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low away the snow flakes that settled on her hair. So it was that Canute took her to his home, even as his bearded barbarian ancestors took the fair frivolous women of the South in their hairy arms and bore them down to their war ships. For ever and anon the soul becomes weary of the conventions that are not of it, and with a single stroke shatters the civilized lies with which it is unable to cope, and the strong arm reaches out and takes by force what it cannot win by cunning. When Canute reached his shanty he placed the girl upon a chair, where she sat sobbing. He stayed only a few minutes. He filled the stove with wood and lit the lamp, drank a huge swallow of alcohol and put the bottle in his pocket. He paused a moment, staring heavily at the weeping girl, then he went off and locked the door and disappeared in the gathering gloom of the night. Wrapped in flannels and soaked with turpentine, the little Norwegian preacher sat reading his Bible, when he heard a thundering knock at his door, and Canute entered, covered with snow and with his beard frozen fast to his coat. "Come in, Canute, you must be frozen," said the little man, shoving a chair towards his visitor. Canute remained standing with his hat on and said quietly, "I want you to come over to my house tonight to marry me to Lena Yensen." "Have you got a license, Canute?" "No, I don't want a license. I want to be married." "But I can't marry you without a license, man. It would not be legal." A dangerous light came in the big Norwegian's eye. "I want you to come over to my house to marry me to Lena Yensen." "No, I can't, it would kill an ox to go out in a storm like this, and my rheumatism is bad tonight." "Then if you will not go I must take you," said Canute with a sigh. He took down the preacher's bearskin coat and bade him put it on while he hitched up his buggy. He went out and closed the door softly after him. Presently he returned and found the frightened minister crouching before the fire with his coat lying beside him. Canute helped him put it on and gently wrapped his head in his big muffler. Then he picked him up and carried him out and placed him in his buggy. As he tucked the buffalo robes around him he said: "Your horse is old, he might flounder or lose his way in this storm. I will lead him." The minister took the reins feebly in his hands and sat shivering with the cold. Sometimes when there was a lull in the wind,
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