And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the convent of Borglum. Themurdered bishop and 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 cloakwrought with silver; the crozier in the powerless hand that was once so mighty. The incenserises in clouds， and the monks chant the funeral hymn. It sounds like a wail—it sounds like asentence of wrath and condemnation， that must be heard far over the land， carried by thewind—sung by the wind—the wail that sometimes is silent， but never dies; for ever again itrises in song， singing even into our own time this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and hishard nephew. It is heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman， driving by in theheavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum. It is heard by the sleepless listener in thethickly-walled rooms at Borglum. And not only to the ear of superstition is the sighing and thetread of hurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the convent door thathas long been locked. The door still seems to open， and the lights seem to flame in thebrazen candlesticks; the fragrance 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 theblack silver-embroidered mantle， with the crozier in his powerless hand; and on his pale proudforehead gleams the red wound like fire， and there burn the worldly mind and the wickedthoughts.
Sink down into his grave—into oblivion—ye terrible shapes of the times of old!
Hark to the raging of the angry wind， sounding above the rolling sea! A stormapproaches without， calling aloud for human lives. The sea has not put on a new mind with thenew time. This night it is a horrible pit to devour up lives， and to-morrow， perhaps， it maybe a glassy mirror—even as in the old time that we have buried. Sleep sweetly， if thou canstsleep!
Now it is morning.
the new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still keeps up mightily. A wreck isannounced—as in the old time.
During the night， down yonder by Lokken， the little fishing village with the red-tiled roofs—we can see it up here from the window—a ship has come ashore. It has struck， and is fastembedded in the sand; but the rocket apparatus has thrown a rope on board， and formeda bridge from the wreck to the mainland; and all on board are saved， and reach the land，and are wrapped in warm blankets; and to-day they are invited to the farm at the convent ofBorglum. In comfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces. They areaddressed in the language of their country， and the piano sounds for them with melodies oftheir native land; and before these have died away， the chord has been struck， the wire ofthought that reaches to the land of the sufferers announces that they are rescued. Then theiranxieties are dispelled; and at even they join in the dance at the feast given in the GREat hallat Borglum. Waltzes and Styrian dances are given， and Danish popular songs， and melodiesof foreign lands in these modern times.
Blessed be thou， new time! Speak thou of summer and of purer gales! Send thysunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts! On thy glowing canvas let them bepainted—the dark legends of the rough hard times that are past!
我们现在在日德兰北部，在荒野沼地的另一边。我们可以听到“西海岸的呜呜声”，听到浪花翻滚的声音，离我们很近。不过在我们眼前是一个很大的沙冈，我们早就看见这东西了，我们的车子朝着它奔去。在深厚的沙地上，车子走得很慢。沙冈上有一座很大的旧庭院，那是伯尔厄隆修道院，它最大的一翼现在仍是教堂。这天晚上我们到了那里，天虽然很晚，但天色明朗，光明夜晚的季节。你可以看到四周很远的地方，可以穿过田野和沼泽望到奥尔堡海湾，望过矮树丛生的地带和草原，一直望到那深蓝色的大海。
我们已经到了那边，现在我们正从仓舍房屋之间慢慢穿过，拐来拐去，从大门走进那座古堡。这里椴树沿着墙成行地排着，墙为树挡了风雨，所以它们长成了大树，枝子几乎盖住了窗子。
我们顺着石头铺的螺旋台阶走了上去，穿过木樑屋顶下的长廊。这里风的呼啸声很奇怪，无论外面还是里面，你真搞不清它到底在哪里。於是人们便说了起来—— 是啊，当一个人心中很害怕，或者想搞得别人害怕的时候，他讲出很多理由或看出很多理由。人们说，那些古老的灭亡了的教规便悄悄地从我们身边溜进了教堂，到唱圣诗的地方，你可以从风的呼呼声中听到它。这样一来，你的心情便被它搞得很奇怪，你便想着古代——想着想着，你便回到了古代。