the Bishop of Borglum and His Warriors伯爾厄隆的主教和他的親眷
by Hans Christian Andersen（1861）
OUR scene is laid in Northern Jutland， in the so-called “wild moor.” We hear what is called the “Wester-wow-wow”—the peculiar roar of the North Sea as it breaks against the western coast of Jutland. It rolls and thunders with a sound that penetrates for miles into the land； and we are quite near the roaring. Before us rises a GREat mound of sand—a mountain we have long seen， and towards which we are wending our way， driving slowly along through the deep sand. On this mountain of sand is a lofty old building—the convent of Borglum. In one of its wings （the larger one） there is still a church. And at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour； but the weather is clear in the bright June night around us， and the eye can range far， far over field and moor to the Bay of Aalborg， over heath and meadow， and far across the deep blue sea.
Now we are there， and roll past between barns and other farm buildings； and at the left of the gate we turn aside to the Old Castle Farm， where the lime trees stand in lines along the walls， and， sheltered from the wind and weather， grow so luxuriantly that their twigs and leaves almost conceal the windows.
We mount the winding staircase of stone， and march through the long passages under the heavy roof-beams. The wind moans very strangely here， both within and without. It is hardly known how， but the people say—yes， people say a GREat many things when they are frightened or want to frighten others—they say that the old dead choir-men glide silently past us into the church， where mass is sung. They can be heard in the rushing of the storm， and their singing brings up strange thoughts in the hearers—thoughts of the old times into which we are carried back.
On the coast a ship is stranded； and the bishop's warriors are there， and spare not those whom the sea has spared. The sea washes away the blood that has flowed from the cloven skulls. The stranded goods belong to the bishop， and there is a store of goods here. The sea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the convent cellar， and in the convent is already good store of beer and mead. There is plenty in the kitchen—dead game and poultry， hams and sausages； and fat fish swim in the ponds without.
the Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord. He has GREat possessions， but still he longs for more—everything must bow before the mighty Olaf Glob. His rich cousin at Thyland is dead， and his widow is to have the rich inheritance. But how comes it that one relation is always harder towards another than even strangers would be？ The widow's husband had possessed all Thyland， with the exception of the church property. Her son was not at home. In his boyhood he had already started on a journey， for his desire was to see foreign lands and strange people. For years there had been no news of him. Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave， and would never come back to his home， to rule where his mother then ruled.
“What has a woman to do with rule？” said the bishop.
He summoned the widow before a law court； but what did he gain thereby？ The widow had never been disobedient to the law， and was strong in her just rights.
Bishop Olaf of Borglum， what dost thou purpose？ What writest thou on yonder smooth parchment， sealing it with thy seal， and intrusting it to the horsemen and servants， who ride away， far away， to the city of the Pope？
It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships， and soon icy winter will come.
Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the horsemen and servants back to their home. They came from Rome with a papal decree—a ban， or bull， against the widow who had dared to offend the pious bishop. “Cursed be she and all that belongs to her. Let her be expelled from the conGREgation and the Church. Let no man stretch forth a helping hand to her， and let friends and relations avoid her as a plague and a pestilence！”
“What will not bend must break，” said the Bishop of Borglum.
And all forsake the widow； but she holds fast to her God. He is her helper and defender.
One servant only—an old maid—remained faithful to her； and with the old servant， the widow herself followed the plough； and the crop GREw， although the land had been cursed by the Pope and by the bishop.
“Thou child of perdition， I will yet carry out my purpose！” cried the Bishop of Borglum. “Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon thee， to summon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee！”
then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her to a wagon， and mounted up on the wagon， with her old servant， and travelled away across the heath out of the Danish land. As a stranger she came into a foreign country， where a strange tongue was spoken and where new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she journeyed， to where GREen hills rise into mountains， and the vine clothes their sides. Strange merchants drive by her， and they look anxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise. They fear an attack from the armed followers of the robber-knights. The two poor women， in their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen， travel fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the darksome forest. And now they were in Franconia. And there met them a stalwart knight， with a train of twelve armed followers. He paused， gazed at the strange vehicle， and questioned the women as to the goal of their journey and the place whence they came. Then one of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark， and spoke of her sorrows， of her woes， which were soon to cease， for so Divine Providence had willed it. For the stranger knight is the widow's son！ He seized her hand， he embraced her， and the mother wept. For years she had not been able to weep， but had only bitten her lips till the blood started.
