Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Christmas Eve
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when we steered the world from the cloud-covered
heights of Olympus, and twelve when we lived as
birds in Ygdrasil’s green crest. We follow wherever
legend leads. Did we not sit twelve strong men
round Arthur’s Table, and were there not twelve
paladins in the army of Charles the Great? One
of us has been Thor, one Jupiter, as you can see
to-day. The godlike splendor gleams sometimes
through our rags; the lion’s mane shows from
under the donkey’s hide. Time has used us badly,
but when we are together, even the forge becomes
Olympus, and the cavaliers’ wing a Valhalla.
“But, your highness, we have not been complete
in number. It is well known that in the fabled
group of twelve there is always a Loki, a
Prometheus. Him have we lacked! Your highness, I bid
you welcome!”
“See, see,” said the wicked one, “such grand
phrases, such grand phrases! And I—I have no
time to answer. Business, boys, business!—I must
be off at once, or I would gladly serve you in any
part you choose. Thanks for to-night’s entertainment,
old fellow, we’ll meet again.”
Then the cavaliers inquired where he was going,
and he answered that the noble Fru Samzelius,
the owner of Ekeby, was waiting to have her
contract renewed. They were struck dumb with
surprise.
She was a stern and capable woman, the Lady of
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