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| - Translated from the Danish by Hanna Astrup Larsen and Published in Twelve stories as Marie, En Erindring fra Vesterhavet, 1836 THE narrow strip of land which the Danish peninsula shoots out into the North Sea is almost entirely covered with quicksand, cast up by the Western Ocean, and carried farther inland by its ally, the storm. It is as though that dread element would mock the earth with this sterile gift, while undermining its foundations and robbing it of its fertile soil. But as yet the enemy has not been strong enough to drive out the indomitable people who live there. They take compensation for their losses from the sea itself, and they fight the onslaught of the sand with a kind of grass that will never allow itself to be choked, but always comes out on top. By means of it, hills and valleys are formed, in ever-changing variety, extending all the way down to the western coast. Seen from a distance, with the sun behind them, they delude the wanderer by their deceptive likeness to forest-clad slopes. But farther inland there are still wide naked mounds of sand which in the distance look like snow-covered mountains; year after year they conquer bits of the tillable plains from which painstaking labor once wrested a scanty harvest. All the way along the coast the landscape bears the same stamp. In one of these desolate regions the narrator, then a young man, climbed a dune covered with beach grass, in order to look out for the first time upon the real ocean. The sun was setting. The sea was liquid fire; the sand-hills were glowing embers. The winds were slumbering; only the muffled sound of the ground swell on the beach told of their late battle with the waves. A more melancholy reminder of the might of storm and ocean in united onslaught was a wreck, stuck on the nearest sand bar, and stretching its blackened boards up through the sand. The sun might have set over my silent transport, and darkness alone might have awakened me from unutterable dreams, if a party of fishermen with their oars and nets had not arrived near the spot where I was standing. Before I could see them, I heard their footsteps grating on the sand as they wended their way down through the narrow valleys. When their fishing-gear had been placed in the boat lying in a break of the cliff, they separated, going some to one side, some to the other, stemmed their backs against the gunwale, and pushed the boat down to the water's edge to the tune of a chantey sung in hollow tones by a gigantic fisherman. The refrain was quite jolly: "I hoist, you haul"--"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" came the chorus--"I drink, you pay for all"--"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" The merry words were in strange contrast with the deep tones and the dark seriousness with which they were sung--and with which the men all at once turned around, took off their caps, and knelt with their brows against the gunwale. For a few moments they remained in this position, but not a sound was heard from their lips; silently they prayed to the Lord of the winds and the waves. Silently they rose, pushed the boat out on the water, sprang into it, and seized the oars. Under their steady pulling, the small craft glided over the surface of the water. I followed it with my eyes till it was lost in the dim distance. One man remained behind. He was very old, but age had not yet whitened the reddish brown locks of hair that shaded his wrinkled face, although it had somewhat bent his broad back. He stood a long time immovable, his hands in his side pockets, looking after the men as they sailed out. Then he turned, walked slowly over to me, and greeted me with a hearty "Good evening." I seized the opportunity to learn something about these men and their laborious means of livelihood, as well as about the shipwrecks that frequently occur on this dangerous coast. He replied very intelligently, and especially described the last wreck--the remains of which were standing near by--so clearly and vividly that, in my youthful levity, I wished I might once witness such a terrible tragedy. I accompanied the man to his home, an attractive, well-furnished house a little farther inland, near one of the largest dunes. Shortly before reaching it, he stopped, and, as we were walking down the last hill, said thoughtfully, "The weather's not to be trusted." "What do you mean?" I asked. "Only that we're in for a change," was the answer. Thereupon he invited me to have supper and spend the night. I accepted the kind offer, and he and his wife, who was as old as he, entertained me with a hospitality that could not have been heartier in the tents of the Bedouins. Feeling a pleasant sense of peace and safety, contrasting with the hardships and dangers of the fishermen on their expedition at night over the treacherous sea, I fell asleep on the soft featherbed of my hosts. Before daybreak I was awakened by a mixture of noises in the living room adjoining my bedroom: talking in voices, some strident and some low, clatter of wooden shoes, creaking and clanking of doors opened and shut. I sat up and listened. In more quiet intervals it seemed to me that I heard a hollow whistling or a deep and monotonous roaring. I jumped up, dressed quickly, and went into the other room. The whole family was astir and busy. The man of the house was coiling a rope; the housewife was at the hearth, raking the embers together, and putting on the kettle; two young women--one