me, but he always drops back again.
And then he does something so that I become impossible too.
He is scheming something now.
Do you not know what it is?
It would be good to know. No, said Petanord.
And not another word would he say.
It was inhuman to talk to him of such things on the way home from his first ball.
Beyond the shop there was a little dark room for the shop boy.
There sat Petanord of today and came to an understanding with Petanord of yesterday.
How pale and cowardly the chur looked.
Now he heard what he really was, a thief and a miser.
Did he know the seventh commandment?
By rights. He ought to have 40 stripes.
That was what he deserved.
God be blessed and praised for having let him go to the ball and get a new view of it all.
What ugly thoughts he had had.
But now it was quite changed.
As if riches were worth sacrificing conscience and the soul's freedom for their sake. As if they were worth as much as a white mouse.
If the heart could not be glad at the same time.
He clasped his hands and cried out in joy that he was free, free, free.
There was not even a longing to possess 50 crowns in his heart. How good it was to be happy.
When he had gone to bed, he thought that he would show Halerson the 50 crowns early the next morning.
Then he became uneasy that the tradesman might come into the shop before him the next morning, search for the note, and find it.
He might easily think that Peter Nord had hidden it to keep it.
The thought gave him no peace.
He tried to shake it off, but he could not succeed.
He could not sleep, so he rose, crept into the shop, and felt about till he found the 50 crowns.
Then he fell asleep with the note under his pillow.
An hour later he woke. A light shone sharply in his eyes. A hand was fumbling under his pillow and a rumbling voice was scolding and swearing.
Before the boy was really awake, Halerson had the note in his hand and showed it to the two women who stood in the doorway to his room.
"You say that I was right," said Halerson.
You see that it was well worthwhile for me to drag you up to bear witness against him. You see that he is a thief.
No, no, no, screamed poor Petanord.
I did not wish to steal. I only hid the note.
Halfen heard nothing.
Both the women stood with their backs turned to the room as if determined to neither hear nor see.
Petanord sat up in bed. He looked all of a sudden pitifully weak and small. His tears were streaming. He wailed aloud.
"Uncle," said Edith. "He is weeping. Let him weep," said Halson. "Let him weep."
And he walked forward and looked at the boy. You can weep all you like, he said, but that does not take me in.
Oh, oh, cried Petanord. I'm no thief. I hid the note as a joke to make you angry. I wanted to pay you back for the mice. I am not a thief. Will no one listen to me? I'm not a thief.
Uncle, said Eith, if you have tortured him enough now, perhaps we may go back to bed.
I know, of course, that it sounds terrible, said Halerson, but it cannot be helped. He was gay, in very high spirits.
I have had my eye on you for a long time, he said to the boy. You have always something you are tucking away when I come into the shop. But now I've caught you. Now I leave witnesses, and now I am going for the police.
The boy gave a piercing scream. "Will no one help me?" "Will no one help me?" he cried.
Halerson was gone. And the old woman who managed his house came up to him. "Get up and dress yourself, Petanord.
Halerson has gone for the police. And while he is away, you can escape.
The young lady can go out into the kitchen and get you a little food. I will pack your things.
The terrible weeping instantly ceased.
After a short time of hurry, the boy was ready. He kissed both the women on the hand humbly like a whipped dog, and then off he ran.
They stood in the door and looked after him.
When he was gone, they drew a sigh of relief.
"What will Halerson say?" said Edith.
He will be glad," answered the housekeeper.
He put the money there for the boy, I think. I guess that he wanted to be rid of him.
"But why, the boy was the best one we have had in the shop for many years. He probably did not want to give testimony in the affair of the brandy."
Edith stood silent and breathed quickly.
"It is so base, so base," she murmured.
She clenched her fist towards the office and towards the little pain in the door through which Halerson could see into the shop.
She would have liked she too have fled out into the world away from all this meanness.
She heard a sound far in in the shop.
She listened, went nearer, followed the noise, and at last found behind a keg of herring the cage of petanords, white mice.
She took it up, put it on the counter, and opened the cage door. Mouse after mouse scampered out, and disappeared behind boxes and barrels. May you flourish and increase, said Edith. May you do injury and revenge your master.
