Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Iron from Ekeby
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no bad words. If a strange boy had played roughly
with her or had sung ugly songs, he had fought
him with the greatest fury and nearly pommelled
the life out of him, for his little sister should never
hear anything wicked, nor suifer any pain, nor ever
meet with evil or hatred.
Countess Elizabeth had been a gay little sister
to all of them. When she placed her small hand
in their broad, hard fists, it seemed just as if she
had said, “See how frail I am, but you are my big
brother—you shall guard me against others and
against yourself.” And they were courtly knights
as long as they saw her. Now they looked on her
with fear and hardly knew her. She was wasted and
thin—her neck had lost its roundness, her face
looked transparent. She must have struck her head
against something during her night tramp, for a
drop of blood fell now and again from a little cut
near her temple, and the curly hair that hung over
her forehead was clotted with blood. Her skirt was
dirty after the long walk over the dew-damp roads,
and her shoes were the worse for wear. The cavaliers
had a dreadful feeling that this was a stranger.
The Countess Elizabeth they knew had n’t such
wild, glowing eyes. Their poor little sister had been
hunted to the verge of madness. It seemed as if a
soul descended from the other world was fighting
with the real soul for the possession of that tortured
body.
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