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CHAPTER IV
Flakes of orange-colored light shot up from the
sea-gray fog-bank in the horizon, and lit the sky
overhead with a mild, rose-golden flame that widened and
widened, grew fainter and fainter, until it met a long, slender
cloud, caught its waving edge, and fired it with a glowing,
burning radiance. Violet and pale pink, the reflection from
the sunrise clouds fell over the beaches of Kallebodstrand.
The dew sparkled in the tall grass of the western rampart;
the air was alive and quivering with the twitter of
sparrows in the gardens and on the roofs. Thin strips of
delicate mist floated over the orchards, and the heavy,
fruit-laden branches of the trees bent slowly under the breezes
from the Sound.
A long-drawn, thrice-repeated blast of the horn was flung
out from West Gate and echoed from the other corners of
the city. The lonely watchmen on the ramparts began to
pace more briskly on their beats, shook their mantles, and
straightened their caps. The time of relief was near.
On the bastion north of West Gate, Ulrik Frederik
Gyldenlöve stood looking at the gulls, sailing with white
wings up and down along the bright strip of water in the
moat. Light and fleeting, sometimes faint and misty,
sometimes colored in strong pigments or clear and vivid as fire,
the memories of his twenty years chased one another
through his soul. They brought the fragrance of heavy
roses and the scent of fresh green woods, the huntsman’s
cry and the fiddler’s play and the rustling of stiff, billowy
silks. Distant but sunlit, the life of his childhood in the
red-roofed Holstein town passed before him. He saw the tall
form of his mother, Mistress Margrethe Pappen, a black
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