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of the enemy who brings the horrors of war, horrors that
youth has already lived through in imagination! How they
roar with rage at their own fancied impotence, and God
in heaven, what prayers! What senseless prayers!
Vehicles are stopping in the middle of the street.
Servants are setting down their burdens in sheds and
doorways. Here and there, people come out of the houses
dressed in their best attire, flushed with exertion, look
about in surprise, then glance down at their clothes, and
dart into the crowd as though eager to divert attention
from their own finery. What have they in mind? And
where do all these rough, drunken men come from? They
crowd; they reel and shriek; they quarrel and tumble;
they sit on doorsteps and are sick; they laugh wildly, run
after the women, and try to fight the men.
It was the first terror, the terror of instinct. By noon
it was over. Men had been called to the ramparts, had
labored with holiday strength, and had seen moats deepen and
barricades rise under their spades. Soldiers were passing.
Artisans, students, and noblemen’s servants were standing
at watch, armed with all kinds of curious weapons. Cannon
had been mounted. The King had ridden past, and it was
announced that he would stay. Life began to look
reasonable, and people braced themselves for what was coming.
In the afternoon of the following day, the suburb
outside of West Gate was set on fire, and the smoke, drifting
over the city, brought out the crowds again. At dusk, when
the flames reddened the weatherbeaten walls of Vor Frue
Church tower and played on the golden balls topping the
spire of St. Peter’s, the news that the enemy was coming
down Valby Hill stole in like a timid sigh. Through
avenues and alleys sounded a frightened “The Swedes! The
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