The Bishop of Borglum and His Warriors

								
Our scene is laid in Northern Jutland, in the so-called "wild
moor."  We hear what is called the "Wester-wow-wow"--the peculiar
roar of the North Sea as it breaks against the western coast of
Jutland.  It rolls and thunders with a sound that penetrates for
miles into the land; and we are quite near the roaring.  Before us
rises a great mound of sand--a mountain we have long seen, and towards
which we are wending our way, driving slowly along through the deep
sand.  On this mountain of sand is a lofty old building--the convent of
Borglum.  In one of its wings (the larger one) there is still a church.
And at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour; but the
weather is clear in the bright June night around us, and the eye can
range far, far over field and moor to the Bay of Aalborg, over heath
and meadow, and far across the deep blue sea.

Now we are there, and roll past between barns and other farm
buildings; and at the left of the gate we turn aside to the Old Castle
Farm, where the lime trees stand in lines along the walls, and,
sheltered from the wind and weather, grow so luxuriantly that their
twigs and leaves almost conceal the windows.

We mount the winding staircase of stone, and march through the
long passages under the heavy roof-beams.  The wind moans very
strangely here, both within and without.  It is hardly known how, but
the people say--yes, people say a great many things when they are
frightened or want to frighten others--they say that the old dead
choir-men glide silently past us into the church, where mass is
sung.  They can be heard in the rushing of the storm, and their singing
brings up strange thoughts in the hearers--thoughts of the old times
into which we are carried back.

On the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop's warriors are
there, and spare not those whom the sea has spared.  The sea washes
away the blood that has flowed from the cloven skulls.  The stranded
goods belong to the bishop, and there is a store of goods here.  The
sea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the
convent cellar, and in the convent is already good store of beer and
mead.  There is plenty in the kitchen--dead game and poultry, hams
and sausages; and fat fish swim in the ponds without.

The Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord.  He has great
possessions, but still he longs for more--everything must bow before
the mighty Olaf Glob.  His rich cousin at Thyland is dead, and his
widow is to have the rich inheritance.  But how comes it that one
relation is always harder towards another than even strangers would
be?  The widow's husband had possessed all Thyland, with the
exception of the church property.  Her son was not at home.  In his
boyhood he had already started on a journey, for his desire was to see
foreign lands and strange people.  For years there had been no news
of him.  Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave, and would never
come back to his home, to rule where his mother then ruled.

"What has a woman to do with rule?" said the bishop.

He summoned the widow before a law court; but what did he gain
thereby?  The widow had never been disobedient to the law, and was
strong in her just rights.

Bishop Olaf of Borglum, what dost thou purpose?  What writest
thou on yonder smooth parchment, sealing it with thy seal, and
intrusting it to the horsemen and servants, who ride away, far away,
to the city of the Pope?

It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon
icy winter will come.

Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the
horsemen and servants back to their home.  They came from Rome with a
papal decree--a ban, or bull, against the widow who had dared to
offend the pious bishop.  "Cursed be she and all that belongs to her.
Let her be expelled from the congregation and the Church.  Let no man
stretch forth a helping hand to her, and let friends and relations
avoid her as a plague and a pestilence!"

"What will not bend must break," said the Bishop of Borglum

And all forsake the widow; but she holds fast to her God.  He is
her helper and defender.

One servant only--an old maid--remained faithful to her; and
with the old servant, the widow herself followed the plough; and the
crop grew, although the land had been cursed by the Pope and by the
bishop.

"Thou child of perdition, I will yet carry out my purpose!"
cried the Bishop of Borglum.  "Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon
thee, to summon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee!"

Then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her
to a wagon, and mounted up on the wagon, with her old servant, and
travelled away across the heath out of the Danish land.  As a
stranger she came into a foreign country, where a strange tongue was
spoken and where new customs prevailed.  Farther and farther she
journeyed, to where green hills rise into mountains, and the vine
clothes their sides.  Strange merchants drive by her, and they look
anxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise.  They fear an
attack from the armed followers of the robber-knights.  The two poor
women, in their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen, travel
fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the
darksome forest.  And now they were in Franconia.  And there met them
a stalwart knight, with a train of twelve armed followers.  He
paused, gazed at the strange vehicle, and questioned the women as to
the goal of their journey and the place whence they came.  Then one
of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark, and spoke of her sorrows, of her
woes, which were soon to cease, for so Divine Providence had willed
it.  For the stranger knight is the widow's son!  He seized her hand, he
embraced her, and the mother wept.  For years she had not been able
to weep, but had only bitten her lips till the blood started.


It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon
will icy winter come.

The sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's cellar.
In the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire.  At

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