the daughter, the other the son's wife--fully dressed, were tying shawls over their heads as if they were starting out on a long journey. My "Good morning" was answered curtly, and when I asked what was the roaring I heard, the old man answered as curtly and briefly, "The sea." "Where are you going, my good man?" I asked further. "Out to look for our folks," he replied. "We're getting dirty weather." These words acted upon me like an electric shock, and I instantly resolved that I would go with them to face their dreaded neighbor. In a few minutes we were ready and left the house. The sun was just rising. Its dark red disk glowed between strips of cloud. No wind was noticeable, but the incessant roaring of the ocean sounded louder. Silently we went to meet it, I full of tense and anxious expectation. I climbed the outermost cliff. To my great surprise the sea was not very much disturbed. It was only near land that the ground swell broke against the beach and rolled in with a rumbling noise. Even now the air was calm, but my old weather-forecaster assured me that it would not be long before I should feel the west wind. He was right. Soon the cruel lord of the North Sea came in full force, swathed in murky fogs. Now the sea far out began to stir; it showed white specks which all the time grew larger and came nearer, it seemed with the speed of the wind. But the wind ran past them. All at once it came with ominous sighs and sharp whistling in the harsh clumps of beach grass. No boat was yet to be seen. But along the dunes people appeared, one after another, chiefly women and half-grown boys. They came, as we did, to look for the delayed fishermen, then disappeared, and returned again, or perhaps it was others that came in their places. The velocity of the wind increased, the turbulence of the waves likewise; the beach was a mass of foam. I trembled for the poor fellows out there and had already given them up in my own distressful thoughts. Then the old man, who was shading his eyes with his hand, cried out, "There they are," and the same cry was repeated far along the beach. But I could see nothing, and my anxiety grew. At last the pointing of the others guided my eyes to a darker speck in the distance, which often disappeared, but always came again, and each time larger and nearer. The uproar of the sea increased; the white-caps became more numerous and broader. The three sand bars which, with narrow spaces between them, ran parallel to the land, were marked by continuous strips of foam, stretching to the south and north as far as the eye could see. These bars are a menace to seafaring men, but a triple guard to the coast, for they break the power of the tremendous waves that often rise higher than the cliff itself, and, without this resistance, would soon break down the feeble ramparts and flood the low land along the western coast. The boat was coming on fast. Already we could see the heads of the men when it rode the crest of the waves. But when it ran as if down a hill and disappeared in the trough of a wave, I often thought with dread, "Will they come up again?" A cry of fear escaped me; but the old man, who stood near me with arms crossed, said grimly, "What's the matter? There's no danger yet." They had reached the outermost bar. There they stopped, nay, even rowed backwards with all their might; and in this way they successfully cleared several enormous waves. As these broke into surf, there was for a moment a strip of quiet water, and the men seized the chance to row across it with the speed of a bird. The second bar was passed in the same way. But now came the most dangerous moment. All the onlookers ran down to the edge of the water and, as if by a command, sank on their knees, lifting clasped hands to heaven. Then all sprang up just as quickly and caught each other by the hand. I did not at once understand the meaning of this chain; I was soon to see. The boat had reached the innermost bar, not a stone's throw from land. It dashed into the breakers, pursued by a gigantic wave that lifted its white comb high over the boat--caught up with it; the boat turned to one side--was overpowered--capsized. A shriek, piercing, heart-rending, went up from the women and children. Life or death hung in the balance. The shipwrecked men were washed ashore by the wave; some reached firm ground and got a footing right away, but others did not come so far up. Then the chain broke in several places; the one standing nearest reached a hand to the man struggling in the breakers, the others in the chain pulled with all their might to rob the sea of its victim; for the same wave that had cast them up would have sucked them back again, and then there would have been no way of saving them. Terrible moments! But they passed so quickly that I hardly saw what happened till all were saved. Just as quickly the boat--that trusty carrier over the abyss and faithful aid in many a danger--was hauled in. Not till the boat with the abundant catch of the night was well beached, did the men greet each other with vigorous handclasps, and many a sailor, for all his dripping garments, was clasped in loving arms. And now the mothers, wives, and daughters who had stayed home hurried to the beach with mugs of warm ale. Every one of the returned men grasped his mug with both hands and did not let it go till the bottom turned up to heaven. (These hardy men never carry food or drink with them on the ocean, but when they land are always received with a heartening drink of warm ale.) Then the catch was divided. All went home; I went with my host and his family. A tasty meal was quickly prepared from the gifts of the sea; but even before it was over, a man thrust his head in through the half-open door and cried, "A ship aground!" Everybody jumped up and asked, "Where?"