A Story from the Sand-Hills
A wrong order given in front of the reef—the slightest hesitation—and the boat would be lost，
“then it would be all over with me and Martin too！”
This thought passed through Jorgen's mind one day while they were out at sea， where his foster-father had been taken suddenly ill. The fever had seized him. They were only a few oars' strokes from the reef， and Jorgen sprang from his seat and stood up in the bow.
“Father-let me come！” he said， and he glanced at Martin and across the waves； every oar bent with the exertions of the rowers as the GREat wave came towards them， and he saw his father's pale face， and dared not obey the evil impulse that had shot through his brain. The boat came safely across the reef to land； but the evil thought remained in his heart， and roused up every little fibre of bitterness which he remembered between himself and Martin since they had known each other. But he could not weave the fibres together， nor did he endeavour to do so. He felt that Martin had robbed him， and this was enough to make him hate his former friend. Several of the fishermen saw this， but Martin did not—he remained as obliging and talkative as ever， in fact he talked rather too much.
Jorgen's foster-father took to his bed， and it became his death-bed， for he died a week afterwards； and now Jorgen was heir to the little house behind the sand-hills. It was small， certainly， but still it was something， and Martin had nothing of the kind.
“You will not go to sea again， Jorgen， I suppose，” observed one of the old fishermen. “You will always stay with us now.”
But this was not Jorgen's intention； he wanted to see something of the world. The eel-breeder of Fjaltring had an uncle at Old Skagen， who was a fisherman， but also a prosperous merchant with ships upon the sea； he was said to be a good old man， and it would not be a bad thing to enter his service. Old Skagen lies in the extreme north of Jutland， as far away from the Huusby dunes as one can travel in that country； and this is just what pleased Jorgen， for he did not want to remain till the wedding of Martin and Else， which would take place in a week or two.
the old fisherman said it was foolish to go away， for now that Jorgen had a home Else would very likely be inclined to take him instead of Martin.
Jorgen gave such a vague answer that it was not easy to make out what he meant—the old man brought Else to him， and she said：
“You have a home now； you ought to think of that.”
And Jorgen thought of many things.
the sea has heavy waves， but there are heavier waves in the human heart. Many thoughts， strong and weak， rushed through Jorgen's brain， and he said to Else：
“If Martin had a house like mine， which of us would you rather have？”
“But Martin has no house and cannot get one.”
“Suppose he had one？”
“Well， then I would certainly take Martin， for that is what my heart tells me； but one cannot live upon love.”
Jorgen turned these things over in his mind all night. Something was working within him， he hardly knew what it was， but it was even stronger than his love for Else； and so he went to Martin's， and what he said and did there was well considered. He let the house to Martin on most liberal terms， saying that he wished to go to sea again， because he loved it. And Else kissed him when she heard of it， for she loved Martin best.
Jorgen proposed to start early in the morning， and on the evening before his departure， when it was already getting rather late， he felt a wish to visit Martin once more. He started， and among the dunes met the old fisherman， who was angry at his leaving the place. The old man made jokes about Martin， and declared there must be some magic about that fellow， of whom the girls were so fond.
Jorgen did not pay any attention to his remarks， but said good-bye to the old man and went on towards the house where Martin dwelt. He heard loud talking inside； Martin was not alone， and this made Jorgen waver in his determination， for he did not wish to see Else again. On second thoughts， he decided that it was better not to hear any more thanks from Martin， and so he turned back.
On the following morning， before the sun rose， he fastened his knapsack on his back， took his wooden provision box in his hand， and went away among the sand-hills towards the coast path. This way was more pleasant than the heavy sand road， and besides it was shorter； and he intended to go first to Fjaltring， near Bovbjerg， where the eel-breeder lived， to whom he had promised a visit.
the sea lay before him， clear and blue， and the mussel shells and pebbles， the playthings of his childhood， crunched over his feet. While he thus walked on his nose suddenly began to bleed； it was a trifling occurrence， but trifles sometimes are of GREat importance. A few large drops of blood fell upon one of his sleeves. He wiped them off and stopped the bleeding， and it seemed to him as if this had cleared and lightened his brain. The sea-cale bloomed here and there in the sand as he passed. He broke off a spray and stuck it in his hat； he determined to be merry and light-hearted， for he was going out into the wide world—“a little way out， beyond the bay，” as the young eels had said. “Beware of bad people who will catch you， and skin you， and put you in the frying-pan！” he repeated in his mind， and smiled， for he thought he should find his way through the world—good courage is a strong weapon！
the sun was high in the heavens when he approached the narrow entrance to Nissum Bay. He looked back and saw a couple of horsemen galloping a long distance behind him， and there were other people with them. But this did not concern him.
the ferry-boat was on the opposite side of the bay. Jorgen called to the ferry-man， and the latter came over with his boat. Jorgen stepped in； but before he had got half-way across， the men whom he had seen riding so hastily， came up， hailed the ferry-man， and commanded him to return in the name of the law. Jorgen did not understand the reason of this， but he thought it would be best to turn back， and therefore he himself took an oar and returned. As soon as the boat touched the shore， the men sprang on board， and before he was aware of it， they had bound his hands with a rope.
