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wind—the bushes scratch her and tear her frock,—but no, she
has n’t any frock on,—just as they tore my brown
petticoat! The nuts must be ripe in Fastrup Grove—such heaps
of nuts there were at Viborg market! God knows if Anne’s
teeth have stopped aching.
“No, Brynhild!—the wild steed comes galloping …
Brynhild and Grimhild—Queen Grimhild beckons to the
men, then turns, and walks away. They drag in Queen
Brynhild, and a squat, black yokel with long
arms—something like Bertel in the turnpike house—catches her belt
and tears it in two, and he pulls off her robe and her
underkirtle, and his huge black hands brush the rings from her
soft white arms, and another big, half-naked, brown and
shaggy churl puts his hairy arm around her waist, and he
kicks off her sandals with his clumsy feet, and Bertel winds
her long black locks around his hands, and drags her along,
and she follows with body bent forward, and the big fellow
puts his sweaty palms on her naked back and shoves her
over to the black, fiery stallion, and they throw her down
in the gray dust in the road, and they tie the long tail of the
horse around her ankles—”
The lines came into her forehead again and stayed there
a long time. She shook her head and looked more and more
vexed. At last she opened her eyes, half rose, and glanced
around her wearily.
Mosquitoes swarmed in the gap between the hopvines,
and from the garden came puffs of fragrance from mint and
common balm, mingling sometimes with a whiff of
sow-thistle or anise. A dizzy little yellow spider ran across her
hand, tickling her, and made her jump up. She went to
the door and tried to pick a rose growing high among the
leaves, but could not reach it. Then she began to gather
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