"It was a place to look at, not to dwell in. I had to be cautious with it," said the wind. "For the sake of the storks the house was allowed to stand, else it was really a disgrace to the heath. The dean would not have the storks driven away; so the dilapidated building was permitted to remain, and a poor woman was permitted to live in it. She had to thank the Egyptian birds for that--or was it a reward for having formerly begged that the nests of their wild black kindred might be spared in Borreby Wood? _Then_ the wretched pauper was a young girl--a lovely pale hyacinth in the noble flower parterre. She remembered it well--poor Anna Dorthea!
"'Oh! oh! Yes, mankind can sigh as the wind does amidst the sedges and the rushes--Oh! No church bell tolled at _thy_ death, Waldemar Daae! No charity-school children sang over his grave when the former lord of Borreby was laid in the cold earth! Oh, all shall come to an end, even misery! Sister Idé became a peasant's wife. That was the hardest trial to her poor father. His daughter's husband a lowly serf, who could be obliged by his master to perform the meanest tasks! He, too, is now under the sod, and thou art there with him, unhappy Idé! O yes--O yes! it was not all over, even then; for I am left a poor, old, helpless creature. Blessed Christ! take me hence!'
"Such was Anna Dorthea's prayer in the ruined castle, where she was permitted to live--thanks to the storks.
"The boldest of the sisters I disposed of," said the wind. "She dressed herself in men's clothes, went on board a ship as a poor boy, and hired herself as a sailor. She spoke very little, and looked very cross, but was willing to work. She was a bad hand at climbing, however; so I blew her overboard before any one had found out that she was a female; and I think that was very well done on my part," said the wind.
"It was one Easter morning, the anniversary of the very day on which Waldemar Daae had fancied that he had found out the secret of making gold, that I heard under the storks' nests, from amidst the crumbling walls, a psalm tune--it was Anna Dorthea's last song.
"There was no window. There was only a hole in the wall. The sun came like a mass of gold, and placed itself there. It shone in brightly. Her eyes closed--her heart broke! They would have done so all the same, had the sun not that morning blazed in upon her.