"The knight, and eke his swain,
They rode from the Ting together:
The knight they let go free--
The swain they hanged in a tether."
"Let us rather sing one of the good old ballads, little Elsie," said Lady Ingé, interrupting the light-minded maiden; "and lay rightly to heart what you are singing, and so perhaps you may one day come to recollect that you are a Danish girl."
"I can well bear that in mind," replied Elsie: "I can never understand a word of German, and have trouble enough with the Jutlandish."
"But a Danish girl is true to her lover, and a Danish man deserts not king or country. Do you remember the ballad of King Didrik? Let us sing that."
Lady Ingé began, and her two handmaidens accompanied her:--
"The king he rules the castle,
And else he rules the land,
And he rules many a warrior bold,
With drawn sword in his hand:
For the king he rules the castle."
While they were singing, the door was opened; but Lady Ingé was thinking only of the old heroic ballad that her mother had sung to her when a child, and which always led her to fancy a king like Waldemar the Great, and a castle like Flynderborg, where she was sitting, the only castle she was acquainted with. The bold notes of the song, and the remembrances of her childhood which it awakened within her, always put her in a gay and happy frame of mind; and she felt herself secure in the castle, which the king ruled with his warriors bold. Upon this occasion, the song had the usual inspiriting effect. She had forgotten all that so recently disturbed her: her eyes sparkled with lively animation; and the maidens could only give ear to her, while she sang alone, in her unusually deep-toned voice, in continuation:--
"Let the peasant rule his house and home,
His steed, the warrior bold--
The king of Denmark ruleth
The castle, keep, and hold.
For the king he rules the castle."