Setchem fought a hard battle.  At last once more through her choking tears she called his name, opened her arms wide and exclaimed: 

“Here I am—­here I am!  Come to my heart, only give up these hideous thoughts of revenge.”

But Paaker did not move, he did not look up at her, he did not speak, he only shook his head in negation.  Setchem’s hands fell, and she said softly: 

“What did your father teach you out of the scriptures?  ’Your highest praise consists in this, to reward your mother for what she has done for you, in bringing you up, so that she may not raise her hands to God, nor He hear her lamentation.’”

At these words, Paaker sobbed aloud, but he did not look at his mother.  She called him tenderly by his name; then her eyes fell on his quiver, which lay on a bench with other arms.  Her heart shrunk within her, and with a trembling voice she exclaimed: 

“I forbid this mad vengeance—­do you hear?  Will you give it up?  You do not move?  No! you will not!  Ye Gods, what can I do?”

She wrung her hands in despair; then she hastily crossed the room, snatched out one of the arrows, and strove to break it.  Paaker sprang from his seat, and wrenched the weapon from her hand; the sharp point slightly scratched the skin, and dark drops of blood flowed from it, and dropped upon the floor.

The Mohar would have taken the wounded hand, for Setchem, who had the weakness of never being able to see blood flow—­neither her own nor anybody’s else—­had turned as pale as death; but she pushed him from her, and as she spoke her gentle voice had a dull estranged tone.

“This hand,” she said—­“a mother’s hand wounded by her son—­shall never again grasp yours till you have sworn a solemn oath to put away from you all thoughts of revenge and murder, and not to disgrace your father’s name.  I have said it, and may his glorified spirit be my witness, and give me strength to keep my word!”

Paaker had fallen on his knees, and was engaged in a terrible mental struggle, while his mother slowly went towards the door.  There again she stood still for a moment; she did not speak, but her eyes appealed to him once more.

In vain.  At last she left the room, and the wind slammed the door violently behind her.  Paaker groaned, and pressed his hand over his eyes.

“Mother, mother!” he cried.  “I cannot go back—­I cannot.”

A fearful gust of wind howled round the house, and drowned his voice, and then he heard two tremendous claps, as if rocks had been hurled from heaven.  He started up and went to the window, where the melancholy grey dawn was showing, in order to call the slaves.  Soon they came trooping out, and the steward called out as soon as he saw him: 

“The storm has blown down the masts at the great gate!”

“Impossible!” cried Paaker.

“Yes, indeed!” answered the servant.  “They have been sawn through close to the ground.  The matmaker no doubt did it, whose collar-bone was broken.  He has escaped in this fearful night.”