It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships， and soon will icy winter come.
the sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's cellar. In the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire. At Borglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms， while cold winter raged without， when a piece of news was brought to the bishop. “Jens Glob， of Thyland， has come back， and his mother with him.” Jens Glob laid a complaint against the bishop， and summoned him before the temporal and the spiritual court.
“That will avail him little，” said the bishop. “Best leave off thy efforts， knight Jens.”
Again it is the time of falling leaves and stranded ships. Icy winter comes again， and the “white bees” are swarming， and sting the traveller's face till they melt.
“Keen weather to-day！” say the people， as they step in.
Jens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought， that he singes the skirt of his wide garment.
“Thou Borglum bishop，” he exclaims， “I shall subdue thee after all！ Under the shield of the Pope， the law cannot reach thee； but Jens Glob shall reach thee！”
then he writes a letter to his brother-in-law， Olaf Hase， in Sallingland， and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas eve， at mass， in the church at Widberg. The bishop himself is to read the mass， and consequently will journey from Borglum to Thyland； and this is known to Jens Glob.
Moorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow. the marsh will bear horse and rider， the bishop with his priests and armed men. They ride the shortest way， through the waving reeds， where the wind moans sadly.
Blow thy brazen trumpet， thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin！ it sounds merrily in the clear air. So they ride on over heath and moorland—over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the hot summer， though now icy， like all the country—towards the church of Widberg.
the wind is blowing his trumpet too—blowing it harder and harder. He blows up a storm—a terrible storm—that increases more and more. Towards the church they ride， as fast as they may through the storm. The church stands firm， but the storm careers on over field and moorland， over land and sea.
Borglum's bishop reaches the church； but Olaf Hase will scarce do so， however hard he may ride. He journeys with his warriors on the farther side of the bay， in order that he may help Jens Glob， now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of the Highest.
the church is the judgment hall； the altar is the council table. The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm reads out the accusation and the sentence， roaming in the air over moor and heath， and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail over the bay in such weather as this.
Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. there he dismisses his warriors， presents them with their horses and harness， and gives them leave to ride home and GREet his wife. He intends to risk his life alone in the roaring waters； but they are to bear witness for him that it is not his fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcement in the church at Widberg. The faithful warriors will not leave him， but follow him out into the deep waters. Ten of them are carried away； but Olaf Hase and two of the youngest men reach the farther side. They have still four miles to ride.
It is past midnight. It is Christmas. the wind has abated. The church is lighted up； the gleaming radiance shines through the window-frames， and pours out over meadow and heath. The mass has long been finished， silence reigns in the church， and the wax is heard dropping from the candles to the stone pavement. And now Olaf Hase arrives.
In the forecourt Jens Glob GREets him kindly， and says，
“I have just made an aGREement with the bishop.”
“Sayest thou so？” replied Olaf Hase. “then neither thou nor the bishop shall quit this church alive.”
And the sword leaps from the scabbard， and Olaf Hase deals a blow that makes the panel of the church door， which Jens Glob hastily closes between them， fly in fragments.
“Hold， brother！ First hear what the aGREement was that I made. I have slain the bishop and his warriors and priests. They will have no word more to say in the matter， nor will I speak again of all the wrong that my mother has endured.”
the long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red； but there is a redder gleam upon the pavement， where the bishop lies with cloven skull， and his dead warriors around him， in the quiet of the holy Christmas night.
