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80
HADSUND.
Chap. XXXIV.
denborg, an ancient chåteau (Grevskab) of Count
Schimmelmann, picturesque, quaintly begabled, and
hardly visible from the trees which grow round,
separating it from the grass-green moat, stagnant and noisy
as an old French grenouilliëre.
“ What a pity the evening is so far advanced!” we
exclaimed; but it was no pity, for in the soft
tones of twilight the old building looked more
mysterious, in the midst, too, of such a wild country,
embowered in trees—alone—isolated. Somehow or other
at the moment its history had escaped my memory,
otherwise for gilded gold I would never have traversed
the road we trod drowsily along after nightfall, for there
are dark tales of Lindenborg well known to the
peasants of the surrounding country.
Ræsholm, as it was called until created into a county,
has passed through many hands—strange it is how
these manors changed proprietors in Jutland; none,
I believe, save Rosenholm, descended from father to
son for the lapse of three hundred and fifty years—later
it became the possession by purchase of Claus Daa, a
noble Jutlander, married to King Christian IV.’s
granddaughter, Sophia, Baroness of Lindenov. Claus Daa
came to an untimely death in the castle, no one knew
how, “ beside the red door,” was buried and forgotten.
Years rolled on, and the fair but very frail Sophia
became attacked by that scourge of the female sex, a
hideous cancer. Fearful were the torments she
endured, not only of body, but of mind. As a last resource,
she caused her suffering frame to be transported in a
litter by four horses over the jolting roads and ruts to
Aalborg, even in these days, as we ourselves can
attest, a weary journey. To stifle her screams, she was
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