T is autumn. We stand on the ramparts,
and look out over the sea. We look at the numerous ships, and at the
Swedish coast on the opposite side of the sound, rising far above the
surface of the waters which mirror the glow of the evening sky. Behind us
the wood is sharply defined; mighty trees surround us, and the yellow
leaves flutter down from the branches. Below, at the foot of the wall,
stands a gloomy looking building enclosed in palisades. The space between
is dark and narrow, but still more dismal must it be behind the iron
gratings in the wall which cover the narrow loopholes or windows, for in
these dungeons the most depraved of the criminals are confined. A ray of
the setting sun shoots into the bare cells of one of the captives, for
God’s sun shines upon the evil and the good. The hardened criminal casts
an impatient look at the bright ray. Then a little bird flies towards the
grating, for birds twitter to the just as well as to the unjust. He only
cries, “Tweet, tweet,” and then perches himself near the grating,
flutters his wings, pecks a feather from one of them, puffs himself out,
and sets his feathers on end round his breast and throat. The bad,
chained man looks at him, and a more gentle expression comes into his
hard face. In his breast there rises a thought which he himself cannot
rightly analyze, but the thought has some connection with the sunbeam,
with the bird, and with the scent of violets, which grow luxuriantly in
spring at the foot of the wall. Then there comes the sound of the
hunter’s horn, merry and full. The little bird starts, and flies away,
the sunbeam gradually vanishes, and again there is darkness in the room
and in the heart of that bad man. Still the sun has shone into that
heart, and the twittering of the bird has touched it.
Sound on, ye glorious strains of the hunter’s horn; continue your stirring tones, for the evening is mild, and the surface of the sea, heaving slowly and calmly, is smooth as a mirror.