OUR scene is laid in Northern Jutland， in theso-called “wild moor.” We hear what is called the“Wester-wow-wow”—the peculiar roar of the NorthSea as it breaks against the western coast ofJutland. It rolls and thunders with a sound thatpenetrates for miles into the land; and we are quitenear the roaring. Before us rises a GREat mound ofsand—a mountain we have long seen， and towardswhich we are wending our way， driving slowly along through the deep sand. On this mountainof sand is a lofty old building—the convent of Borglum. In one of its wings (the larger one)there is still a church. And at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour; but theweather is clear in the bright June night around us， and the eye can range far， far over fieldand moor to the Bay of Aalborg， over heath and meadow， and far across the deep blue sea.
Now we are there， and roll past between barns and other farm buildings; and at the leftof the gate we turn aside to the Old Castle Farm， where the lime trees stand in lines along thewalls， and， sheltered from the wind and weather， grow so luxuriantly that their twigs andleaves almost conceal the windows.
We mount the winding staircase of stone， and march through the long passages underthe heavy roof-beams. The wind moans very strangely here， both within and without. It ishardly known how， but the people say—yes， people say a GREat many things when they arefrightened or want to frighten others—they say that the old dead choir-men glide silentlypast 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 hearers—thoughts of the old times intowhich we are carried back.
On the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop's warriors are there， and spare notthose whom the sea has spared. The sea washes away the blood that has flowed from thecloven skulls. The stranded goods belong to the bishop， and there is a store of goods here.The sea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the convent cellar， and in theconvent is already good store of beer and mead. There is plenty in the kitchen—dead game andpoultry， hams and sausages; and fat fish swim in the ponds without.
the Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord. He has GREat possessions， but still he longs formore—everything must bow before the mighty Olaf Glob. His rich cousin at Thyland is dead，and his widow is to have the rich inheritance. But how comes it that one relation is alwaysharder towards another than even strangers would be? The widow's husband had possessedall Thyland， with the exception of the church property. Her son was not at home. In hisboyhood he had already started on a journey， for his desire was to see foreign lands andstrange people. For years there had been no news of him. Perhaps he had been long laid in thegrave， and would never come back to his home， to rule where his mother then ruled.
“What has a woman to do with rule?” said the bishop.
He summoned the widow before a law court; but what did he gain thereby? The widowhad never been disobedient to the law， and was strong in her just rights.
Bishop Olaf of Borglum， what dost thou purpose? What writest thou on yonder smoothparchment， sealing it with thy seal， and intrusting it to the horsemen and servants， whoride away， far away， to the city of the Pope?
It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships， and soon icy winter will come.
Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the horsemen and servants backto their home. They came from Rome with a papal decree—a ban， or bull， against the widowwho had dared to offend the pious bishop. “Cursed be she and all that belongs to her. Lether be expelled from the conGREgation and the Church. Let no man stretch forth a helpinghand to her， and let friends and relations avoid her as a plague and a pestilence!”
“What will not bend must break，” said the Bishop of Borglum.
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， thewidow herself followed the plough; and the crop GREw， although the land had been cursedby the Pope and by the bishop.
“Thou child of perdition， I will yet carry out my purpose!” cried the Bishop of Borglum. “Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon thee， to summon thee before the tribunal that shallcondemn thee!”
then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her to a wagon， andmounted up on the wagon， with her old servant， and travelled away across the heath out ofthe Danish land. As a stranger she came into a foreign country， where a strange tongue wasspoken and where new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she journeyed， to where GREenhills rise into mountains， and the vine clothes their sides. Strange merchants drive by her，and they look anxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise. They fear an attack fromthe armed followers of the robber-knights. The two poor women， in their humble vehicledrawn by two black oxen， travel fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and throughthe darksome forest. And now they were in Franconia. And there met them a stalwart knight，with a train of twelve armed followers. He paused， gazed at the strange vehicle， andquestioned the women as to the goal of their journey and the place whence they came. Thenone of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark， and spoke of her sorrows， of her woes， whichwere soon to cease， for so Divine Providence had willed it. For the stranger knight is thewidow's son! He seized her hand， he embraced her， and the mother wept. For years shehad not been able to weep， but had only bitten her lips till the blood started.