Valuable and beautiful skins hung on the walls and covered the
floors; his very bed was nothing else; Harald Kaas lay, and sat,
and walked on skins, and each one of them was a welcome subject of
conversation, for he had shot and flayed every single animal
himself. To be sure, there were those who hinted that most of the
skins had been bought from Brand and Company, of Bergen, and that
only the stories were shot and flayed at home.
I for my part think that this was an exaggeration; but be that as
it may, the effect was equally thrilling when Harald Kaas, seated
in his log chair by the fireside, his feet on the bearskin, opened
his shirt to show us the scars on his hairy chest (and what scars
they were!) which had been made by the bear's teeth, when he had
driven his knife, right up to the haft, into the monster's heart.
All the queer tankards, and cupboards, and carved chairs listened
with their wonted impassiveness.
Harald Kaas was sixty, when, in the month of July, he sailed into
the bay accompanied by four ladies whom he had brought from the
steamer--an elderly lady and three young ones, all related to him.
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