And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the convent of Borglum. The murdered bishop and the slain warriors and priests are displayed under a black canopy， surrounded by candelabra decked with crape. There lies the dead man， in the black cloak wrought with silver； the crozier in the powerless hand that was once so mighty. The incense rises in clouds， and the monks chant the funeral hymn. It sounds like a wail—it sounds like a sentence of wrath and condemnation， that must be heard far over the land， carried by the wind—sung by the wind—the wail that sometimes is silent， but never dies； for ever again it rises in song， singing even into our own time this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his hard nephew. It is heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman， driving by in the heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum. It is heard by the sleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum. And not only to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread of hurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the convent door that has long been locked. The door still seems to open， and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks； the fragrance of incense arises； the church gleams in its ancient splendor； and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop， who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle， with the crozier in his powerless hand； and on his pale proud forehead gleams the red wound like fire， and there burn the worldly mind and the wicked thoughts.
Sink down into his grave—into oblivion—ye terrible shapes of the times of old！
Hark to the raging of the angry wind， sounding above the rolling sea！ A storm approaches without， calling aloud for human lives. The sea has not put on a new mind with the new time. This night it is a horrible pit to devour up lives， and to-morrow， perhaps， it may be a glassy mirror—even as in the old time that we have buried. Sleep sweetly， if thou canst sleep！