Chapter 2.
The little town lay friendly and contented under its red hill.
It was so embedded in green that the church tower only just stuck up out of it.
Garden after garden crowded one another on narrow terraces up the slope. And when they could go no further in that direction, they leapt with their bushes and trees across the street and spread themselves out between the scattered farmhouses and on the narrow strips of earth about them until they were stopped by the broad river.
Complete silence and quiet rained in the town.
Not a soul was to be seen, only trees and bushes, and now and again a house.
The only sound to be heard was the rolling of balls in the bowling alley, like distant thunder on a summer's day.
It belonged to the silence.
But now the uneven stones of the marketplace were ground under iron shaw heels.
The noise of coarse voices thundered against the walls of the town hall and the church was thrown back from the mountain and hastened unchecked down the long street.
Four wayfairers disturbed the noonday peace.
The last for the sweet silence the holiday peace of years.
How terrified they were. One could almost see them betaking themselves in flight up the mountain slopes.
One of the noisy crew who broke into the village was Petanord, the Vamland boy, who 6 years before had run away, accused of theft.
Those who were with him were three long shoremen from the big commercial town that lies only a few miles away.
How had little Peter Nord been getting on? He had been getting on well. He had found one of the most sensible of friends and companions.
As he ran away from the village in the dark, rainy February morning. The Pska tunes seathed and roared in his ears.
And one of them was more persistent than all the others. It was the one they had all sung during the ring dance.
Christmas time has come. Christmas time has come. And after Christmas time comes Easter. That is not true at all. That is not true at all. For Lent comes after Christmas feasting. The fugitive heard it so distinctly so distinctly.
And then the wisdom that is hidden in the old ring dance forced itself upon the little pleasure-loving farmland boy forced itself into his very fiber blended with every drop of blood soaked into his brain and marrow.
It is so.
It is so. That is the meaning. Between Christmas and Easter, between the festivals of birth and death comes life's fasting.
One shall ask nothing of life. It is a poor, miserable fast. One shall never trust it, however it may appear. The next moment it is gray and ugly again.
It is not its fault, poor thing. It cannot help it.
Petanord felt almost proud at having cheated life out of its most profound secret.
He thought he saw the palid spirit of fasting creeping about over the earth in the shape of a beggar with Lenton twigs in her hand.
Footnote.
In Sweden, just before Easter, bunches of birch twigs with small feathers tied on the ends are sold everywhere on the streets.
The origin of this custom is unknown.
And he heard how she hissed him, "You have wished to celebrate the festival of joy and merry moods in the midst of the time of fasting, which is called life.
Therefore, shame and dishonor shall befall you until you change your ways."
He had changed his ways, and the spirit of fasting had protected him.
He had never needed to go farther than to the big town, for he was never followed, and in its working quarter the spirit of fasting had her dwelling.
Petanord found work in a machine shop.
He grew strong and energetic. He became serious and thrifty.
He had fine Sunday clothes. He acquired new knowledge, borrowed books, and went to lectures. There was nothing really left of little Petanord but his white hair and his brown eyes.
That night had broken something in him, and the heavy work at the machine shop made the break ever bigger, so that the wild Varmland boy had crept quite out through it.
He no longer talked nonsense, for no one was allowed to speak in the shop, and he soon learned silent ways.
He no longer invented anything new, for since he had to look after springs and wheels in earnest, he no longer found them amusing.
He never fell in love, for he could not be interested in the women of the working quarter after he had learned to know the beauties of his native town.
He had no mice, no squirrels, nothing to play with. He had no time. He understood that such things were useless, and he thought with horror of the time when he used to fight with street boys.
Petanord did not believe that life could be anything but gray, gray, gray.
Petanord always had a dull time, but he was so used to it that he did not notice it.
Petanord was proud of himself because he had become so virtuous.
He dated his good behavior from that night when joy failed him and fasting became his companion and friend.
But how could the virtuous Petanord be coming to the village on a workday accompanied by three boon companions who were loafers and drunken.
He'd always been a good boy, poor Petanord, and he had always tried to help those three good forno as well as he could, although he despised them.
