“Woe’s me for him
Who to the world shows more of ill than good!
The good each man ascribes unto himself,
Whilst on him only rest the crimes o’ th’ age.”
“Had Christian been so fortunate as to have subdued the rebellious nobles,” continued Otto, “could he have carried out his bold plans, then they would have called him Christian the Great: it is not the active mind, but the failure in any design, which the world condemns.”
Louise nevertheless took the side of the Kammerjunker, and therefore these two went together up the aisle toward the tomb of the Glorup family. Wilhelm and his mother were already gone out of the church.
“I envy you your eloquence!” said Sophie, and looked with an expression of love into Otto’s face; she bent herself over the railing around the tomb, and looked thoughtfully upon the stone. Thoughts of love were animated in Otto’s soul.
“Intellect and heart!” exclaimed he, “must admire that which is great: you possess both these!” He seized her hand.
A faint crimson passed over Sophie’s cheeks. “The others are gone out!” she said; “come, let us go up to the chancel.”
“Up to the altar!” said Otto; “that is a bold course for one’s whole life!”
Sophie looked jestingly at him. “Do you see the monument there within the pillars?” asked she after a short pause; “the lady with the crossed arms and the colored countenance? In one night she danced twelve knights to death, the thirteenth, whom she had invited for her partner, cut her girdle in two in the dance and she fell dead to the earth!” [Author’s Note: In Thiele’s Danish Popular Tradition it is related that she was one Margrethe Skofgaard of Sanderumgaard, and that she died at a ball, where she had danced to death twelve knights. The people relate it with a variation as above; it is probable that it is mingled with a second tradition, for example, that of the blood-spots at Koldinghuus, which relates that an old king was so angry with his daughter that he resolved to kill her, and ordered that his knights should dance with her one after another until the breath was out of her. Nine had danced with her, and then came up the king himself as the tenth, and when he became weary he cut her girdle in two, on which the blood streamed from her mouth and she died.]
“She was a northern Turandot!” said Otto; “the stony heart itself was forced to break and bleed. There is really a jest in having the marble painted. She stands before future ages as if she lived—a stone image, white and red, only a mask of beauty. She is a warning to young ladies!”
“Yes, against dancing!” said Sophie, smiling at Otto’s extraordinary gravity.