Now it is morning.
the new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still keeps up mightily. A wreck is announced—as in the old time.
During the night， down yonder by Lokken， the little fishing village with the red-tiled roofs—we can see it up here from the window—a ship has come ashore. It has struck， and is fast embedded in the sand； but the rocket apparatus has thrown a rope on board， and formed a bridge from the wreck to the mainland； and all on board are saved， and reach the land， and are wrapped in warm blankets； and to-day they are invited to the farm at the convent of Borglum. In comfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces. They are addressed in the language of their country， and the piano sounds for them with melodies of their native land； and before these have died away， the chord has been struck， the wire of thought that reaches to the land of the sufferers announces that they are rescued. Then their anxieties are dispelled； and at even they join in the dance at the feast given in the GREat hall at Borglum. Waltzes and Styrian dances are given， and Danish popular songs， and melodies of foreign lands in these modern times.
Blessed be thou， new time！ Speak thou of summer and of purer gales！ Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts！ On thy glowing canvas let them be painted—the dark legends of the rough hard times that are past！
我們現在在日德蘭北部，在荒野沼地的另一邊。我們可以聽到“西海岸的嗚嗚聲”，聽到浪花翻滾的聲音，離我們很近。不過在我們眼前是一個很大的沙岡，我們早就看見這東西了，我們的車子朝著它奔去。在深厚的沙地上，車子走得很慢。沙岡上有一座很大的舊庭院，那是伯爾厄隆修道院，它最大的一翼現在仍是教堂。這天晚上我們到了那里，天雖然很晚，但天色明朗，光明夜晚的季節(jié)。你可以看到四周很遠的地方，可以穿過田野和沼澤望到奧爾堡海灣，望過矮樹叢生的地帶和草原，一直望到那深藍色的大海。
我們已經到了那邊，現在我們正從倉舍房屋之間慢慢穿過，拐來拐去，從大門走進那座古堡。這里椴樹沿著墻成行地排著，墻為樹擋了風雨，所以它們長成了大樹，枝子幾乎蓋住了窗子。
我們順著石頭鋪的螺旋臺階走了上去，穿過木樑屋頂下的長廊。這里風的呼嘯聲很奇怪，無論外面還是里面，你真搞不清它到底在哪里。於是人們便說了起來—— 是啊，當一個人心中很害怕，或者想搞得別人害怕的時候，他講出很多理由或看出很多理由。人們說，那些古老的滅亡了的教規(guī)便悄悄地從我們身邊溜進了教堂，到唱圣詩的地方，你可以從風的呼呼聲中聽到它。這樣一來，你的心情便被它搞得很奇怪，你便想著古代——想著想著，你便回到了古代。
