The Bishop of Borglum and His Warriors · page 21 2101"I have just made an agreement with the bishop."102"Sayest thou so?" replied Olaf Hase. "103Then neither thou nor the bishop shall quit this church alive."104And 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.105"Hold, brother!106First hear what the agreement was that I made.107I have slain the bishop and his warriors and priests.108They will have no word more to say in the matter, nor will I speak again of all the wrong that my mother has endured."109The 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.110And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the convent of Borglum.111The murdered bishop and the slain warriors and priests are displayed under a black canopy, surrounded by candelabra decked with crape.112There lies the dead man, in the black cloak wrought with silver; the crozier in the powerless hand that was once so mighty.113The incense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral hymn.114It 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.115It is heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by in the heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum.116It is heard by the sleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum.117And 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.118The 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.119Sink down into his grave--into oblivion--ye terrible shapes of the times of old!120Hark to the raging of the angry wind, sounding above the rolling sea!121A storm approaches without, calling aloud for human lives.122The sea has not put on a new mind with the new time.123This 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.124Sleep sweetly, if thou canst sleep!125Now it is morning.126The new time flings sunshine into the room.127The wind still keeps up mightily.128A wreck is announced--as in the old time.129During 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.130It 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.131In comfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces.132They 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.133Then their anxieties are dispelled; and at even they join in the dance at the feast given in the great hall at Borglum.134Waltzes and Styrian dances are given, and Danish popular songs, and melodies of foreign lands in these modern times.135Blessed be thou, new time!136Speak thou of summer and of purer gales!137Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts!checked by a teacher138On thy glowing canvas let them be painted--the dark legends of the rough hard times that are past!1 2← previousThe Bird of Popular Songnext →The Bottle Neck↑ back to Fairy Tales of Hans Christian AndersenThis page in Markdown → https://md.mova.elamur.ai/free/en/corpora/tales/pg27200/12/page/2/