--"Here," replied the man quickly, and the head was withdrawn, as he went on to carry his important message farther. My host, his son, and two other young men who had been along on the fishing expedition last night rushed out. I followed. The gale had risen to a storm. The ocean roared in its most wrathful mood. The sand from the dunes whipped our faces, and the froth flew over our heads like snowflakes. With wide open eyes I rushed out on the cliff; it seemed to shake under my feet. The dark waters were churned into froth; the fine spray almost hid the view, and the thundering of the waves deafened my ears. "Where?" I called to the man nearest me. He stretched out his arm; now I saw the unfortunate ship, little more than a gunshot from us. "Can she save herself?" I asked. "Not if she was the only ship on the ocean," was the answer. "She can't keep clear of the land--She _must_ run aground." Reeling and staggering, the ship came on. "Now!" everybody called at once. "Now she's at the first bar." "She's struck!" cried one. "No," cried another, "there's a wave coming, that may help her." It came--the ship was lifted on the gigantic wave--sank again. "She's over," they cried. My heart leaped, but I didn't know the Jutland coast. A few seconds later they cried, "There, she's stuck!" It was on the middle bar. To me it looked as if she were still coming on, but it was only the rolling and pitching of the ship aground. It was only the distance of a musket-shot from land where it had stopped. I hoped, therefore, that the people could be saved. They lowered a boat, and two men jumped into it, but then came a great wave and carried it away; it was crushed into bits and thrown up on the beach; the men never came up again. The screams of the crew when it vanished pierced through the howling of the storm and the roaring of the breakers. Now a succession of waves from out there came tumbling in, higher, heavier than any that had gone before--nine, the shore-dwellers say, follow one upon another, the last one biggest of all. When the first one hit the ship, it lurched to one side--a scream, louder, wilder than the first came from the frightened crew. The next wave turned the ship still more and washed over the foredeck. The sailors climbed up into the rigging and tied themselves fast. With each successive wave the ship swung more and more around until at last it turned its broadside full toward us. The ropes in the rigging were loosened, and thrown hither and thither; the masts were toppling. After this violent blast there was a moment's pause, as if the ocean were gathering its forces for a new and more ferocious attack. The terrified sailors stretched out their hands, sometimes to the darkened heaven, sometimes toward land--the land that was so near and which they nevertheless would never reach alive. Their cries cut my young heart like knives. But there was no possibility of helping them; and it was in vain that the people on shore called to them that they should tie ropes to casks or barrels and throw them overboard. Either they did not hear or they did not understand. A new, touching sight appeared. A man came out from the deckhouse, a woman after him. He cast a glance at the sea and then at the land. It must have been the captain and his wife. They were clasped in each other's arms, but suddenly they released each other, ran into the deckhouse, and came back carrying a large bundle between them. By means of a rope they lowered it to the water. Both knelt on the deck and stretched their arms beseechingly toward us. The bundle did not sink, though it bobbed up and down in the breakers. Soon it was cast up on land; a man caught it, carried it higher up, and loosed the rope. Not till then did the two on board jump up, with a cry that sounded like joy. Quickly he tied her with one end of the rope fast to a board--too late! A new succession of waves broke over the wreck. The first tumbled over it, roaring and frothing, and entirely engulfed it. One mast went overboard with all who clung to the rigging; the captain and his wife were no longer to be seen. The people on land pulled with all their might at the rope--she was hauled up on land, but with head crushed. The next wave took the other mast, too; the hull capsized. The last wave rose like a mountain from the abyss. The old man, who was standing near me, cried, "If she can stand that, she can stand anything!" Scarcely had the words been spoken before the wave lifted its broad back still higher, formed a comb, and dashed down over the wreck like an avalanche with a crack that sounded above the noise of storm and breakers--it was crushed! Its splintered boards whirled and danced in the churning foam. The captain's body was never found. Nor was it possible to learn the name of the skipper and ship or its home port. While everybody was busy saving the bits of wreckage drifting in, I took upon myself to examine the bundle that had been hauled in first. It consisted of bedclothes tightly bound together and strapped to a cabin door. I bent down and loosened them, hoping I hardly knew what. To my happy surprise I heard a faint whimper; I cut the strings--turned back the pillows--a living child lay there before my eyes. Quickly I wrapped it up again and ran as fast as I could to the home of my hosts with this precious bit of salvage. There was no one home except the aged housewife and her three-year-old grandson. I laid my find on the table. The child--a girl scarcely half a year old--was wet with sea-water, but showed no signs of having swallowed any of this bitter drink of death. It began to whimper, probably with hunger. When the woman heard it, she left her coffeepot on the hearth and, catching sight of the baby, struck her thighs with the palms of her hands, and cried, "Little Lord Jesus! Where did you get that?"