of old remembrances.
But it was most charming of all when it came as an old grandmother, with
silvery hair, and such large, sensible eyes. She knew so well how to tell
about the oldest times, long before the princesses spun with the golden
spindles, and the dragons lay outside the castles, guarding them. She told
with such an air of truth, that black spots danced before the eyes of all who
heard her, and the floor became black with human blood; terrible to see and
to hear, and yet so entertaining, because such a long time had passed since it
all happened.
“Will it ever knock at my door again?” said the man, and he gazed at the
door, so that black spots came before his eyes and upon the floor; he did not
know if it was blood, or mourning crape from the dark heavy days.
And as he sat thus, the thought came upon him whether the Story might
not have hidden itself, like the princess in the old tale. And he would now
go in search of it; if he found it, it would beam in new splendor, lovelier
than ever.
“Who knows? Perhaps it has hidden itself in the straw that balances on
the margin of the well. Carefully, carefully! Perhaps it lies hidden in a
certain flower-that flower in one of the great books on the book-shelf.”
And the man went and opened one of the newest books, to gain
information on this point; but there was no flower to be found. There he
read about Holger Danske; and the man read that the tale had been invented
and put together by a monk in France, that it was a romance, “translated
into Danish and printed in that language;” that Holger Danske had never
really lived, and consequently could never come again, as we have sung,
and have been so glad to believe. And William Tell was treated just like
Holger Danske. These were all only myths-nothing on which we could
depend; and yet it is all written in a very learned book.
“Well, I shall believe what I believe!” said the man. “There grows no
plantain where no foot has trod.”
