"Indeed I have," said Bengt.
The blood mounted to the brow of the great and brilliant Dean Fryxell.
"You must be silent, Bengt, when I am speaking," he said.
"Ay, ay," the old man replied. "Sure, I'm not contradicting you. Dean. 'Tis all so true what you're saying."
The Dean got redder and redder. Again he cleared his throat and made a fresh attempt.
"You, Bengt, have been a good and faithful servant, but you have also had good masters."
The old man was so elated at this he simply could not keep still.
"You're right, dear Dean, you're right! They've been grand men, all o' them—Wennervik and the Paymaster of the Regiment and this here Eric Gustaf." He reached over and put his hand on the Lieutenant's shoulder, then stroked him down the arm, his old face ashine with happiness.
Once more the Dean lifted up his voice.
"You must be silent, Bengt, when I'm speaking!"
"Why, of course," said the old man. "But 'tis so right and true every blessed word you've spoken, Dean."
Now the Dean had to smile. "You're irrepressible, Bengt. You will not have to listen to any speech. Here is your medal. May you wear it with health and honour for many years to come."
So saying, the Dean went up to the bedside and
