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begins to doubt. He looks back at the chequered course of his
passion, heaves a sigh, and yawns. He is beset with longing,
like one who has come home after a lengthy sojourn in
foreign parts, and sees the altogether too familiar though
long-forgotten spots before him; as he looks at them, he wonders
idly whether he has really been gone from this well-known
part of the world so long.
In such a mood, Ulrik Frederik sat at home one rainy
day in September. He had called in his dogs and had
frolicked with them for a while, had tried to read, and had
played a game of backgammon with Marie. The rain was
pouring. It was impossible to go walking or riding, and so
he had sought his armory, as he called it, thinking he would
polish and take stock of his treasures—this was just the
day for it! It occurred to him that he had inherited a chest
of weapons from Ulrik Christian; he had ordered it brought
down from the attic, and sat lifting out one piece after
another.
There were splendid rapiers of bluish steel inlaid with
gold, or silvery bright with dull engraving. There were
hunting-knives, some heavy and one-edged, some long and
flexible like tongues of flame, some three-edged and sharp
as needles. There were toledo blades, many toledos, light
as reeds and flexible as willows, with hilts of silver and
jasper agate, or of chased gold or gold and carbuncles. One
had nothing but a hilt of etched steel, and for a sword-knot
a little silk ribbon embroidered in roses and vines with red
glass beads and green floss. It must be either a bracelet, a
cheap bracelet, or—Ulrik Frederik thought—more likely
a garter, and the rapier was stuck through it.
It comes from Spain, said Ulrik Frederik to himself,
for the late owner had served in the Spanish army for nine
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