To the West of the Old Town, with only the dry moat and a fringe of gardens between, stood the green Castle Hill. Green it was and had been in the memory of the oldest. The road-makers of three generations before had taken what the house-builder had left of the ruins that alone remained of Denmark’s once great historic stronghold. There its fighting kings guarded the land against the enemy to the south; thence its armies had marched to victory or defeat in many a fight with the turbulent German barons. Thither came the merchant ships of Europe bringing stone from the Rhine for the Domkirke, sweet wines and silken raiment for the ladies of the court, and cloth from Flanders; for to be well dressed in those days a man’s coat must have been cut in Ribe. The river was long since sanded in, in my day, and ships came that way no more. A few lonesome sheep were picketed on the green hill, and when at night the white mist crept in from the sea, blurring and blotting the landscape out, their melancholy bleating alone betrayed the site where once the clash of arms waked ready echoes. Here dwelt King Valdemar and his gentle queen who live in the Danish folk-song. Of her after seven centuries the ploughman sang yet: She came without burden, she came with peace, She came the good peasant to cheer. The ballad tells of the brief year of bliss the royal lovers lived here, of his wild ride across the heath to her death-bed, and of the daring May party that won back the castle from a traitorous garrison for “King Erik the young.” Last summer they dug in the Castle Hill and found little enough there. But here on my table stands a brick from the stout wall, that long since crossed the ocean with me. It may be that there is magic in the stone to tell of the past, for it was fashioned by monks who knew more than the pater-nosters they told on their beads; or is it that I am of Queen Dagmar’s kin, her god-son, christened as I was in the font she gave to the Domkirke: last night as I sat alone pondering the old songs, the flickering shadows from my study fire touched it, and I dreamed again the story of King Valdemar and Riberhus.[15] I dreamed that I saw a great throng on land and shore, men and women in holiday garments, straining their eyes seaward, where a ship with golden dragon’s head was making its way slowly between low islands. As it came into full view, the people broke into jubilant cheers: “Welcome Dagmar, Denmark’s Queen!” It was the King’s ship bringing his bride from her far Bohemian home. Answering cries came back from the crew, and with music and the waving of many banners the splendid vessel sailed up the channel. At the rail stood a golden-haired princess with the King’s messenger and friend. Her eyes were wet, but there was a happy smile upon her lips. Her glance sought the lonely figure of a horseman on the beach whose prancing steed champed its bit impatiently. Where he rode the crowd fell back and made room.