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appetite for food and drink, for soft chairs and soft beds,
a voluptuous pleasure in spicy, narcotic scents, and a
craving for luxury which was neither ruled by good taste nor
refined by love of the beautiful. True, she had scant means of
gratifying these desires, but that did not lessen their force.
She had grown fuller of form and paler, and there was
a slow languor in all her movements. Her eyes were
generally quite empty of expression, but sometimes they would
grow strangely bright, and she had fallen into the habit of
setting her lips in a meaningless smile.
There came a time when they wrote sixteen hundred and
eighty-nine. It was night, and the horse-stable at Tjele was
on fire. The flickering flames burst through the heavy clouds
of brown smoke; they lit up the grassy courtyard, shone on
the low outhouses and the white walls of the manor-house,
and even touched with light the black crowns of the trees
in the garden where they rose high above the roof. Servants
and neighbors ran from the well to the fire with pails and
buckets full of water glittering red in the light of the flames.
Palle Dyre was here, there, and everywhere, tearing wildly
about, his hair flying, a red wooden rake in his hand. Erik
Grubbe lay praying over an old chaff-bin, which had been
carried out. He watched the progress of the fire from beam
to beam, his agony growing more intense every moment,
and he groaned audibly whenever the flames leaped out
triumphantly and swung their spirals high above the house in
a shower of sparks.
Marie, too, was there, but her eyes sought something
besides the fire. They were fixed on the new coachman, who
was taking the frightened horses out from the smoke-filled
stable. The doorway had been widened to more than double
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