THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM
AND HIS KINSMEN
NOW we are up inJutland， quitebeyondthe"wild moor"． We hear what is called the"Western wow-wow"— the roarofthe North Sea as it breaksagainst the western coast of Jutland——and we are quite near to it， but before usrises a great mound of sand—a mountain we havelong seen， and towards which we are wending our way， drivingslowlyalong through the deep sand． Onthismountain of sandis alofty old building—the convent of Brglum．In one of its wings（the larger one） there is stilla church．Andat this we arrive in the late evening hour；butthe weatheris clear in the bright Junenightaround us，andtheeye can range far， far over field and moor to the Bay ofAalborgo， over heath and meadow， and far across the sea．
Now we are there， and roll past between barns and other farm buildings；and at the left of the gate we turnaside to the old Castle Farm， where the lime trees stand inlines 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 throughthe long passages underthe heavyroof-beams. The wind moans verystrangely here， both within and without． It is hardly knownhow， but the people say— yes， people say a great many things when they are fright－ened orwantto frighten others－they say that theold dead canons 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 hear－ers—thoughts of the old times into whichwe are carried back．
On the coast a ship is stranded； and the bishop'swarriors are there， and spare not those whom the sea hasspared． The sea washes away the blood that has flowed fromthe cloven skulls．Thestranded goods belong to the bishop， and there is a store of goods here. The sea castsup casksandbarrelsfilled with costly wine forthe con－ vent cellar， and in the convent is already good store of beer andmead． There is plenty in the kitchen——dead game and poultry， hams and sausages; and fat fish swimin the ponds without．
The Bishop of Brglumis a mighty lord．He has greatpossessions， butstillhelongsformore－everything mustbowbefore the mightyOlafGlob． His richcousinat Thyland is dead．"Kinsman is worst to kinsman"； his widow will find this saying true． Her husband has pos－sessed all Thyland， with the exception of the Church property．Her son was not athome.In his boyhood he had alreadybeen sentabroad to learnforeign customs, as it was his wish to do．Foryears there hadbeen no news of him． Perhapshe had long beenlaid in the grave，and would never come back to his home， to rule where hismother then ruled．
"What has a woman todowith rule？" said the bishop．
He summoned the widow before a law court； butwhat did hegain thereby？The widow hadneverbeendis－ obedient to thelaw， andwasstrong in her justrights．
Bishop Olaf of Brglum，what dost thou purpose？What writeist thou on yonder smooth parchment， sealing it with thyseal， and entrusting it to the horsemen and ser－ vants，who ride away—far away—to the city ofthe Pope？
It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships，and soon icy winter will come．
Twicehadicy winterreturned before the bishop wel- comed thehorsemenandservantsback to their home．They camefromRome with a papaldecree—aban， orbull， a－ gainst the widow who had dared to offend the pious bishop． "Cursed be she and all that belongs to her．Let her be ex－pelledfrom the congregationand the Church．Let no man stretch forth a helping hand to her， and let friends and re－lations aviodher as a plagueand a pestilence！
"What will not bend must break，" said the Bishop of Brglum．
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 followedthe plough；and the crop grew，although the landhadbeen Cursed by the Pope and by the bishop．
"Thou child of perdition， Iwill yet carry out my pur-pose！"cried the Bishop of Brglum．"Now willI lay the hand of the Pope upon thee，to summon thee before the tri- bunalthatshallcondemn thee！"
Then did the widow yoke the two last oxen that re－ mained to her to a wagon， and mounted up on the wagon，with her old servant， and travelled away across the heathout oftheDanish land． As a strangershe came into afor－ eign country，where a strange tonguewasspokenandwhere new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she journeyed， to where green hillsrise into mountains，and the vine clothestheir sides． Strange merchants drive by her，and they look anxiouslyafter theirwagons laden with merchan－ dise．They fear an attack from the armed followers of therobber－knights． The two poor women， in their humble ve－ hicle drawn by two blackoxen， travel fearlessly through thedangeroussunken road andthrough the darksome forest． And now they were in France． And there met them a stalwartknight，with a train of twelve armed followers．He paused，gazed at the strange vehicle， and questioned the womenas to the goal of their journeyand the place whence they came. Then one of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark， and spokeofhersorrows—ofherwoes-which were soon to cease，for so Divine Providence had willed it． For thestranger 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 tillthe blood started．
It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships．
The sea rolled wine－casks to the shore for the bishop's cellar．Inthe kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire. At Brglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms， while cold winter raged without， when a pieceofnewswasbrought tothe bishop："Jens Glob， of Thyland， has come back， and his mother with him． Jens Globlaid a complaint against the bishop，and summoned him before the temporal and the spiritual court．
"That will avail him little，"said the bishop．"Bestleave off the efforts， knight Jens．"
Again it is the time， of falling leaves， of strandedships—icy winter comes again， and the"white bees are swarming， and sting the traveller'sface tillthey melt．
"Keen weather today！" say the people，as they step in．
