The sheriff stationed himself directly in front of the place where
some planed boards were laid over the grave. At one end of it
stood the block. On the other side of the grave a platform had
been erected, from which the Dean was to speak. Peer Hagbo knelt
below on the step, with his face buried in his hands, close to the
feet of his spiritual adviser. The Dean was of Danish birth, one
of the many who, at the time of the separation, had chosen to make
their home in Norway. His addresses were beautiful to read, but
one couldn't always hear him, and least of all when he was moved,
as was frequently the case. He shouted the first words very loud;
then his head sank down between his shoulders, and he shook it
without a pause while he closed his eyes and uttered some
smothered sounds, catching his breath between them. The points of
his tall shirt-collar, which reached to the middle of his ears (I
have never since seen the like), stuck up on each side of the bare
cropped head with the two double chins underneath, and the whole
was framed between his shoulders, which, by long practice, he
could raise much higher than other men.
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