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lowering heavens. Before her rolled the murky blue waters of
the Sound, and beyond rose banks of fog. She drew rein,
and her tired mount stopped willingly. Ulrik Frederik
galloped past, swung back in a wide circle, and halted at
her side.
At that moment a shower fell like a gray, heavy, wet
curtain drawn slantwise over the Sound. An icy wind
flattened the grass, whizzed in their ears, and made a noise
like foaming waves in the distant tree-tops. Large flat
hailstones rattled down over them in white sheets, settled
like bead strings in the folds of her dress, fell in a spray
from the horses’ manes, and skipped and rolled in the grass
as though swarming out of the earth.
They sought shelter under the trees, rode down to the
beach, and presently halted before the low door of the
Bide-a-Wee Tavern. A stable-boy took the horses, and the tall,
bareheaded inn-keeper showed them into his parlor, where,
he said, there was another guest before them. It proved to
be Hop-o’-my-Thumb, who rose at their entrance,
offering to give up the room to their highnesses, but Ulrik
Frederik graciously bade him remain.
“Stay here, my man,” he said, “and entertain us in this
confounded weather. I must tell you, my dear,”—turning
to Marie,—“that this insignificant mannikin is the
renowned comedian and merry-andrew of ale-houses, Daniel
Knopf, well learned in all the liberal arts such as dicing,
fencing, drinking, shrovetide sports, and such matters,
otherwise in fair repute as an honorable merchant in the
good city of Copenhagen.”
Daniel scarcely heard this eulogy. He was absorbed in
looking at Marie Grubbe and formulating some graceful
words of felicitation, but when Ulrik Frederik roused him
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