say the people, as they step in.
  Jens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought, that he singesthe skirt of his wide garment.
  "Thou Borglum bishop," he exclaims, "I shall subdue thee afterall! Under the shield of the Pope, the law cannot reach thee; but JensGlob shall reach thee!"
  Then he writes a letter to his brother-in-law, Olaf Hase, inSallingland, and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas eve, atmass, in the church at Widberg. The bishop himself is to read themass, and consequently will journey from Borglum to Thyland; andthis is known to Jens Glob.
  Moorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow. The marshwill bear horse and rider, the bishop with his priests and armedmen. They ride the shortest way, through the waving reeds, where thewind moans sadly.
  Blow thy brazen trumpet, thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin! itsounds merrily in the clear air. So they ride on over heath andmoorland- over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the hot summer,though now icy, like all the country- towards the 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 andmoorland, over land and sea.
  Borglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarcedo so, however hard he may ride. He journeys with his warriors onthe 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 ofthe Highest.
  The church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table.The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm readsout the accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moorand heath, and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail overthe bay in such weather as this.
  Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. There he dismisses hiswarriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and givesthem leave to ride home and greet his wife. He intends to risk hislife alone in the roaring waters; but they are to bear witness for himthat it is not his fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcementin 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. Theyhave still four miles to ride.
  It is past midnight. It is Christmas. The wind has abated. Thechurch is lighted up; the gleaming radiance shines through thewindow-frames, and pours out over meadow and heath. The mass haslong been finished, silence reigns in the church, and the wax is hearddropping from the candles to the stone pavement. And now Olaf Hasearrives.
  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 thebishop shall quit this church alive."
  And the sword leaps from the scabbard, and Olaf Hase deals ablow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens Globhastily closes between them, fly in fragments.
  "Hold, brother! First hear what the agreement was that I made. Ihave slain the bishop and his warriors and priests. They will haveno word more to say in the matter, nor will I speak again of all thewrong that my mother has endured."
  The long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red; but there is aredder gleam upon the pavement, where the bishop lies with clovenskull, and his dead warriors around him, in the quiet of the holyChristmas night.
  And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in theconvent of Borglum. The murdered bishop and the slain warriors andpriests are displayed under a black canopy, surrounded by candelabradecked with crape. There lies the dead man, in the black cloak wroughtwith silver; the crozier in the powerless hand that was once somighty. The incense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeralhymn. It sounds like a wail- it sounds like a sentence of wrath andcondemnation, that must be heard far over the land, carried by thewind- sung by the wind- the wail that sometimes is silent, but neverdies; for ever again it rises in song, singing even into our owntime this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his hard nephew. It isheard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by inthe heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum. It is heard by thesleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum. And notonly to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread ofhurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to theconvent door that has long been locked. The door still seems toopen, and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks; thefragrance of incense arises; the church gleams in its ancientsplendor; and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop,who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle, with thecrozier in his powerless hand; and on his pale proud forehead gleamsthe red wound like fire, and there burn the worldly mind and thewicked thoughts.
  Sink down into his grave- into oblivion- ye terrible shapes of thetimes of old!