How glad he felt that he was a good swimmer! He worked his way onward with his feet andone arm， while he held the young girl up firmly with the other. He rested on the waves， hetrod the water—in fact， did everything he could think of， in order not to fatigue himself，and to reserve strength enough to reach land. He heard Clara sigh， and felt her shudderconvulsively， and he pressed her more closely to him. Now and then a wave rolled over them，the current lifted them; the water， although deep， was so clear that for a moment heimagined he saw the shoals of mackerel glittering， or Leviathan himself ready to swallowthem. Now the clouds cast a shadow over the water， then again came the playingsunbeams; flocks of loudly screaming birds passed over him， and the plump and lazy wildducks which allow themselves to be drifted by the waves rose up terrified at the sight of theswimmer. He began to feel his strength decreasing， but he was only a few cable lengths'distance from the shore， and help was coming， for a boat was approaching him. At thismoment he distinctly saw a white staring figure under the water—a wave lifted him up， andhe came nearer to the figure—he felt a violent shock， and everything became dark aroundhim.
On the sand reef lay the wreck of a ship， which was covered with water at high tide; thewhite figure head rested against the anchor， the sharp iron edge of which rose just abovethe surface. Jorgen had come in contact with this; the tide had driven him against it withGREat force. He sank down stunned with the blow， but the next wave lifted him and the younggirl up again. Some fishermen， coming with a boat， seized them and dragged them into it.The blood streamed down over Jorgen's face; he seemed dead， but still held the young girl sotightly that they were obliged to take her from him by force. She was pale and lifeless; theylaid her in the boat， and rowed as quickly as possible to the shore. They tried every means torestore Clara to life， but it was all of no avail. Jorgen had been swimming for some distancewith a corpse in his arms， and had exhausted his strength for one who was dead.
Jorgen still breathed， so the fishermen carried him to the nearest house upon the sand-hills， where a smith and general dealer lived who knew something of surgery， and bound upJorgen's wounds in a temporary way until a surgeon could be obtained from the nearest townthe next day. The injured man's brain was affected， and in his delirium he uttered wildcries; but on the third day he lay quiet and weak upon his bed; his life seemed to hang by athread， and the physician said it would be better for him if this thread broke. “Let us praythat God may take him，” he said， “for he will never be the same man again.”
But life did not depart from him—the thread would not break， but the thread of memorywas severed; the thread of his mind had been cut through， and what was still moregrievous， a body remained—a living healthy body that wandered about like a troubled spirit.
Jorgen remained in merchant Bronne's house. “He was hurt while endeavouring to save ourchild，” said the old man， “and now he is our son.” People called Jorgen insane， but that wasnot exactly the correct term. He was like an instrument in which the strings are loose and willgive no sound; only occasionally they regained their power for a few minutes， and thenthey sounded as they used to do. He would sing snatches of songs or old melodies， picturesof the past would rise before him， and then disappear in the mist， as it were， but as ageneral rule he sat staring into vacancy， without a thought. We may conjecture that he didnot suffer， but his dark eyes lost their brightness， and looked like clouded glass.
“Poor mad Jorgen，” said the people. And this was the end of a life whose infancy was tohave been surrounded with wealth and splendour had his parents lived! All his GREat mentalabilities had been lost， nothing but hardship， sorrow， and disappointment had been hisfate. He was like a rare plant， torn from its native soil， and tossed upon the beach to witherthere. And was this one of God's creatures， fashioned in His own likeness， to have no betterfate? Was he to be only the plaything of fortune? No! the all-loving Creator would certainlyrepay him in the life to come for what he had suffered and lost here. “The Lord is good to all;and His mercy is over all His works.” The pious old wife of the merchant repeated these wordsfrom the Psalms of David in patience and hope， and the prayer of her heart was that Jorgenmight soon be called away to enter into eternal life.
In the churchyard where the walls were surrounded with sand Clara lay buried. Jorgen didnot seem to know this; it did not enter his mind， which could only retain fragments of thepast. Every Sunday he went to church with the old people， and sat there silently， staringvacantly before him. One day， when the Psalms were being sung， he sighed deeply， and hiseyes became bright; they were fixed upon a place near the altar where he had knelt with hisfriend who was dead. He murmured her name， and became deadly pale， and tears rolled downhis cheeks. They led him out of church; he told those standing round him that he was well，and had never been ill; he， who had been so grievously afflicted， the outcast， thrown uponthe world， could not remember his sufferings. The Lord our Creator is wise and full of lovingkindness—who can doubt it?
In Spain， where balmy breezes blow over the Moorish cupolas and gently stir the orangeand myrtle groves， where singing and the sound of the castanets are always heard， therichest merchant in the place， a childless old man， sat in a luxurious house， while childrenmarched in procession through the streets with waving flags and lighted tapers. If he had beenable to press his children to his heart， his daughter， or her child， that had， perhaps neverseen the light of day， far less the kingdom of heaven， how much of his wealth would he nothave given! “Poor child!” Yes， poor child—a child still， yet more than thirty years old， forJorgen had arrived at this age in Old Skagen.