“This wicked deed will cost you your life，” they said. “It is a good thing we have caught you.”
He was accused of nothing less than murder. Martin had been found dead， with his throat cut. One of the fishermen， late on the previous evening， had met Jorgen going towards Martin's house； this was not the first time Jorgen had raised his knife against Martin， so they felt sure that he was the murderer. The prison was in a town at a GREat distance， and the wind was contrary for going there by sea； but it would not take half an hour to get across the bay， and another quarter of an hour would bring them to Norre-Vosborg， the great castle with ramparts and moat. One of Jorgen's captors was a fisherman， a brother of the keeper of the castle， and he said it might be managed that Jorgen should be placed for the present in the dungeon at Vosborg， where Long Martha the gipsy had been shut up till her execution. They paid no attention to Jorgen's defence； the few drops of blood on his shirt-sleeve bore heavy witness against him. But he was conscious of his innocence， and as there was no chance of clearing himself at present he submitted to his fate.
the party landed just at the place where Sir Bugge's castle had stood， and where Jorgen had walked with his foster-parents after the burial feast， during. the four happiest days of his childhood. He was led by the well-known path， over the meadow to Vosborg； once more the elders were in bloom and the lofty lime-trees gave forth sweet fragrance， and it seemed as if it were but yesterday that he had last seen the spot. In each of the two wings of the castle there was a staircase which led to a place below the entrance， from whence there is access to a low， vaulted cellar. In this dungeon Long Martha had been imprisoned， and from here she was led away to the scaffold. She had eaten the hearts of five children， and had imagined that if she could obtain two more she would be able to fly and make herself invisible. In the middle of the roof of the cellar there was a little narrow air-hole， but no window. The flowering lime trees could not breathe refreshing fragrance into that abode， where everything was dark and mouldy. There was only a rough bench in the cell； but a good conscience is a soft pillow， and therefore Jorgen could sleep well.
the thick oaken door was locked， and secured on the outside by an iron bar； but the goblin of superstition can creep through a keyhole into a baron's castle just as easily as it can into a fisherman's cottage， and why should he not creep in here， where Jorgen sat thinking of Long Martha and her wicked deeds？ Her last thoughts on the night before her execution had filled this place， and the magic that tradition asserted to have been practised here， in Sir Svanwedel's time， came into Jorgen's mind， and made him shudder； but a sunbeam， a refreshing thought from without， penetrated his heart even here—it was the remembrance of the flowering elder and the sweet smelling lime-trees.
He was not left there long. They took him away to the town of Ringkjobing， where he was imprisoned with equal severity.
Those times were not like ours. the common people were treated harshly； and it was just after the days when farms were converted into knights' estates， when coachmen and servants were often made magistrates， and had power to sentence a poor man， for a small offence， to lose his property and to corporeal punishment. Judges of this kind were still to be found； and in Jutland， so far from the capital， and from the enlightened， well-meaning， head of the Government， the law was still very loosely administered sometimes—the smallest grievance Jorgen could expect was that his case should be delayed.
His dwelling was cold and comfortless； and how long would he be obliged to bear all this？ It seemed his fate to suffer misfortune and sorrow innocently. He now had plenty of time to reflect on the difference of fortune on earth， and to wonder why this fate had been allotted to him； yet he felt sure that all would be made clear in the next life， the existence that awaits us when this life is over. His faith had grown strong in the poor fisherman's cottage； the light which had never shone into his father's mind， in all the richness and sunshine of Spain， was sent to him to be his comfort in poverty and distress， a sign of that mercy of God which never fails.
the spring storms began to blow. The rolling and moaning of the North Sea could be heard for miles inland when the wind was blowing， and then it sounded like the rushing of a thousand waggons over a hard road with a mine underneath. Jorgen heard these sounds in his prison， and it was a relief to him. No music could have touched his heart as did these sounds of the sea—the rolling sea， the boundless sea， on which a man can be borne across the world before the wind， carrying his own house with him wherever he goes， just as the snail carries its home even into a strange country.
He listened eagerly to its deep murmur and then the thought arose—“Free！ free！ How happy to be free， even barefooted and in ragged clothes！” Sometimes， when such thoughts crossed his mind， the fiery nature rose within him， and he beat the wall with his clenched fists.
Weeks， months， a whole year had gone by， when Niels the thief， called also a horse-dealer， was arrested； and now better times came， and it was seen that Jorgen had been wrongly accused.
On the afternoon before Jorgen's departure from home， and before the murder， Niels the thief， had met Martin at a beer-house in the neighbourhood of Ringkjobing. A few glasses were drank， not enough to cloud the brain， but enough to loosen Martin's tongue. He began to boast and to say that he had obtained a house and intended to marry， and when Niels asked him where he was going to get the money， he slapped his pocket proudly and said：
“the money is here， where it ought to be.”
This boast cost him his life； for when he went home Niels followed him， and cut his throat， intending to rob the murdered man of the gold， which did not exist.
