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kindled in the firmament above, and the tower
of Redderholm’s church rises aloft towards the
starry space. The stars shine through there;
it is as if cut in lace, but every thread is of
cast-iron and of the thickness of beams.
We go down there, and in there, in the stilly
eve. – A world of spirits reigns within. See,
in the vaulted isles, on carved wooden horses,
sits armour, that was once borne by Magnus
Ladelaas, Christian the Second, and Charles
the Ninth. A thousand flags that once waved
to the peal of music and the clang of arms, to
the darted javelin and the cannon’s roar,
moulder away here: they hang in long rags
from the staff, and the staves lie cast aside,
where the flag has long since become dust.
Almost all the Kings of Sweden slumber in
silver and copper coffins within these walls.
From the altar aisle we look through the
open-grated door, in between piled-up drums and
hanging flags: here is preserved a bloody tunic,
and in the coffin are the remains of Gustavus
Adolphus. Who is that dead opposite
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