He had come with wood to their miserable hvel, when the winter was most severe, and he had patched and mended their clothes.
The men held together like brothers, principally because they were all three named Peta. That name united them much more than if they had been born brothers.
And now they allowed the boy on account of that name to do them friendly services.
And when they had got their grog ready, and settled themselves comfortably on their wooden chairs, they entertained him, sitting and darning the gaping holes in their stockings with gallows humor and adventurous lies.
Petinord liked it, although he would not acknowledge it. They were now for him almost what the mice had been formerly.
Now it happened that these dwarf rats had heard some gossip from the village and after the space of 6 years they brought Petanord information that Halersonen had put the 50 crowns out for him to disqualify him as a witness.
And in their opinion Petanord ought to go back to the town and punish Halerson.
But Petanord was sensible and deliberate and equipped with the wisdom of this world. He would not have anything to do with such a proposal.
The Peters spread the story about through the whole quarter. Everyone said to Peter Nord, "Go back and punish Halerson. Then you will be arrested and there will be a trial and the thing will get into the papers and the fellow shame will be known throughout all the land.
But Petanord would not.
It might be amusing but revenge is a costly pleasure and Petanord knew that life is poor.
Life cannot afford such amusement.
One morning the three men had come to him and said that they were going in his place to beat Halersonen. Their justice should be on earth as they had said.
Petanord threatened to kill all three of them if they went one step on the way to the village. Then one of them who was little and short and whose name was Long Peta made a speech to Peter Nord. This earth, he said, is an apple hanging by a string over a fire to roast.
By the fire, I mean the kingdom of the evil one, Petanord. And the apple must hang near the fire to be sweet and tender.
But if the string breaks and the apple falls into the fire, it is destroyed.
Therefore, the string is very important, Peta Nord. Do you understand what is meant by the string?
I guess it must be a steel wire, said Petanord.
By the string, I mean justice, said Long Peta with deep seriousness.
If there is no justice on earth, everything falls into the fire.
Therefore, the avenger may not refuse to punish, or if he will not do it, others must.
This is the last time I will offer any of you any grog, said Peter Nord, quite unmoved by the speech.
Yes, it can't be helped, said Long Peta.
Justice must be done.
We do not do it to be thanked by you, but in order that the honorable name of Peta shall not be brought into disrepute, said one whose name was Ruler Peta, and who was tall and morose.
Really, is the name so highly esteemed, said Peter Nord contemptuously.
Yes. And the worst of it is that they are beginning to say everywhere in all the saloons that you must have meant to steal the 50 crowns since you will not have the shopkeeper punished.
Those words bit in deep.
Petanord started up and said that he would go and beat the shopkeeper.
Yes, and we will go with you and help you, said the loafers.
And so they started off, four men strong to the village.
At first Pet was gloomy and sirly and much more angry with his friends than with his enemy.
But when he came to the bridge over the river, he became quite changed.
He felt as if he had met there a little weeping fugitive and had crept into him.
And as he became more at home in the old Petanord, he felt what a grievous wrong the shopkeeper had done to him.
Not only because he had tried to tempt him and ruin him, but worst of all because he had driven him away from that town where Petanord could have remained.
But worst of all, because he had driven him away from that town, where Petanord could have remained Petan Nord all the days of his life.
Oh, what fun he had had in those days.
How happy and glad he had been. How open his heart, how beautiful the world.
Lord God, if he had only been allowed to live here, and he thought of what he was now, silent and stupid, serious and industrious, quite like a prodigal, he grew passionately angry with Halerson, and instead of, as before, following his companions, he dashed past them.
But the tramps, who had not come merely to punish Halersonen, but also to let their wroth break loose, hardly knew how to begin. There was nothing for an angry man to do here. There was not a dog to chase, nor a street sweeper to pick a quarrel with, nor a fine gentleman at whom to throw an insult.
It was early in the year. The spring was just turning into summer. It was the white time of cherry and hawthornne blossoms when bunches of lilacs cover the high round bushes and the air is full of the fragrance of the apple blossoms.
These men who had come direct from paved streets and warves to this realm of flowers were strangely affected by it.
