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880 THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM AND HIS KINSMEN
And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the convent of Borglum. The murdered 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 cloak wrought with silver ; the crosier in the powerless hand that was once so mighty. The incense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral hymn. It sounds like a wail—it sounds like a sentence of wrath and condemnation that must be heard far over the land, carried by the wind—sung by the wind—the wail that sometimes is silent, but never dies ; for ever again it rises in song, singing even into our own time this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his hard nephew. It is heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by in the heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum. It is heard by the sleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum. And not only to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread of hurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the convent door that has long been locked. The door still seems to open, and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks ; the fragrance of incense arises ; the church gleams in its ancient splendour ; and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop, who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle, with the crosier in his powerless hand ; and on his pale proud forehead gleams the red wound like fire, and there burn the worldly mind and the wicked thoughts. . . .
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 ! Outside a storm approaches, calling aloud for human lives. The sea has not put on a new mind with the new time. This night it is a horrible pit to devour up lives, and to-morrow, perhaps, it may be a glassy mirror— even as in the old time that we have buried. Sleep sweetly, if thou canst sleep !
Now it is morning.
The new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still keeps up mightily. A wreck is announced—as in the old time. |
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