It stops, and Morten Langè sees the lady getting out—
"Heav'n help me now! Heav'n help me now!" he sighed, for he dared not shout.
"I'm no poltroon, and yet I feel the blood within my veins
Is freezing fast.” In mortal fear, his cold hand dropped the reins;
Then stooping to recover them out of the sleigh he fell,
And with it scampered off the horse, whither he could not tell.
He felt that his last hour was come, all helpless as he lay—
And with suck thoughts upon his mind he fainted quite away.
At length, when consciousness returned, and when his swoon was o'er,
He heard a fearful buzzing sound, that frightened him still more.
What had he done to be exposed that night to such alarms?
A troop of demons round him thronged—one imp secured his arms,
Another seized his lanky legs, another caught his head—
And powerless to resist them then, away with him they sped.
They carried him to some strange place, flames shone upon the walls,
Into another fainting-fit, half dead with fright, he falls.
But when the pains of death seemed past, and trembling he looked round,
He saw that in the other life a sad fate he had found.
The vaulted roof was black with smoke, and awful was the heat;
The devils stood with naked arms—he dared not scan their feet.
One held a hammer in his hand, and threatening, waved it nigh,
And in a burning furnace there, red flames were flashing high.
Soon guessed our hero where he was, and set. himself to kneel,
And lustily for mercy prayed—but they laughed at his appeal.
Then to his side an angel came, benignant was her smile,
And holding out her small white hand, she said to him the while:
“Well, Heaven be praised, you're better now! But why are you afraid?"
Shaking with fear in every limb, in a faint voice he said:
"Oh, angel! 'tis not death I dread, but help me out of hell!"
The angel laughed: "You're in good hands—you ought to know us well.
This is the smithy—from your sledge thrown out upon the ground,
Lying alone amidst the snow half-frozen you were found;
And I'm no angel, bless your heart! I’m Annie, don't you see?"
Rubbing his eyes, and staring round, up Morten jumped in glee;
And that he soon forgot his fright 'tis needless to declare—
The roasted goose, the foaming ale, and other Christmas fare,
As might be guessed put all to rights—and Annie by his side
At supper sat, that Christmas night, as Morten Langè's bride!
Note by the Translator.
The ghost-story alluded to—"Den hvide Qvinde" (The White Woman)—is to be found in Thiele's collection of Danish "Folkesagn." This spectre is said to haunt some old ruins near Flensborg. Two soldiers, long, long ago, were keeping their night-watch on the ramparts of the castle; one of them left his post for a short time, and when he was gone the other sentry was approached by a tall female figure in white, who
