The Childhood of King Erik Menved: An Historical RomanceIngemann, Bernhard Severin
History
The Childhood of King Erik Menved: An Historical Romance
Ingemann, Bernhard Severin
Denmark -- History -- Erik Glipping, 1259-1286 -- Fiction; Denmark -- History -- Erik Menved, 1286-1319 -- Fiction
"That gives me but little uneasiness," answered the old man. "You, I
know, will not betray me; and, saving yourself, there is not a soul in
the world knows what old Henner thinks in the midnight storm, when the
wild hunter rides over his roof with his howling hounds. Fancy not that
I rue the best act of my life. Nay, God and St. Christian be praised! I
dread not the hour when I shall stand, with King Abel, before our
Lord's judgment-seat. And yet, sir knight, it gives rise to strange
thoughts, to have withdrawn a soul from mercy, and dispatched a sinner
to everlasting punishment before his time. But it is the weakness of
old age: I know it well. It is, besides, at night only that such
thoughts come upon me. By day, when I look upon the bow, I feel proud
that this hand once rescued Denmark from destruction. As I have said,
it is only at night that my heart softens, and that I feel compassion
for the sinner whom I slew."
"Pray the God of mercy for his soul!" said the knight, with a feeling
of uneasiness.
"Nay, that can I not, sir drost--and it but little matters. What I
could do for him, by the aid of a nervous arm, that I have done; but it
is in vain--he is doomed to eternal misery. I drove a six-ells stake,
of good charred oak, through his rotten carcase in the bog of Gottorp;
but what availed that? The proud devil will not rest in the swamp, nor
will he suffer others to sleep in peace. You have heard, no doubt, what
is told about his night-hunts? Constantly, at midnight, he rides out,
raven-black, on his courser, over Gottorp heath, with three fiery
hell-hounds at his heels. God be praised! I have not seen it myself;
but every midnight, be my sleep ever so sound, it whines and howls in
my ears till I awake. Perhaps it is mere rumour and superstition, and
perhaps it is but the blood which rushes to my head when I recline; but
now, for three and thirty years, I have never been able to close an eye
until two hours after the accursed midnight. And--hear you aught? Lord!
how it howls and whines again!" He held both hands before his eyes, and
shook his gray head in an uneasy and anxious manner.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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