Parson Martens pressed his handkerchief to his mouth; he was afraid that the unhealthy atmosphere would be injurious to his health.
He hurried out of West End and up to the house, as fast as his cassock, and having to pick his way among the dirty puddles, would allow; but he came too late.

The Consul had already been dead half an hour, and so Pastor Martens turned and went back to the town.

It was very hot walking in the long black garment, and already well past dinner-time.
Madame Rasmussen came running to meet him.

"My dear Mr.Martens, dinner.
Why, it's half-past two! Why, how exhausted you look!" "Let us rejoice, Madame Rasmussen," answered the clergyman, with a bland smile, "when we are thought worthy to endure trials." He was indeed a heavenly man, was the pastor.

How pious and amiable he looked as he sat at table! No one could ever have suspected that he wore a wig.
Madame Rasmussen sat down to embroider some cushions to put in the window, for the chaplain could not bear the slightest draught..