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children romp and play without subduing their laughter
and merry chatter, where the stone wall will prevent
the sound of the trumpet from reaching him outside
when the Angel comes to waken the dead who
rest within—that was indeed hard!
Beerencreutz rowed his boat across the Löfven,
gliding in the dusk of the evening over the lake
of my dreams, on whose shores I have seen gods
wander, and from whose depths rises my magic
palace. He rowed past the Lagö lagoons, where
spruces growing on the low sandy shoals shoot
straight up out of the water, and where the ruin
of the old pirate castle still crowns the steep
rock-island; he rowed on, past the pine grove at Borg
Point, where an old tree hangs over the cleft in
which a huge bear had once been caught, and where
old cairns and grave mounds bear witness to the
antiquity of the place.
He got out below the churchyard, and crossed
the mowed fields belonging to the Count of Borg
to the grave of Aquilon. He bent down and patted
the turf lightly, as one caresses the coverlet under
which a sick friend is lying. Then, taking out his
camphio-deck, he seated himself at the grave side.
“Our Johan Fredrik must be lonely out here,
and longs, no doubt, for a game.”
“It’s an outrage that a man like him has to
lie here!” protested the great bear-hunter Anders
Fuchs, sitting down beside the Colonel.
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