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CHAPTER VIII
After the main sallies against the enemy on the
second of September and the twentieth of October, the
town rang with the fame of Ulrik Christian Gyldenlöve.
Colonel Satan, the people called him. His name was on every
lip. Every child in Copenhagen knew his sorrel, Bellarina,
with the white socks, and when he rode past—a slim,
tall figure in the wide-skirted blue uniform of the guard with
its enormous white collar and cuffs, red scarf, and broad
sword-belt—the maidens of the city peeped admiringly
after him, proud when their pretty faces won them a bow
or a bold glance from the audacious soldier. Even the sober
fathers of families and their matrons in beruffled caps, who
well knew how naughty he was and had heard the tales of
all his peccadillos, would nod to each other with pleasure
in meeting him, and would fall to discussing the difficult
question of what would have happened to the city if it had
not been for Gyldenlöve.
The soldiers and men on the ramparts idolized him, and
no wonder, for he had the same power of winning the
common people that distinguished his father, King Christian the
Fourth. Nor was this the only point of resemblance. He had
inherited his father’s hot-headedness and intemperance,but
also much of his ability, his gift of thinking quickly and
taking in a situation at a glance. He was extremely blunt.
Several years at European courts had not made him a
courtier, nor even passably well mannered. In daily intercourse,
he was taciturn to the point of rudeness, and in the service,
he never opened his mouth without cursing and swearing
like a common sailor.
With all this, he was a genuine soldier. In spite of his
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