She continued her walk along by the margin of the sea. What was it she saw lying there?An old hat; a man's hat. Now when might that have been washed overboard? She drewnearer， she stopped to look at the hat; “Ha! what was lying yonder?” She shuddered; yetit was nothing save a heap of grass and tangled seaweed flung across a long stone， but itlooked like a corpse. Only tangled grass， and yet she was frightened at it. As she turned towalk away， much came into her mind that she had heard in her childhood： old superstitions ofspectres by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied people， whose corpseshad been washed up on the desolate beach. The body， she knew， could do no harm to anyone， but the spirit could pursue the lonely wanderer， attach itself to him， and demand tobe carried to the churchyard， that it might rest in consecrated ground. “Hold fast! holdfast!” the spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth murmured these words to herself， thewhole of her dream was suddenly recalled to her memory， when the mother had clung to her，and uttered these words， when， amid the crashing of worlds， her sleeve had been torn，and she had slipped from the grasp of her child， who wanted to hold her up in that terriblehour. Her child， her own child， which she had never loved， lay now buried in the sea， andmight rise up， like a spectre， from the waters， and cry， “Hold fast; carry me toconsecrated ground!”
As these thoughts passed through her mind， fear gave speed to her feet， so that shewalked faster and faster. Fear came upon her as if a cold， clammy hand had been laid upon herheart， so that she almost fainted. As she looked across the sea， all there GREw darker; aheavy mist came rolling onwards， and clung to bush and tree， distorting them into fantasticshapes. She turned and glanced at the moon， which had risen behind her. It looked like apale， rayless surface， and a deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs. “Hold，” thoughtshe; and then she turned round a second time to look at the moon. A white face appearedquite close to her， with a mist， hanging like a garment from its shoulders. “Stop! carry meto consecrated earth，” sounded in her ears， in strange， hollow tones. The sound did notcome from frogs or ravens; she saw no sign of such creatures. “A grave! dig me a grave!”was repeated quite loud. Yes， it was indeed the spectre of her child. The child that lay beneaththe ocean， and whose spirit could have no rest until it was carried to the churchyard， anduntil a grave had been dug for it in consecrated ground. She would go there at once， andthere she would dig. She turned in the direction of the church， and the weight on her heartseemed to grow lighter， and even to vanish altogether; but when she turned to go home bythe shortest way， it returned. “Stop! stop!” and the words came quite clear， though theywere like the croak of a frog， or the wail of a bird. “A grave! dig me a grave!”
the mist was cold and damp， her hands and face were moist and clammy with horror， aheavy weight again seized her and clung to her， her mind became clear for thoughts that hadnever before been there.
In these northern regions， a beech-wood often buds in a single night and appears in themorning sunlight in its full glory of youthful GREen. So， in a single instant， can theconsciousness of the sin that has been committed in thoughts， words， and actions of ourpast life， be unfolded to us. When once the conscience is awakened， it springs up in theheart spontaneously， and God awakens the conscience when we least expect it. Then wecan find no excuse for ourselves; the deed is there and bears witness against us. Thethoughts seem to become words， and to sound far out into the world. We are horrified at thethought of what we have carried within us， and at the consciousness that we have notovercome the evil which has its origin in thoughtlessness and pride. The heart conceals withinitself the vices as well as the virtues， and they grow in the shallowest ground. Anne Lisbethnow experienced in thought what we have clothed in words. She was overpowered by them，and sank down and crept along for some distance on the ground. “A grave! dig me agrave!” sounded again in her ears， and she would have gladly buried herself， if in the graveshe could have found forgetfulness of her actions.
It was the first hour of her awakening， full ofanguish and horror. Superstition made heralternately shudder with cold or burn with the heatof fever. Many things， of which she had fearedeven to speak， came into her mind. Silently， as thecloud-shadows in the moonshine， a spectralapparition flitted by her; she had heard of itbefore. Close by her galloped four snorting steeds，with fire FLASHing from their eyes and nostrils. Theydragged a burning coach， and within it sat thewicked lord of the manor， who had ruled there ahundred years before. The legend says that every night， at twelve o'clock， he drove into hiscastleyard and out again. He was not as pale as dead men are， but black as a coal. Henodded， and pointed to Anne Lisbeth， crying out， “Hold fast! hold fast! and then you mayride again in a nobleman's carriage， and forget your child.”
She gathered herself up， and hastened to the churchyard; but black crosses and blackravens danced before her eyes， and she could not distinguish one from the other. The ravenscroaked as the raven had done which she saw in the daytime， but now she understood whatthey said. “I am the raven-mother; I am the raven-mother，” each raven croaked， and AnneLisbeth felt that the name also applied to her; and she fancied she should be transformedinto a black bird， and have to cry as they cried， if she did not dig the grave. And she threwherself upon the earth， and with her hands dug a grave in the hard ground， so that theblood ran from her fingers. “A grave! dig me a grave!” still sounded in her ears; she wasfearful that the cock might crow， and the first red streak appear in the east， before she hadfinished her work; and then she would be lost. And the cock crowed， and the day dawned inthe east， and the grave was only half dug. An icy hand passed over her head and face， anddown towards her heart. “Only half a grave，” a voice wailed， and fled away. Yes， it fled awayover the sea; it was the ocean spectre; and， exhausted and overpowered， Anne Lisbethsunk to the ground， and her senses left her.