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take every step in princely style, he winced at crawling
through back alleys. Days passed, and weeks passed, filled
with inactive brooding and still-born plans. He loathed his
own helplessness, and began to despise himself for a
laggard. Then came the doubt: perhaps his dawdling had killed
her love, or had she never loved him? They said she was
clever, and no doubt she was, but—as clever as they said?
Oh, no! What was love, then, if she did not love,and yet
—and yet …
Behind Christoffer Urne’s garden ran a passage just
wide enough for a man to squeeze through. This was the
way Ulrik Frederik had to take when he visited his mistress,
and he would usually have Hop-o’-my-Thumb mounted on
guard at the end of the passage, lest people in the street
should see him climbing the board fence.
On a balmy, moonlit summer night, three or four hours
after bedtime, Daniel had wrapped himself in his cloak and
found a seat for himself on the remains of a pig’s trough,
which some one had thrown out from a neighboring house.
He was in a pleasant frame of mind, slightly drunk, and
chuckling to himself at his own merry conceits. Ulrik
Frederik had already scaled the fence and was in the garden. It
was fragrant with elder-blossoms. Linen laid out to bleach
made long white strips across the grass. There was a soft
rustling in the maples overhead and the rose-bushes at his
side; their red blossoms looked almost white in the
moonlight. He went up to the house, which stood shining white,
the windows in a yellow glitter. How quiet everything
was—radiant and calm! Suddenly the glassy whirr of a
cricket shivered the stillness. The sharp, blue-black
shadows of the hollyhocks seemed painted on the wall behind
them. A faint mist rose from the bleach-linen. There!—
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