--"From God," I replied, and asked for dry clothes and some of the warm milk that was standing on the hearth. The little one drank it eagerly and then submitted without a sound to be divested of her wet swaddling-clothes and dressed in dry underwear. I took her in my arms while a cradle was being prepared. Soon her head sank down on my shoulder, and she was sound asleep even before she had been put to bed. It touched my heart to see the sweetly sleeping baby which a little while ago had been with its father and mother, and was now in a strange country, torn from those who gave it life. When you open your innocent eyes again, you will look for them, but not find them. Never to pronounce those names--the first we learn and the most precious--poor little delicate flower from a distant land, perhaps from the gentle South, now cast up here to be transplanted into the cold, barren sand of the North. Perhaps you will wither early, and no one will miss you, no parting tear will fall on your pale cheek. You will be as a stranger in a strange land, unloved in life, forgotten in death. "What are you crying for?" asked the woman. "Is it for those whom the sea has taken? Don't we all owe the Lord a death? My first husband died at sea, and my father died at sea, and my brother died at sea, all on the same day. Then I cried, but now--" "I am not grieving for the dead," I broke in, "but for the living. Don't you think this little one is to be pitied?" "Yes--oh, yes," she said, while she went on with her work. "Our Lord still lives." There was something in these words that dried my eyes and made my heart expand. I left the house to go and look at the salvage. Midway to the beach I met some of the people carrying great loads of wreckage. When they told me there was nothing more to do down there, I went back with the family to the house where I was staying. None of them knew anything about my salvage, and they opened their eyes wide when they saw the child in the cradle. The grandson of my host--the little three-year-old--stood by the side of it and peeped into it with delighted curiosity.--I explained what had occurred. "That's all very well," said the master of the house, "but what are we going to do with it?" "The parish will have to take care of it," said the son. "We had better bring it to the minister," said the son-in-law. "Then he can do with it whatever he thinks best." While they were consulting about the fate of the orphaned child, the young woman stood at the foot of the cradle, gazing fixedly at the sleeping baby, with both hands on her hips. "Mother," said the little boy, "is that my sister?" In the same moment the child opened its eyes, looked round, then let them rest on the boy. He held out his hand to her---she grasped it--he shrieked with joy. "Good God," said the young wife, and tears glistened in her eyes--"isn't she like our little Marie?" "Where?" I asked looking around, "where is she?" "In heaven," she sighed. "It's now three months since she died." Then she glanced at her husband, saying, "Couldn't we keep this one instead?" "Hm," he said slowly. "That's not for us to say." Now she looked at her parents-in-law as if appealing to them. "What do father and mother say? It looks at us in such a friendly way, the little lamb." "Hm," said the old man. "Where there's food for ten there's food for eleven, too--take it then." The baby smiled as if it understood, and reached out its little hands to its new mother. She quickly turned back the coverlet, took the child in her arms, and kissed it with motherly tenderness. The little boy jumped around, clapped his hands, and cried, "Thank God, we've got Marie back." "Yes, what's her name? What shall we call her?" said the old man. "Marie, Marie!" exclaimed the young wife jubilantly. "So little Jörgen says." All agreed to this. But the mother of the house folded her hands in her lap and, with a feeling of which I had not believed her capable, said, "In Jesus' name! She's a loan of God's from the sea." * * * Thirty years had passed since my first visit to the wild coast of West Jutland, when last summer I found myself there once more. Much water had run into the sea, as the saying is, and many an eye had been closed out on the sea, I thought, as again I gazed at it stretching before me. The events--the storms--of a generation had weakened the memory of the story I have just told and of all its dreadful effects; just as the storm itself effaces the footprints of the wanderer in the sand on the dunes. But the sight of the ocean, and the coasts that for thousands of years have defied its might, awakened my slumbering memories. From the beach along which I was strolling I turned in among the dunes, climbed one of the highest sandhills, and looked around for the house where I had stayed. I could not discover it anywhere and supposed, therefore, that I had not gone in the right direction but--as can easily happen--had lost my way in this monotonous