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Marie stopped and looked long and fixedly through the
open door at the rain. “Perhaps you know,” she said, as
she resumed her walk, “perhaps you know some of these
fables, so that you can tell them.”
“Belike I do.”
“Concerning Ermegaard Lynow?”
“Concerning her in particular.”
“Well, let’s have it.”
“Why, it had to do with one of the Höghs—Sti, I think
his name was—tall, red-haired, pale —”
“Thanks, but all that I know already.”
“And do you know about the poison, too?”
“Nay, nothing.”
“Nor the letter?”
“What letter?”
“Faugh, ’t is such an ugly story!”
“Out with it!”
“Why, this Högh was a very good friend,—this
happened before he was married,—and he was the very best of
friends with Ermegaard Lynow. She had the longest hair
of any lady—she could well-nigh walk on it, and she was
red and white and pretty as a doll, but he was harsh and
barbarous to her, they said, as if she’d been an unruly
staghound and not the gentle creature she was, and the
more inhumanly he used her, the more she loved him. He
might have beaten her black and blue—and belike he did—she
would have kissed him for it. To think that one
person can be so bewitched by another, it’s horrible! But
then he got tired of her and never even looked at her, for
he was in love with some one else, and Mistress Ermegaard
wept and came nigh breaking her heart and dying of grief,
but still she lived, though forsooth it wasn’t much of a life.
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