Three pairs of fists, that till now had been fiercely clenched, relaxed, and three pairs of heels thundered a little less violently against the pavement.
From the marketplace they saw a pathway that wound up the hill.
Along it grew young cherry trees, which formed vaulted arches with their white tops. The arch was light and floating, and the branches absurdly slender, altogether weak, delicate, and youthful.
The cherry path attracted the eyes of the men against their will.
What an unpractical hole it was, where people planted cherry trees, where anyone could take the cherries.
The three petters had considered it before as a nest of iniquity, full of cruelty and tyranny.
Now they began to laugh at it, and even to despise it a little.
But the fourth one of the company did not laugh. His longing for revenge was seething ever more fiercely, for he felt that this was the town where he ought to have lived and labored.
It was his lost paradise.
And without paying any attention to the others, he walked quickly up the street.
They followed him, and when they saw that there was only one street, and when they saw only flowers and more flowers, the whole length of it. Their scorn and their good humor increased.
It was perhaps the first time in their lives that they had ever noticed flowers, but here they could not help of it, for the clusters of lilac blossoms brushed off their caps, and the petals of cherry blossoms rained down over them. "What kind of people do you suppose live in this town?" said Long Peta musingly.
Bees, answered cobbler Peter, who had received his name because he had once lived in the same house as a shoe maker.
Of course, little by little they perceived a few people. In the windows, behind shining panes and white curtains, appeared young, pretty faces, and they saw children playing on the terraces.
But no noise disturbed the silence.
It seemed to them as if the trump of the day of doom itself would not be able to wake this town.
What could they do with themselves in such a town?
They went into a shop and bought some beer. They were asked several questions of the shopmen in a terrible voice.
They asked if the fire brigade had their engines in order and wondered if there were clappers in the church bells, if there should happen to be an alarm.
They drank their beer in the street and threw the bottles away. 1 2 3 All the bottles at the same corner, thunder and crash, and the splinters flew about their ears.
They heard steps behind them, real steps, voices loud, distinct voices, laughter, much laughter, and moreover a rattling as if of metal.
They were appalled and drew back into a doorway. It sounded like a whole company.
It was one, too, but of young girls. All the maids of the town were going out in a body to the pastures to milk.
It made the deepest impression on these city men, the citizens of the world, the maids of the town with milk pales. It was almost touching.
They suddenly jumped out of their doorway and cried, "Boo!"
The whole troop of girls scattered instantly. They screamed and ran. Their skirts fluttered, their headcloths loosened, their milk pales rolled about the street.
And at the same time along the whole street was heard a deafening sound of gates and doors slammed too, of hooks and bolts and locks.
Farther down the street stood a big Lynden tree, and under it sat an old woman by a table with candies and cakes.
She did not move. She did not look round. She only sat still. She was not asleep either.
She is made of wood, said cobbler Peta.
No, of clay, said Ruler Peta. They walked a breast, all three. Just in front of the old woman, they began to reel. They staggered against her table, and the old woman began to scold.
"Neither of wood nor of clay," they said. "Venom, only venom."
During all this time, Petanord had not spoken to them, but now at last they were directly in front of Halerson's shop.
And there he was, waiting for them.
This is undeniably my affair, he said proudly, and pointed at the shop. I wish to go in alone and attend to it. If I do not succeed, then you may try.
They nodded. Go ahead, Petanord. We will wait outside.
Petanord went in, found a young man alone in the shop, and asked about Halersonen.
He heard that the latter had gone away.
He had quite a talk with the cler, and obtained a good deal of information about his master.
Halfen had never been accused of illicit trade.
how he had behaved towards Peter Nord, everyone knew, but no one spoke of that affair anymore.
Alphon had risen in the world, and now he was not at all dangerous.
He was not inhuman to his debtors, and had ceased to spy on his shop boys. The last few years he had devoted himself to gardening. He had laid out a garden around his house in the town and a kitchen garden near the customhouse.
He worked so eagerly in his gardens that he scarcely thought of amassing money.
Petanord felt a stab in his heart.
Of course the man was good. He had remained in paradise.
Of course anyone was good who lived there.
