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The hero-name lifted him high above the ranks of
ordinary human beings. She had never supposed that a hero
could be like other people. King Alexander of Macedonia,
Holger the Dane, and Chevalier Bayard were tall, distant,
radiant figures—ideals rather than men. Just as she had
never believed, in her childhood, that any one could form
letters with the elegance of the copy-book, so it had never
occurred to her that one could become a hero. Heroes
belonged to the past. To think that one might meet a
flesh-and-blood hero riding in Store-Færgestræde was beyond
anything she had dreamed of. Life suddenly took on a
different aspect. So it was not all dull routine! The great and
beautiful and richly colored world she had read of in her
romances and ballads was something she might actually
see with her own eyes. There was really something that one
could long for with all one’s heart and soul; all these words
that people and books were full of had a meaning. They
stood for something. Her confused dreams and longings
took form, since she knew that they were not hers alone,
but that grown people believed in such things. Life was
rich, wonderfully rich and radiant.
It was nothing but an intuition, which she knew to be
true, but could not yet see or feel. He was her only pledge
that it was so, the only thing tangible. Hence her thoughts
and dreams circled about him unceasingly. She would often
fly to the window at the sound of horse’s hoofs, and, when
out walking, she would persuade the willing Lucie to go
round by the castle, but they never saw him.
Then came a day toward the end of October, when
she was plying her bobbins by the afternoon light, at a
window in the long drawing-room where the fireplace was.
Mistress Rigitze sat before the fire, now and then taking
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