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terrify the living. If I were master at Borg, I would
search the stony ground of the pine wood, and
under the cellar floor of the mansion, and in the
fertile earth of the surrounding fields, till I found the
worm-eaten corpse of the witch, and I would give
her a grave in consecrated ground at Svartsjö
churchyard. And at her funeral there should be no
lack of bell-ringers; the bells should peal loud and
long over her; and I would give rich gifts to the
priest and the sexton, that they might wed her to
everlasting rest with redoubled vigor.
Or if this were ineffective, I would let fire encircle
the bulging wooden walls some stormy night and
let it destroy it all, so that no one could ever again be
tempted to live in that unhappy house. And afterwards
no one should enter upon that fated place,
only the black daws from the church tower might
found a colony in the tall chimney stack which
raised itself black and awful over the charred ground.
Yet I should certainly be frightened to see the
flames leap over the roof, to see thick smoke,
reddened by the flare of the flames and flaked with
sparks, pour forth from the old mansion. I should
fancy I heard the wail of homeless memories in the
roar and crackling of the flames, and saw homeless
ghosts float in their blue points. I should remember
how sorrow and unhappiness beautifies, and I should
weep, feeling that a temple of the old gods had been
doomed to destruction.
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