Edith Halverson was still with her uncle, but she had been ill for a while.
Her lungs were weak ever since an attack of pneumonia in the winter.
While Petanord was listening to all this, and more, too, the three men stood outside and waited.
In Halerson's shadeless garden, a bower of birch had been arranged, so that Edith might lie there in the beautiful warm spring days.
She regained her strength slowly, but her life was no longer in danger.
Some people make one feel that they are not able to live.
At their first illness, they lie down and die.
Half's niece was long since weary of everything, of the office, of the dim little shop, of money getting.
When she was 17 years old, she had the incentive of winning friends and acquaintances.
Then she undertook to try to keep Halersonen in the path of virtue.
But now everything was accomplished.
She saw no prospect of escaping from the monotony of her life. She might as well die.
She was of an elastic nature, like a steel spring, a bundle of nerves and vivacity, when anything troubled or tormented her.
How she had worked with strategy and artifice, with womanly goodness and womanly daring, before she had reached the point with her uncle, when she was sure that there was no longer danger of any petord affairs.
But now that he was tamed and subdued, she had nothing to interest her.
Yes.
And yet she would not die.
She lay and thought of what she would do when she was well again. Suddenly she started up, hearing someone say in a very loud voice that he alone wished to settle with Halverson.
And then another voice answered, "Go ahead, Petanord.
Petanord was the most terrible, the most fatal name in the world. It meant a revival of all the old troubles.
Edith rose with trembling limbs, and just then three dreadful creatures came around the corner and stopped to stare at her. There was only a low rail and a thin hedge between her and the street.
Edith was alone. The maids had gone to milk, and Halerson was working in his garden by the customhouse, although he had told the shopboy to say that he had gone away, for he was ashamed of his passion for gardening.
Edith was terribly frightened at the three men, as well as at the one who had gone into the shop.
She was sure that they wished to do her harm.
So she turned and ran up the mountain by the steep, slippery path and the narrow wooden steps which led from terrace to terrace.
The strange men thought it too delightfully funny that she ran from them. They could not resist pretending that they wished to catch her. One of them climbed up on the railing and all three shouted with a terrible voice.
Edith ran as one runs in dreams, panting, falling, terrified to death, with a horrible feeling of not getting away from one spot.
All sorts of emotions stormed through her and shook her so that she thought she was going to die. Yes, if one of those men laid his hand on her, she knew that she would die.
When she had reached the highest terrace and dared to look back, she found that the men were still in the street and were no longer looking at her.
Then she threw herself down on the ground quite powerless.
The exertion had been greater than she could bear.
She felt something burst in her.
Then blood streamed from her lips.
She was found by the maids as they went home from the milking.
She was then half dead.
For the moment she was brought back to life, but no one dared to hope that she could live long.
She could not talk that day enough to tell in what way she had been frightened.
Had she done so, it is uncertain if the strange men had come alive from the town.
They fared badly enough as it was, for after Petanord had come out to them again, and had told them that Halverson was not at home, all four of them, in good accord went out through the gates, and found a sunny slope where they could sleep away the time until the shopmen returned.
But in the afternoon, when all the men of the town who had been working in the fields came home again, the women told them about the tramp's visit, about their threatening questions in the shop when they had bought the beer, and about all their boisterous behavior.
The women exaggerated and magnified everything, for they had sat at home and frightened one another the whole afternoon. Their husbands believed that their houses and their homes were in danger. They determined to capture the disturbers of the peace, found a stout-hearted man to lead them, took thick cudles with them, and started off.
The whole town was alive. The women came out on their doorsteps and frightened one another. It was both terrible and exciting.
Before long, the captives returned with their game. They had them, all four.
They had made a ring round them while they slept and captured them. No heroism had been required for the deed.
Now they came back to the town with them, driving them as if they had been animals.
A mad thirst for revenge had seized upon the conquerors.
They struck for the pleasure of striking. When one of the prisoners clenched his fist at them, he received a blow on the head which knocked him down, and thereupon blows hailed upon him until he got up and went on.
The four men were almost dead.
The old poems are so beautiful. The captured hero sometimes must walk in chains in the triumphal procession of his victorious enemy. But he is proud and beautiful still in adversity, and looks follow him as well as the fortunate one who has conquered him.