Jens Glob stands by the fire，so deeply wrapped inthoughtthathe singesthe skirtofhislonggarment．
"Thou Brglum bishop，"he exclaims，"Ishall subdue theeafter all！ Under the shield of the Pope，the law cannot reach thee； but Jens Glob shall reachthee！"
Then he writes a letter to his brother－in－law， OlafHase， in Sallingland， andprays thatknight to meet him on Christmas－eve， at matins， in the church atWidberg． Thebishop himselfisto say the mass，and consequently will journey from Brglum to Thyland;and this is known toJensGlob．
Moorlandand meadow are covered with ice and snow．The marsh will bear horse and rider，the bishop with his priests and armed men.They ride the shortest way，throughthe brittle reeds， where the wind moans sadly．
Blow thy brazen trumpet， thou trumpeter clad infox－skin！ Itsounds merrily in theclear air．Sotheyride on overheath andmoorland—overwhat is the gardenofFata Morgana in the hot summer， towards the church of Wid- berg．
The windis blowing his trumpet too－blowing it harder and harder． He blowsup a storm—a terrible storm—that increases more and more. Towards the church they ride, as fastasthey may through the storm． The church stands firm，but the storm careerson over field and moorland， over land and sea．
Brglum's bishop reaches the church；but Olaf Hase will scarce do so， hard as he may ride． He journeys withhis warriors on thefarther sideofthe bay， to help Jens Glob， now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgement seat of the Highest．
The church is the judgement hall； the altar is thecouncil table． The lights burn clear in the heavy brass can－delabra． Thestorm reads out the accusation and the sen- tence， resounding in the air over moor and heath， and over the rolling waters．No ferry－boatcan sail overthebayin such weather as this．
Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesund．There he dismisses his warriors，presents them with their horses and harness，and givesthemleave to ridehome andgreet his wife．He intends to risk his life alone in the roaningwaters； but theyaretobear witness for him that it is not his fault ifJens Glob stands without reinforcement in thechurch at Wid－ berg．The faithful warriors will not leave him， but followhim 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．
Itis past midnight． It is Christmas． The wind has abated．The church is lighted up； the gleamingradianceshines throughthewindow－panes， and pours outover meadow and heath． The mass has long been finished， si-lence reigns in the church，andthewaxis heard dropping from the candlestothe stone pavement． And now Olaf Hase arrives．
In the forecourt Jens Glob greets him kindly， andsays，
"I havejust made an agreement with the bishop．"
"Sayest thou so？"replied Olaf Hase．"Then neither thou northe bishop shallquit this church alive．" And thesword leaps from the scabbard， and Olaf Hase deals a blow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens Glob hastily between them, fly in fragments. "Hold， brother！First hear what the agreement was that Imade． Ihaveslain thebishopand hiswarriorsand priests． They will have no word more to say in the matter， nor willI speak again of all the wrongthatmy motherhas endured．"
The long wicksofthe altar lights glimmer red；but there is aredder gleam upon the pavement， where the bishop lies with cloven skull， and his dead warriorsaroundhim in thequietoftheholyChristmas night．
And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the convent of Brglum． The murdered bishopand 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 crosier in the powerless hand that was once so mighty． The incenserises in clouds， and the monks chant the funeralhymn.It sounds like awail—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 owntime thislegend of the Bishop of Brglum and his hard nephew．It is heardin the darknight by thefrightened husbandman，driving by in the heavysandyroad past the convent of Brglum． It is heard by the sleepless listener in the thickly－walledroomsat Brglum． And not only to the earof superstitionis the sighingand the treadofhur- rying feetaudible inthe long echoing passages leadingto the convent door that has longbeen locked． Thedoor still seems to open，andthe lightsseem to flame in the brazen candlesticks；the fragrance of incense arises；the churchgleams in its ancientsplendour; and themonks singand say the mass overthe slain bishop， who lies there in the black silver－embroidered mantle， with the crosier in hispowerless hand； and on his pale proud forehead gleamsthe 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， soundingabove the rolling sea！ Outside a storm approaches，calling aloud forhuman lives．Thesea hasnotput on a newmind withthenewtime.This might it is ahorrible pit to devour up lives，and tomorrow，perhaps， it may bea glassy mir- ror—even as intheoldtime that wehave buried．Sleep sweetly， if thou canst sleep！
Now it is morning.
The newtime fling sunshine into the room． The wind still keeps up mightily．A wreck is announced—as in the old time．
Duringthenight，downyonder by Lkken，thelittle fishing village with the red－tiled roofs—we can see it up here from thewindow—a shiphas come ashore．Ithas struck， and is fast embedded in the sand； but the rocketapparatus 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 blan- kets； and today they areinvited to the farm at the convent of Brglum.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 thelandofthe sufferers announces that they are rescued． Then their anxieties aredispelled；and in the evening they join in the dance， at the feast given in the great hall at Brglum． Waltzes and other dances will be danced，and songs will be sung of Denmark and of"The Gallant Soldier" of the present day．
Blessed bethou， new time！Speak thou of summer andofpurer gales！Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts！On thy glowing canvas let them be painted—thedark legends of the roughhard times that are past！