the bishop of borglum and his warriors-第2节

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them　leave　to　ride　home　and　greet　his　wife。　He　intends　to　risk　his

life　alone　in　the　roaring　waters；　but　they　are　to　bear　witness　for　him

that　it　is　not　his　fault　if　Jens　Glob　stands　without　reinforcement

in　the　church　at　Widberg。　The　faithful　warriors　will　not　leave　him；

but　follow　him　out　into　the　deep　waters。　Ten　of　them　are　carried　away；

but　Olaf　Hase　and　two　of　the　youngest　men　reach　the　farther　side。　They

have　still　four　miles　to　ride。

　　　　It　is　past　midnight。　It　is　Christmas。　The　wind　has　abated。　The

church　is　lighted　up；　the　gleaming　radiance　shines　through　the

window…frames；　and　pours　out　over　meadow　and　heath。　The　mass　has

long　been　finished；　silence　reigns　in　the　church；　and　the　wax　is　heard

dropping　from　the　candles　to　the　stone　pavement。　And　now　Olaf　Hase

arrives。

　　　　In　the　forecourt　Jens　Glob　greets　him　kindly；　and　says；

　　　　〃I　have　just　made　an　agreement　with　the　bishop。〃

　　　　〃Sayest　thou　so？〃　replied　Olaf　Hase。　〃Then　neither　thou　nor　the

bishop　shall　quit　this　church　alive。〃

　　　　And　the　sword　leaps　from　the　scabbard；　and　Olaf　Hase　deals　a

blow　that　makes　the　panel　of　the　church　door；　which　Jens　Glob

hastily　closes　between　them；　fly　in　fragments。

　　　　〃Hold；　brother！　First　hear　what　the　agreement　was　that　I　made。　I

have　slain　the　bishop　and　his　warriors　and　priests。　They　will　have

no　word　more　to　say　in　the　matter；　nor　will　I　speak　again　of　all　the

wrong　that　my　mother　has　endured。〃

　　　　The　long　wicks　of　the　altar　lights　glimmer　red；　but　there　is　a

redder　gleam　upon　the　pavement；　where　the　bishop　lies　with　cloven

skull；　and　his　dead　warriors　around　him；　in　the　quiet　of　the　holy

Christmas　night。

　　　　And　four　days　afterwards　the　bells　toll　for　a　funeral　in　the

convent　of　Borglum。　The　murdered　bishop　and　the　slain　warriors　and

priests　are　displayed　under　a　black　canopy；　surrounded　by　candelabra

decked　with　crape。　There　lies　the　dead　man；　in　the　black　cloak　wrought

with　silver；　the　crozier　in　the　powerless　hand　that　was　once　so

mighty。　The　incense　rises　in　clouds；　and　the　monks　chant　the　funeral

hymn。　It　sounds　like　a　wail…　it　sounds　like　a　sentence　of　wrath　and

condemnation；　that　must　be　heard　far　over　the　land；　carried　by　the

wind…　sung　by　the　wind…　the　wail　that　sometimes　is　silent；　but　never

dies；　for　ever　again　it　rises　in　song；　singing　even　into　our　own

time　this　legend　of　the　Bishop　of　Borglum　and　his　hard　nephew。　It　is

heard　in　the　dark　night　by　the　frightened　husbandman；　driving　by　in

the　heavy　sandy　road　past　the　convent　of　Borglum。　It　is　heard　by　the

sleepless　listener　in　the　thickly…walled　rooms　at　Borglum。　And　not

only　to　the　ear　of　superstition　is　the　sighing　and　the　tread　of

hurrying　feet　audible　in　the　long　echoing　passages　leading　to　the

convent　door　that　has　long　been　locked。　The　door　still　seems　to

open；　and　the　lights　seem　to　flame　in　the　brazen　candlesticks；　the

fragrance　of　incense　arises；　the　church　gleams　in　its　ancient

splendor；　and　the　monks　sing　and　say　the　mass　over　the　slain　bishop；

who　lies　there　in　the　black　silver…embroidered　mantle；　with　the

crozier　in　his　powerless　hand；　and　on　his　pale　proud　forehead　gleams

the　red　wound　like　fire；　and　there　burn　the　worldly　mind　and　the

wicked　thoughts。

　　　　Sink　down　into　his　grave…　into　oblivion…　ye　terrible　shapes　of　the

times　of　old！



　　　　Hark　to　the　raging　of　the　angry　wind；　sounding　above　the　rolling

sea！　A　storm　approaches　without；　calling　aloud　for　human　lives。　The

sea　has　not　put　on　a　new　mind　with　the　new　time。　This　night　it　is　a

horrible　pit　to　devour　up　lives；　and　to…morrow；　perhaps；　it　may　be　a

glassy　mirror…　even　as　in　the　old　time　that　we　have　buried。　Sleep

sweetly；　if　thou　canst　sleep！

　　　　Now　it　is　morning。

　　　　The　new　time　flings　sunshine　into　the　room。　The　wind　still　keeps

up　mightily。　A　wreck　is　announced…　as　in　the　old　time。

　　　　During　the　night；　down　yonder　by　Lokken；　the　little　fishing

village　with　the　red…tiled　roofs…　we　can　see　it　up　here　from　the

window…　a　ship　has　come　ashore。　It　has　struck；　and　is　fast　embedded　in

the　sand；　but　the　rocket　apparatus　has　thrown　a　rope　on　board；　and

formed　a　bridge　from　the　wreck　to　the　mainland；　and　all　on　board　are

saved；　and　reach　the　land；　and　are　wrapped　in　warm　blankets；　and

to…day　they　are　invited　to　the　farm　at　the　convent　of　Borglum。　In

comfortable　rooms　they　encounter　hospitality　and　friendly　faces。

They　are　addressed　in　the　language　of　their　country；　and　the　piano

sounds　for　them　with　melodies　of　their　native　land；　and　before　these

have　died　away；　the　chord　has　been　struck；　the　wire　of　thought　that

reaches　to　the　land　of　the　sufferers　announces　that　they　are

rescued。　Then　their　anxieties　are　dispelled；　and　at　even　they　join

in　the　dance　at　the　feast　given　in　the　great　hall　at　Borglum。

Waltzes　and　Styrian　dances　are　given；　and　Danish　popular　songs；　and

melodies　of　foreign　lands　in　these　modern　times。

　　　　Blessed　be　thou；　new　time！　Speak　thou　of　summer　and　of　purer

gales！　Send　thy　sunbeams　gleaming　into　our　hearts　and　thoughts！　On　thy

glowing　canvas　let　them　be　painted…　the　dark　legends　of　the　rough　hard

times　that　are　past！





　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　THE　END

。