’I did not see here, as in other old noble castles the highborn lady sitting among her maidens in the great hall turning the spinning-wheel.  No, she played upon the ringing lute, and sang to its tones.  Her songs were not always the old Danish ditties, however, but songs in foreign tongues.  All was life and hospitality; noble guests came from far and wide; there were sounds of music and the clanging of flagons, so loud that I could not drown them!’ said the wind.  ’Here were arrogance and ostentation enough and to spare; plenty of lords, but the Lord had no place there.

‘Then came the evening of May-day!’ said the wind.  ’I came from the west; I had been watching ships being wrecked and broken up on the west coast of Jutland.  I tore over the heaths and the green wooded coasts, across the island of Funen and over the Great Belt puffing and blowing.  I settled down to rest on the coast of Zealand close to Borreby Hall, where the splendid forest of oaks still stood.  The young bachelors of the neighbourhood came out and collected faggots and branches, the longest and driest they could find.  These they took to the town, piled them up in a heap, and set fire to them; then the men and maidens danced and sang round the bonfire.  I lay still,’ said the wind, ’but I softly moved a branch, the one laid by the handsomest young man, and his billet blazed up highest of all.  He was the chosen one, he had the name of honour, he became ‘Buck of the Street!’ and he chose from among the girls his little May-lamb.  All was life and merriment, greater far than within rich Borreby Hall.

’The great lady came driving towards the Hall, in her gilded chariot drawn by six horses.  She had her three dainty daughters with her; they were indeed three lovely flowers.  A rose, a lily and a pale hyacinth.  The mother herself was a gorgeous tulip; she took no notice whatever of the crowd, who all stopped in their game to drop their curtsies and make their bows; one might have thought that, like a tulip, she was rather frail in the stalk and feared to bend her back.  The rose, the lily, and the pale hyacinth—­yes, I saw them all three.  Whose May-lambs were they one day to become, thought I; their mates would be proud knights—­perhaps even princes!

’Whew!—­whew!—­fare away!  Yes, the chariot bore them away, and the peasants whirled on in their dance.  They played at “Riding the Summer into the village,” to Borreby village, Tareby village, and many others.

‘But that night when I rose,’ said the wind, ’the noble lady laid herself down to rise no more; that came to her which comes to every one—­there was nothing new about it.  Waldemar Daa stood grave and silent for a time; “The proudest tree may bend, but it does not break,” said something within him.  The daughters wept, and every one else at the Castle was wiping their eyes; but Madam Daa had fared away, and I fared away too!  Whew!—­whew!’ said the wind.

[Illustration:  She played upon the ringing lute, and sang to its tones.]