Beaut's tears and wreaths belong to him still, even in misfortune.
But who could be enraptured of poor Petanord?
His coat was torn and his towolled hair sticky with blood. He received the most blows, for he offered the most resistance.
He looked terrible as he walked. He roared without knowing it. Boys caught hold of him, and he dragged them long distances.
Once he stopped and flung off the crowd in the street.
Just as he was about to escape, a blow from a cudel fell on his head and knocked him down. He rose up again, half stunned and staggered on, blows raining upon him, and the boys hanging like leeches to his arms and legs.
They met the old mayor, who was on his way home from his game of wis in the garden of the inn. "Yes," he said to the advanced guard. "Yes, take them to the prison."
He placed himself at the head of the procession, shouted, and ordered. In a second, everything was in line.
Prisoners and guards marched in peace and order. The villagers cheeks flushed.
Some of them threw down their cudgils.
Others put them on their shoulders like musketss. And so the prisoners were transferred into the keeping of the police and were taken to the prison in the marketplace.
those who had saved the town stood a long time in the marketplace and told of their courage and of their great exploit.
And in the little room of the inn, where the smoke is as thick as a cloud, and the great men of the town mix their midnight toddy, more is heard of the deed, magnified.
They grow bigger in their rocking chairs. They swell in their sofa corners. They are all heroes.
What force is slumbering in that little town of mighty memories? Thou formidable inheritance, thou old Viking blood.
The old mayor did not like the whole affair.
He could not quite reconcile himself to the stirring of the old Viking blood. He could not sleep for thinking of it, and went out again into the street and strolled slowly towards the square.
It was a mild spring night. The church clock's only hand pointed to 11. The balls had ceased to roll on the bowling alley. The curtains were drawn down. The houses seemed to sleep with closed eyelids.
The steep hill behind was black as if in morning. But in the midst of all the sleep, there was one thing awake.
The fragrance of the flowers did not sleep. It stole over the lynen hedges, poured out from the gardens, rushed up and down the street, climbed up to every window standing open, to every skylight that sucked in fresh air.
Everyone whom the fragrance reached instantly saw before him his little town, although the darkness had gently settled down over it. He saw it as a village of flowers where it was not house by house but garden by garden.
He saw the cherry trees that raised their white arches over the steep wood path, the lilac clusters, the swelling buds of glorious roses, the proud peies, and the drifts of flower petals on the ground beneath the hawthorns.
The old mayor was deep in thought. He was so wise and so old. 70 years had he reached, and for 50 he had managed the affairs of the town. But that night he asked himself if he had done right. I had the town in my hand, he thought, but I have not made it anything great.
and he thought of its great past and was the more uncertain if he had done right.
He stood in the marketplace looking out over the river. A boat came with oars. A few villagers were coming home from a picnic. Girls in light dresses held the oars. They steered in under the arch of the bridge. But there the current was strong and they were drawn back. There was a violent struggle. Their slender bodies were bent backwards until they lay even with the edge of the boat.
Their soft arm muscles tightened. The oars bent like bows.
The noise of laughter and cries filled the air. Again and again the current conquered the boat was driven back.
And when at last the girls had to land at the market key and leave the boat for men to take home, how red and vexed they were. and how they laughed.
How their laughter echoed down the street. How their broad shady hats, their light fluttering summer dresses enlivened the quiet night.
The old mayor saw in his mind's eye, for in the darkness he could not see them distinctly, their sweet young faces, their beautiful clear eyes and red lips.
Then he straightened himself proudly up.
The little town was not without all glory.
Other communities could boast of other things, but he knew no place richer in flowers and in the enchanting fairness of its women.
Then the old man thought with newborn courage of his efforts.
He need not fear for the future of the town. Such a town did not need to protect itself with strict laws.
He felt compassion on the unfortunate prisoners. He went and w the justice of the peace and talked with him and the two were of one mind. They went together to the prison and set Petanord and his companions free.
And they did right for the little town is like the Milo Aphroditi.
It has alluring beauty and it lacks arms to hold fast.
Until next time.
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