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when he came, to fancy how her beloved would take her
in his arms and call her by every sweet name she could
think of, how he would sit by her side, while they looked
long into each other’s eyes, and how she would run her hand
through his soft, wavy brown hair? What did it matter that
none of these things happened? She blushed at the very
thought that they might happen.
They were fair and happy days, but toward the end of
November Ulrik Christian fell dangerously ill. His health,
long undermined by debauchery of every conceivable kind,
had perhaps been unable to endure the continued strain
of night-watches and hard work in connection with his
post. Or possibly fresh dissipations had strung the bow too
tightly. A wasting disease, marked by intense pain, wild
fever dreams, and constant restlessness, attacked him, and
soon took such a turn that none could doubt the name of
the sickness was death.
On the eleventh of December, Pastor Hans Didrichsen
Bartskjær, chaplain to the royal family, was walking
uneasily up and down over the fine straw mattings that covered
the floor in the large leather-brown room outside of Ulrik
Christian’s sick-chamber. He stopped absentmindedly
before the paintings on the walls, and seemed to examine
with intense interest the fat, naked nymphs, outstretched
under the trees, the bathing Susannas, and the simpering
Judith with bare, muscular arms. They could not hold his
attention long, however, and he went to the window,
letting his gaze roam from the gray-white sky to the wet,
glistening copper roofs and the long mounds of dirty,
melting snow in the castle park below. Then he resumed his
nervous pacing, murmuring, and gesticulating.
Was that the door opening? He stopped short to listen.
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