but ever-changing region; for sometimes the wind levels a mountain and again sweeps together a new one, and even the huge dunes move, change contour or direction, just as snowdrifts do under the alternating winds of winter. The sun was high in its course; the air was mild, and a light easterly breeze blew from the land and softly moved the pale green leaves of the beach grass; the heath larks sang. I sat down facing the sea. It was calm and reflected the light blue of the cloudless sky--how different from the wild uproar in which I last saw it. But is it the same ocean? I asked myself. Why not? I know a far sadder transformation: the face of a child is also the clear mirror of joy and innocence, yet the time comes when it is darkened by the clouds of sorrow and the fogs of sadness, when it is stirred and furrowed by the violent gusts of passion. I was about to leave my solitary resting-place when an unexpected sight detained me. A white-haired, bent old man came slowly tottering forward. In his right hand he held a stick which he used incessantly to feel his way; his left hand was clasped in that of a little boy of five or six years. In the sand valley right north of me they stopped. "Are we there now, Terkil?" said the man. "Yes, greatgrandpa," answered the little one. With the help of the child, the old man sat down, his face turned to me and the sun; he grasped his staff in both hands and set it as a support for his bearded chin. The little boy began to collect stones and arrange them in ordered squares. After a few moments of silence, the old man asked, "Are you there? What are you doing?" "Building houses, greatgrandpa," said the boy. Build, my child--thought I--we old folks, too, build on sand. "Where's your mother?" the blind man asked presently. "Now she's coming," said the boy. I turned my eyes in the direction from which the man and boy had appeared. A well-dressed peasant woman with an attractive though pale face hurried toward them with a light, quick step. On her shoulders she carried a spade. As soon as she caught sight of me, she stopped, stuck the spade down in the sand, and put the backs of her hands against her hips. A strange smile played around her mouth; she looked at me with half closed eyes, nodded familiarly, as if we were old friends, and then began to sing in a merry tone and with a shrill voice: "The young men are so false to the bottom of their hearts, They plight their troth with hand and mouth, But--devil take--it comes not from their hearts. Heyomdick, heyomdack, come fallerah!" [Footnote: Jutland peasant song.] At the refrain she made a little jump, and struck out with her arms. The blind man sighed, and said crossly, "Good God! That ugly song you keep singing all the time. But Jörgen wasn't false to you--you know that very well." At these words the ghastly merriment of the young woman suddenly changed to the deepest sadness; her hands fell down against her body as if they had lost their strength; the beautiful, pale face was bent to one side, and a deep sigh lifted her bosom and shoulders. "Yes, that's true, greatgrandpa," she whimpered. "Now I'll see if he's here." At that she grasped the spade and began to dig in the sand. But soon she ceased, rested her hands on the handle, shook her head, and said, "He isn't here--no, no! Mahanster [Footnote: Maren Hansdaughter.] has been talking to him and taking him away from me--we know them!" She straightened up and sang in the same tone as before, and with the same arch look: "The young men we love them, ay from our hearts' core. But what is the use that we love them? They go away and don't come back any more. Heyomdick, heyomdack, come fallerah!" The little fellow, who hardly knew yet what insanity meant, joined in the refrain, merrily kicking over his pebble buildings. But the old man hid his face in his hands and beneath them his tears dripped on the sand. I sat as if transfixed. I had not the heart to ask questions. Nevertheless, I presently got an explanation which later I almost regretted that I had sought. The mad woman slung the spade over her shoulder and went her way, singing: "So many a one wears palest cheek for her very dear friend But shame upon them, but shame upon them Who from another lures her very dear friend. Heyomdick, heyomdack, come fallerah!" When she was gone, the old man folded his hands over his trembling knees, and lifted his face to that heaven which he could no longer see, but from which even the blind draws light for his soul and hope for his sorrowful heart. When he had ended his silent prayer, he said, "Come, Terkil, come and kiss your greatgrandpa." The boy laid both hands on his and kissed him. The old man rose with the help of the child, and both walked slowly away in the direction from which they had come. Deeply moved, I turned toward the sea. An elderly woman was walking along the beach with her wicker basket on her back. Old and poor people gather in their baskets amber, bits of wood, and anything else that the greedy sea casts up again. I called to her. She came and greeted me with a "God's peace and good-day." I told her what I had seen. She put down the basket, seated herself by the side of it, and told the following story: "The blind man is old Terkil--he doesn't know how old he is, but he must be over five score. God have mercy on us all! He was once a warm man and had money out at interest. He lived over there--his house was right there in the edge of that big sand-hill. But first the quicksand took his land, and then he had to move