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Even Herr Buggé, the knight who was celebrated in the old song, was murdered by a wicked man; and though he was himself called so good, he wished to put to death the builder who had built for him his castle, with its tower and thick walls, just where Jörgen and his foster-parents stood, where Skjærumaa falls into the Nissumfiord.
Jeppe himself and Baker Jorgen, in tall hats, walked just behind the coffin. Otherwise only a few poor women and children followed, who had joined the procession out of curiosity. Coachman Due drove the hearse. He had now bought a pair of horses, and this was his first good job. Otherwise life flowed onward, sluggish and monotonous.
"And I've heard it's nothing here to what it is on the mainland," said Baker Jorgen. "There the unemployed are numbered in tens of thousands." "How can they live, all those thousands of poor people, if the unemployment is so great?" asked Bjerregrav. "The need is bad enough here in town, where every employer provides his people with their daily bread."
Old Jorgen was standing before his window, playing with the little Jorgen, who sat inside on the windowseat. "Peep, peep, little one!" he cried, in his shrill voice, and he hid, and bobbed up into sight again. The young wife was holding the child; she was rosy with maternal delight. "You'll be sure to let us hear from you," said Lasse yet again, as Pelle stood leaning over the steamer's rail.
Hundreds of tumuli, the graves of the giants and heroes of old, were still visible all over the wide heath a great churchyard. Mr. Brönne had himself been there, and had seen Hamlet's grave. They talked of the olden times of their neighbours, the English and Scotch; and Jörgen sang the ballad about "The King of England's Son" about the splendid ship how it was fitted up:
Some took them and put them into their cooking pots, thinking they were to be eaten; others were left to rot upon the sand; none of them fulfilled their destination to unfold the lovely colours, the beauty that lay in them. Would it be better with Jörgen? The poor flower-roots were soon done for: there might be years of trial before him.
One afternoon Jörgen was sitting alone in the parlour, and suddenly there rushed upon his shattered mind a feeling akin to the restlessness which so often, in his younger years, had driven him out among the sand-hills, or upon the heath. "Home! home!" he exclaimed. No one heard him. He left the house, and took his way to the sand-hills.
Next day the tunnel was driven farther as far as Baker Jorgen's steps, and their connection with the outer world was secure. At Jorgen's great things had happened in the course of the last four- and-twenty hours. Marie had been so excited by the idea that the end of the world was perhaps at hand that she had hastily brought the little Jorgen into it.
"If he'd been a son of mine he would have got the stick," said Jorgen. "Aren't they the sort of people who are making ready for the millennium? We've got a few of their sort here," said Bjerregrav diffidently. "D'you mean the poor devils who believe in the watchmaker and his 'new time'? Yes, that may well be," said Jeppe contemptuously. "I have heard they are quite wicked enough for that.
All sail was set, and the flag of distress was hoisted. They were about a Danish mile off. Fishing-boats were to be seen, but were far away. The wind was fair for them. The current was also in their favour, but not strong enough. The vessel sank. Jörgen threw his right arm around Clara.
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