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32
SILKEBORG.
Chap. XXX.
Aa are flat till it passes near Silkeborg, and there we
string on to its waters the Lang Sø, about which I
have nothing to tell you save the story of the
treasureseeker—Peter Guldgraver—a Holsteiner by birth. To
him was revealed in a dream the existence of a mighty
treasure, buried long since by the ancient lords of the
castle. Find it he would: in the year 1780 he sold his
Holstein farm, and came a stranger to the wide Jutland
waste; he dug and dug deeper and deeper, till money
wasted and hope grew sick; still he dug on. Some
say he died, buried by a fall of earth just when the
pickaxe had struck upon the hidden treasure, and that
his whitened skeleton still lies clutchins- at the s’old
almost within his bony grasp, like that of Diomede
found beneath the ashes of Pompeii. He fell a victim
to the malice of some Jutland witch.
String on quickly to our flowing stream the Ørn Sø,
the Bras Sø, and later the Borre Sø—well viewed in its
mild woodland beauties from the Amalia-høi; and now
we stand on Aasen Point; the vaster Juul lake lies at
our feet. But observe only the hills opposite: look at
those two gigantic mounds, sepulture of some warrior
king; look at the smaller ones raised for humbler men.
What an eruption of hillocks! brown and bare, too,
are these barrows, once, no doubt, clothed with beech
and silver birch. Fire has passed over them, ignited
by some gipsy camp or careless benighted traveller: so
we string on to our thread the Juul Sø, spotted over
with islands, and we stand again upon Himmelbjerg—
Himmelbjerg, like the Anglian Thyre, pride of the
Danes and queen over all Jutland mountains.
She stands alone before the lakeside, queenlike,
holding her court; her ladies range themselves behind her.
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