——海岸上有船遇難，主教的下屬都跑到那兒去了，對在海難中倖存下來的人，他們毫不留情；海水沖洗掉了從被擊碎的頭骨里流出的鮮血。遇難船上的貨物成了主教的。東西真不少，海水沖來了一只只酒桶，滿裝著價值昂貴的酒，這些都到了修道院的地下酒窖里，而里面原來已經裝滿了啤酒和蜜水；廚房里堆滿了宰好的牲畜、香腸和火腿；外邊的水潭里，肥胖的鯽魚和鮮美的鯉魚游來游去。伯爾厄隆的主教是一個很有勢力的人，他有土地，而且還想霸佔更多；人人都得對這位奧魯夫 ·格洛勃低頭。在曲鎮(zhèn)那個地方，他的一位富有的親屬死了。“親人對親人最糟糕”1，這話對那邊的那位遺孀可成了真理。她的丈夫擁有除去教會的地產以外的全部土地。她的兒子在異國他鄉(xiāng)。在他還是一個孩子的時候，他便被送去學習異國風俗習慣，那是他的志向。好多年沒有他的消息了，說不定他已經躺進了墳墓，永遠也不會回家來管理他母親掌管的這些財產了。“甚么，讓一個婦人來管理？”主教這么說。他送信要召見她，傳她到議事會?？墒沁@幫得了他多少忙呢？她從不觸犯法律，她正當地行使著自己的合法權利。
伯爾厄隆的主教奧魯夫，你在打甚么算盤？你在那張空白的羊皮紙上寫下些甚么？你在蓋了火漆印并用帶子紮好的那封信里悄悄地寫了些甚么？為甚么又讓驛馬差人和仆人帶上它出國，跑到了遠遠的教皇城市去？
這是落葉的時節(jié)，也是海上多難的時節(jié)。嚴冬馬上到了。已經回來兩撥人了，最后這次驛馬差人和仆人在眾人的歡迎中回來了。他們帶著教皇的信從羅馬回來了，這是一封譴責膽敢冒犯虔誠的主教的那個寡婦的信。“譴責她和她所有的一切！把她從教會和教徒中趕出去！誰都不應向她伸出援助之手；親屬和朋友應該像躲避瘟疫和麻風病一樣避開她！”“不屈從的必須摧毀！”伯爾厄隆的主教說道。
他們都遠避她，但是她并不避開自己的上帝，他是她的保護人，是救助她的人。
只有一個老仆人——一位老女仆對她很忠心。她和她一道去耕地。谷粟長起來了，盡管土地是受過教皇和主教的詛咒的。“你這個鬼東西！我一定要實現我的旨意！”伯爾厄隆的主教說道，“現在我要使用教皇的手壓住你，讓你服從詔令，接受審判！”
於是，她把她最后的兩頭公牛套在車上，然后和女仆坐上去，走過荒原，離開了丹麥的國土。她來到講外語，有異國風俗的異國人中，成了那里的異國人。她們走得很遠很遠，到了一片蔥綠山丘堆成的、長著葡萄的大山。四處漂泊的商人來來往往，他們從裝滿貨物的車子上恐懼地四下張望，害怕強盜匪徒來襲擊。這兩位婦人乘著由兩頭黑公牛拉著的破車，放心地行駛在那不安全的崎嶇道路和密林中，來到了萊茵河中部國家。她在這里遇到了一位儀表不凡的騎士，后面跟著十二個全副武裝的隨從。他停住，望著這輛奇怪的車子，問這兩位婦人旅行的目的，是從哪個國家來的。於是年紀輕一點的那個婦人提到了丹麥的曲鎮(zhèn)，講述了自己悲傷而苦難的遭遇。不過這一切很快便成了過去，上帝作了這樣的安排。那位騎士正是她的兒子。他把手伸給她，擁抱她。母親哭了。她多年來沒有哭過了，而只是緊緊地咬著嘴唇，直到鮮血流了出來。
那是葉落的季節(jié)，海上多難的季節(jié)。
海水把酒桶卷到陸地上，卷到主教的地下酒窖里和廚房中；熊熊的火上烤著鐵叉上的野味。在這冷得刺骨的冬天，屋子里面十分溫暖。這時傳來了消息：曲鎮(zhèn)的延斯·格羅勃和他的母親回來了；延斯·格羅勃要召集議事會，要按宗教的教規(guī)和國家的法律來指控主教。“那對他沒有用處！”主教說道。“放棄這場爭議吧，騎士延斯！”
第二年，又到了葉落和海上多難的季節(jié)，嚴寒的冬天來了。白色的蜜蜂2漫天飛舞，它叮在行人的臉上，一直到自己融化掉。
今天空氣很清新，出過門的人都這么說。延斯·格羅勃在沉思，火焰飛到了他的長袍上，是啊，燒出一個小洞。“你這個伯爾厄隆的主教！我能制服你！在教皇的庇護下，法律對你無可奈何。不過，延斯·格羅勃會收拾你的！”於是他給他在薩林的姐夫奧魯夫·哈斯先生寫信，請他在圣誕節(jié)前夕做晨禱的時候到維茲貝教堂，主教要在那里主持彌撒，所以他得從伯爾厄隆來到曲鎮(zhèn)，延斯得知了這事。草原和沼澤都被冰雪覆蓋著，馬和騎士、整隊人、主教和教堂的神職人員以及仆人，都要從上面走過。他們騎馬抄近路穿過脆干的蘆葦叢，在淒淒風聲中向前走去。
穿狐皮大衣的號手，吹起你那銅號吧！在清新的空氣中，它的聲音格外響亮。他們騎馬走過了草原和沼澤地，炎熱的夏日里莫甘娜仙女的草原幻影出現了，他們要往南去，直到維茲貝教堂。
風吹著它的號角，吹得越來越響。刮起了暴風，最可怕的風越來越大，成了狂風，這是上帝賜予的天氣。在這樣的天氣中，他們走向上帝的屋子。上帝的屋子屹立不動，可是上帝的狂風卻在田野上、沼澤上、海灣、海上肆虐。伯爾厄隆的主教到了教堂，但是奧魯夫·哈斯先生卻沒有到，不論他騎馬奔得多快。他和他的隨從從他住的海灣那邊前來幫助延斯·格羅勃，要在最高議事會前對主教審判。
