THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM AND HIS WARRIORS [2]
church of Widberg.
The wind is blowing his trumpet too- blowing it harder and harder.
He blows up a storm- a terrible storm- that increases more and more.
Towards the church they ride, as fast as they may through the storm.
The church stands firm, but the storm careers on over field and
moorland, over land and sea.
Borglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarce
do so, however hard he may ride. He journeys with his warriors on
the farther side of the bay, in order that he may help Jens Glob,
now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of
the Highest.
The church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table.
The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm reads
out the accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moor
and heath, and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail over
the bay in such weather as this.
Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. There he dismisses his
warriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and gives
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
The wind is blowing his trumpet too- blowing it harder and harder.
He blows up a storm- a terrible storm- that increases more and more.
Towards the church they ride, as fast as they may through the storm.
The church stands firm, but the storm careers on over field and
moorland, over land and sea.
Borglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarce
do so, however hard he may ride. He journeys with his warriors on
the farther side of the bay, in order that he may help Jens Glob,
now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of
the Highest.
The church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table.
The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm reads
out the accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moor
and heath, and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail over
the bay in such weather as this.
Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. There he dismisses his
warriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and gives
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