All this was circumstantially explained； but it is enough for us to know that Jorgen was set free. But what compensation did he get for having been imprisoned a whole year， and shut out from all communication with his fellow creatures？ they told him he was fortunate in being proved innocent， and that he might go. The burgomaster gave him two dollars for travelling expenses， and many citizens offered him provisions and beer—there were still good people； they were not all hard and pitiless. But the best thing of all was that the merchant Bronne， of Skagen， into whose service Jorgen had proposed entering the year before， was just at that time on business in the town of Ringkjobing. Bronne heard the whole story； he was kind-hearted， and understood what Jorgen must have felt and suffered. Therefore he made up his mind to make it up to the poor lad， and convince him that there were still kind folks in the world.
So Jorgen went forth from prison as if to paradise， to find freedom， affection， and trust. He was to travel this path now， for no goblet of life is all bitterness； no good man would pour out such a draught for his fellow-man， and how should He do it， Who is love personified？
“Let everything be buried and forgotten，” said Bronne， the merchant. “Let us draw a thick line through last year： we will even burn the almanack. In two days we will start for dear， friendly， peaceful Skagen. People call it an out-of-the-way corner； but it is a good warm chimney-corner， and its windows open toward every part of the world.”
What a journey that was： It was like taking fresh breath out of the cold dungeon air into the warm sunshine. The heather bloomed in pride and beauty， and the shepherd-boy sat on a barrow and blew his pipe， which he had carved for himself out of a sheep bone. Fata Morgana， the beautiful aerial phenomenon of the wilderness， appeared with hanging gardens and waving forests， and the wonderful cloud called “Lokeman driving his sheep” also was seen.
Up towards Skagen they went， through the land of the Wendels， whence the men with long beards （the Longobardi or Lombards） had emigrated in the reign of King Snio， when all the children and old people were to have been killed， till the noble Dame Gambaruk proposed that the young people should emigrate. Jorgen knew all this， he had some little knowledge； and although he did not know the land of the Lombards beyond the lofty Alps， he had an idea that it must be there， for in his boyhood he had been in the south， in Spain. He thought of the plenteousness of the southern fruit， of the red pomegranate flowers， of the humming， buzzing， and toiling in the GREat beehive of a city he had seen； but home is the best place after all， and Jorgen's home was Denmark.
At last they arrived at “Vendilskaga，” as Skagen is called in old Norwegian and Icelandic writings. At that time Old Skagen， with the eastern and western town， extended for miles， with sand hills and arable land as far as the lighthouse near “GREnen.” Then， as now， the houses were strewn among the wind-raised sand-hills—a wilderness in which the wind sports with the sand， and where the voice of the sea-gull and wild swan strikes harshly on the ear.
In the south-west， a mile from “GREnen，” lies Old Skagen； merchant Bronne dwelt here， and this was also to be Jorgen's home for the future. The dwelling-house was tarred， and all the small out-buildings had been put together from pieces of wreck. There was no fence， for indeed there was nothing to fence in except the long rows of fishes which were hung upon lines， one above the other， to dry in the wind. The entire coast was strewn with spoiled herrings， for there were so many of these fish that a net was scarcely thrown into the sea before it was filled. They were caught by carloads， and many of them were either thrown back into the sea or left to lie on the beach.
the old man's wife and daughter and his servants also came to meet him with GREat rejoicing. There was a great squeezing of hands， and talking and questioning. And the daughter， what a sweet face and bright eyes she had！
the inside of the house was comfortable and roomy. Fritters， that a king would have looked upon as a dainty dish， were placed on the table， and there was wine from the Skagen vineyard—that is， the sea； for there the grapes come ashore ready pressed and prepared in barrels and in bottles.
When the mother and daughter heard who Jorgen was， and how innocently he had suffered， they looked at him in a still more friendly way； and pretty Clara's eyes had a look of especial interest as she listened to his story. Jorgen found a happy home in Old Skagen. It did his heart good， for it had been sorely tried. He had drunk the bitter goblet of love which softens or hardens the heart， according to circumstances. Jorgen's heart was still soft—it was young， and therefore it was a good thing that Miss Clara was going in three weeks' time to Christiansand in Norway， in her father's ship， to visit an aunt and to stay there the whole winter.
On the Sunday before she went away they all went to church， to the Holy Communion. The church was large and handsome， and had been built centuries before by Scotchmen and Dutchmen； it stood some little way out of the town. It was rather ruinous certainly， and the road to it was heavy， through deep sand， but the people gladly surmounted these difficulties to get to the house of God， to sing psalms and to hear the sermon. The sand had heaped itself up round the walls of the church， but the graves were kept free from it.
It was the largest church north of the Limfjorden. The Virgin Mary， with a golden crown on her head and the child Jesus in her arms， stood lifelike on the altar； the holy Apostles had been carved in the choir， and on the walls there were portraits of the old burgomasters and councillors of Skagen； the pulpit was of carved work. The sun shone brightly into the church， and its radiance fell on the polished brass chandelier and on the little ship that hung from the vaulted roof.
Jorgen felt overcome by a holy， childlike feeling， like that which possessed him， when， as a boy， he stood in the splendid Spanish cathedral. But here the feeling was different， for he felt conscious of being one of the conGREgation.