farther in and begin all over again. I tell you, young man--wherever you come from--you people in the East little know what we have to fight against here--between the water and the sand. Look, out there where ships are sailing now, there my cradle stood." Now I knew that I had not been mistaken in the location of the house where I once enjoyed hospitality, and I knew also that my one-time kind host was still living, blind and poor in his old age. "But the mad girl--or whatever she is," I asked further, "is she his daughter or--?" "She doesn't really belong to him at all," was the answer. "Many years ago a ship was wrecked here; all the people were drowned except a little baby who sailed ashore in her cradle. And that very baby is Crazy-Marie whom you saw here a little while ago. Terkils took her as their own, and she thrived and grew up into a good-looking girl. Terkils had two children--you must know--a daughter who was married and who died many years ago without leaving any children, and a son who is also dead. But that time he was alive and married and had one boy, but not any more children. That boy and Marie, when they got bigger, fell in love with each other. The parents didn't like it so overly well, for she didn't have anything except the swaddling-clothes she came sailing in with. But however it was, the young people were sweethearts, and--the old story--she had a child by him--it was that little chap you saw here. Then his parents didn't want her in the house any more with her brat, which was not to be wondered at. Old Terkil wanted to keep them, but he had nothing to say any more, he'd given up the place to his son; and the old woman was dead before then. Well, as I was going to tell you, then Terkil and Jörgen--that was the name of the young fellow--they got my husband to take both mother and child. But that I was sorry for many a time, for there was no peace by night or by day. It's miserable never to be happy--as the saying goes--and poor Marie, she sighed and moaned and cried early and late; and the baby whined, too, for I can tell you, Marie's eyes gave more water than her breasts gave milk. Many a time she would lie by the hour on her knees in front of the cradle and rock and sing and cry all at once. Then when the child at last was quieted, she would throw herself in her clothes across the bed and pray so hard to Our Lord that He should take them both. To be sure, Jörgen came as often as he could to see how she was, and gave her money, and tried to cheer her. But it was no use. 'Jörgen,' she said to him many and many a time, 'you mustn't come any more. Why should I make trouble between you and your parents?' But Jörgen kept on coming--he wouldn't leave her on any account.--Sometimes she would say to me, 'Kirsten,' she said, 'I would to God I'd drowned with my parents! I am a stranger and an alien here in this sinful world. Oh--if it wasn't for the child there--' She said no more, but I knew well enough what she meant.--About that time Stig over there lay down and died, and he had money, and his widow was young and fine. She asked Jörgen to marry her. He said No. If things had been bad before, they got worse now. The parents worked upon him, but he wouldn't for little or for much. Marie got to hear of it, and she said to him, not once but many times, 'Jörgen, marry Mahanster. It's best for all of us.' But, no--he wouldn't. At last she said to him, 'If you don't marry her, I'll go back where I came from'--she meant the sea. Then he began to cry, and ran away like a crazy man. When he had gone, she was sorry for what she had said, and cried and wrung her hands till I thought her knuckles would crack. Jörgen didn't come back. He stayed away for two days and for three. Now people said that he was going to marry Mahanster. Marie said nothing, but looked as if she might do most anything. My husband and I kept an eye on her, for we were afraid. But then one night he came running over to our house and threw the door wide open and caught Marie around the neck and took the child up from the cradle and kissed and fondled it.--The meaning of it all was that now at last he'd got leave, and they were going to be married. You should have seen Marie--poor thing; she couldn't say one word. Alackaday, it was the last happiness they had in this world, and it was short. It was midnight before he left; he went away, and we didn't think of anything. In the morning they came from Terkil's to ask for him. He was gone. We searched and we searched; at last Marie found his hat--right on the spot below us where you just saw her and the others. To make the story short: under it he lay and had been choked by the quicksand. For there had been a high wind that day, and the water had washed in. He must have got out in the sand where it was wet, and then there's no help; they sink and they sink till they're all covered.--Marie went out of her mind right away, and never got it back and I don't suppose she ever will.--So now, that's all there is to the story, and now you know what she's digging for, and why old Terkil on a fine day sits here and suns himself and sighs and weeps with his blind eyes. Alackaday! God comfort all who are sorrowful!" With these words she rose, slung the basket over her back, and gave me "God's peace and farewell." She descended to the water's edge again, and as she went she said to herself, "Oh, no, there's no peace for us in this world till we're lying with spade and shovel crossed over us."
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