Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Christmas Eve
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in life? Old butterflies ought to die while the sun
shines.
But now, only now, they grasped the meaning of
it all.
Alas, the woman! Had she given them so many
good meals, had she allowed them to drink her
strong brewed ale and her brandy, only that they
might fall from the drinking-halls and gaming-tables
at Ekeby down to the King of Darkness—one
every year, one for every flying year?
Alas, the woman! the witch! Strong men had
come to Ekeby, come thither to destruction. And
she ruined them there. Their brains were like
sponges, their lungs but dried ashes, their spirits
were darkened when they sank back on their death-beds
and were ready at last for the long journey—destitute
of hope, or soul, or virtue.
Alas, the woman! Better men than they had died
like that, and so, too, would they die.
But the paralysis of fear did not hold the
cavaliers for long.
“You, Prince of Darkness,” they shouted, “"never
again shall you make your bloody contract with that
witch—she shall die. Kristian Bergh, the strong
captain, has flung the heaviest hammer the forge
contains over his shoulder, and he will bury it to the
shaft in the hag’s head. You will get no more souls
from her.
“And as for yourself, we will lay you on the
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