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violets, till the languishing Aurora has run her fingers
through my locks.”
“Ah, Monsieur, you were surely mistaken when you
spoke of Eros; it must have been Evan—and you may
well go astray when you’re brawling around at night-time.
You’ve never stood in Skeel’s garden; you’ve been at the
sign of Mogens in Cappadocia among bottles and Rhenish
wineglasses, and if you’ve been still as a statue, it’s been
something besides dreams of love that robbed you of the
power to move your legs.”
“You wrong me greatly! Though I may go to the
vintner’s house sometimes, ’t is not for pleasure nor
revelry, but to forget the gnawing anguish that afflicts me.”
“Ah!”
“You have no faith in me; you do not trust to the
constancy of my amour! Heavens! Do you see the eastern
louver-window in St. Nikolaj? For three long days have
I sat there gazing at your fair countenance, as you bent
over your broidery frame.”
“How unlucky you are! You can scarce open your
mouth, but I can catch you in loose talk. I never sit with
my broidery frame toward St. Nikolaj. Do you know this
rigmarole?—
’T was black night,
Troll was in a plight;
For man held him tight.
To the troll said he:
‘If you would be free,
Then teach me quick,
Without guile or trick,
One word of perfect truth.’
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