上帝的屋子便是法庭，祭壇是審判臺。巨大的銅燭臺上的燭全都燃著。風暴在讀控訴詞和判決詞。它的聲音在天空中、在沼澤上、在荒原上，在波濤翻滾的海洋上呼嘯。在這樣的天氣中，是沒有渡船穿過海灣的。
奧魯夫·哈斯在奧德松德海峽邊上站著。在那里他讓他的隨從回去，贈給他們馬匹和馬具，準假讓他們回家去和自己的妻子團圓。他愿獨自一人在那洶涌的波浪中去冒一下生命危險。但是他手下的那些人愿以身為證，延斯·格羅勃在維茲貝教堂孤立無援并不是他的過錯。那些忠實的隨從沒有離開他，他們跟著他走進了深水，其中有十個人被水卷走了，奧魯夫·哈斯本人和兩個孩子到達了對岸。他們還有四里路要走。
已經過了半夜，這是圣誕夜。風已經停了，教堂里燈火通明。明亮的光焰透過玻璃窗照到了草地和荒原上。太陽升起前的晨禱早已結束，上帝的屋子里一片靜悄悄，人們可以聽到熔蠟滴到地上的聲音。這時奧魯夫·哈斯到了。
在懸掛徽記的大廳里，延斯·格羅勃歡迎他。對他說：“你好，我已經和主教和解了！”“和他和解了？”奧魯夫說道，“這么說你和主教都不能活著離開教堂了。”
劍出鞘了，奧魯夫·哈斯動手了，延斯·格羅勃關上了那扇教堂的門，把他自己和哈斯隔開了，於是那扇門被劈碎了。“別著急，親愛的兄弟，先看看是怎樣的和解！我已經把主教和他手下的人全殺了。他們在這件事上沒有多說一句話，我也沒有講我母親所遭受的那一切冤屈了。”
祭壇上燭光鮮紅，但是地上的血更紅。主教的頭被砍掉落到地上，他的仆從都被殺死倒下。神圣的圣誕夜里，四周一片寂靜。
圣誕節(jié)后第三天晚上，伯爾厄隆修道院敲響了喪鐘。那位被殺死的主教和仆從，被陳列在一個黑顏色的華蓋下面，四周是用黑紗包裹起來的燭臺。死者，這個一度十分威風的主教，現在身穿銀線繡的袍子，手中握著十字杖，但已喪失權力了。香煙散發(fā)出香氣，僧侶在唱。聲音像是在哀訴，像是憤怒的譴責判決，這判決要乘著風，讓風唱著傳遍全國，使遠近都聽到。風會停歇，但是卻永不會消失，總會再刮起，唱著自己的歌，一直唱到我們的時代。在那邊唱著伯爾厄隆的主教和他的厲害的親戚。這聲音黑夜可以聽到，為那些在沉重的沙上駕車行駛過伯爾厄隆修道院的驚恐的農民聽到；為那些在伯爾厄隆厚墻內的屋子里難以入眠并注意著四周的人聽到。因為它總是在通向教堂的發(fā)出回聲的長廊里盤旋，教堂的入口早已經被磚塊封住，但是在迷信者的眼中并非如此；他們仍舊看到這扇門，它是敞開著的。教堂銅燭臺的火光還在閃耀，香煙仍在散發(fā)香氣，教堂依舊保存著昔日的光彩，僧侶們仍舊在為那被殺死的穿著銀線繡的長袍、失去了權力而拿著手杖的主教念著彌撒。在他那蒼白而驕傲的額上，血跡斑斑的傷口在閃光，像火似的閃著光。那是塵俗的思想和邪惡的欲念在燃燒。
聽風的咆哮吧，它壓過了海濤翻滾的聲音！那邊刮起了風暴，這風暴會叫人喪命！在新的時期中它并沒有改變思想。今天晚上它張開大口吞噬生命，明天說不定又成了一只能反射一切影子的眼睛，就和那個已被我們埋葬掉的古老的時代一樣。如果你能睡去，那就請安詳地睡吧！
現在到了早晨。
新時代的陽光照進了屋子！風仍在肆虐。又傳來了海難的消息，就像古時一樣。
夜里，在呂肯那個紅房頂小漁村的附近，我們從窗子里看到一只船遇難。在那邊外面稍遠一點的地方，它觸了礁。不過救生發(fā)射器3射出了繩索，為船骸和陸地間結上聯系。船上所有的人都被救出來了，他們被送到岸上，送到床上去休息。今天他們被邀請到伯爾厄隆修道院。在舒適的屋子里，他們得到殷勤的招待，看到了溫和的眼光，還可以受到本國語言的歡迎。鋼琴鍵奏出自己祖國的樂曲，在這些結束之前，又有一根弦4顫動起來，雖說是無聲的，卻又十分響亮和充滿信心：思想信息傳到了那些航船遇難的人的故鄉(xiāng)，通報他們已得救；他們的心靈感到了慰藉。今天晚上，在伯爾厄隆廳里的歡宴上會有舞會，我們會跳起華爾茲和方步舞，唱起歌頌丹麥和新時代的《勇敢的士兵》5的歌。
新的時代啊，祝福你！乘著夏日清新的空氣飛進城里吧！讓你的陽光照進人們的心靈和思想里吧！在你光輝閃耀的大地上，那些艱難殘酷的時代里黑暗的傳說將消失。
題注伯爾厄隆修道院在北日德蘭呂肯城西6公里的地方，原是一個皇室的莊園。在12世紀時被改建為一個修道院。這里的教堂成了維茲貝區(qū)的主教堂。當時，主教是由修道院的僧侶們推選的。中世紀的丹麥還談不上甚么法制。他們保存著原始的人民議事習俗，重大問題都由人民在議事會上決定。議事會也是司法的地方。
1丹麥諺語。
2指雪花、雪片。
3丹麥西海岸海難很多，那里的漁民使用一種能發(fā)射帶著繩索的箭一般的鐵器的機械裝置。漁民們把這種“箭”射到遇難的船上，再把船拖回；或者由船上的人扶索回到岸上。
4指電報線。
5丹麥詩人彼得·費伯的詩。
