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the thick oaken door was locked， and secured on the outside by an iron bar； but the goblin of superstition can creep through a keyhole into a baron's castle just as easily as it can into a fisherman's cottage， and why should he not creep in here， where Jorgen sat thinking of Long Martha and her wicked deeds？ Her last thoughts on the night before her execution had filled this place， and the magic that tradition asserted to have been practised here， in Sir Svanwedel's time， came into Jorgen's mind， and made him shudder； but a sunbeam， a refreshing thought from without， penetrated his heart even here—it was the remembrance of the flowering elder and the sweet smelling lime-trees.
He was not left there long. They took him away to the town of Ringkjobing， where he was imprisoned with equal severity.
Those times were not like ours. the common people were treated harshly； and it was just after the days when farms were converted into knights' estates， when coachmen and servants were often made magistrates， and had power to sentence a poor man， for a small offence， to lose his property and to corporeal punishment. Judges of this kind were still to be found； and in Jutland， so far from the capital， and from the enlightened， well-meaning， head of the Government， the law was still very loosely administered sometimes—the smallest grievance Jorgen could expect was that his case should be delayed.
His dwelling was cold and comfortless； and how long would he be obliged to bear all this？ It seemed his fate to suffer misfortune and sorrow innocently. He now had plenty of time to reflect on the difference of fortune on earth， and to wonder why this fate had been allotted to him； yet he felt sure that all would be made clear in the next life， the existence that awaits us when this life is over. His faith had grown strong in the poor fisherman's cottage； the light which had never shone into his father's mind， in all the richness and sunshine of Spain， was sent to him to be his comfort in poverty and distress， a sign of that mercy of God which never fails.
the spring storms began to blow. The rolling and moaning of the North Sea could be heard for miles inland when the wind was blowing， and then it sounded like the rushing of a thousand waggons over a hard road with a mine underneath. Jorgen heard these sounds in his prison， and it was a relief to him. No music could have touched his heart as did these sounds of the sea—the rolling sea， the boundless sea， on which a man can be borne across the world before the wind， carrying his own house with him wherever he goes， just as the snail carries its home even into a strange country.
He listened eagerly to its deep murmur and then the thought arose—“Free！ free！ How happy to be free， even barefooted and in ragged clothes！” Sometimes， when such thoughts crossed his mind， the fiery nature rose within him， and he beat the wall with his clenched fists.
Weeks， months， a whole year had gone by， when Niels the thief， called also a horse-dealer， was arrested； and now better times came， and it was seen that Jorgen had been wrongly accused.
On the afternoon before Jorgen's departure from home， and before the murder， Niels the thief， had met Martin at a beer-house in the neighbourhood of Ringkjobing. A few glasses were drank， not enough to cloud the brain， but enough to loosen Martin's tongue. He began to boast and to say that he had obtained a house and intended to marry， and when Niels asked him where he was going to get the money， he slapped his pocket proudly and said：
“the money is here， where it ought to be.”
This boast cost him his life； for when he went home Niels followed him， and cut his throat， intending to rob the murdered man of the gold， which did not exist.
All this was circumstantially explained； but it is enough for us to know that Jorgen was set free. But what compensation did he get for having been imprisoned a whole year， and shut out from all communication with his fellow creatures？ they told him he was fortunate in being proved innocent， and that he might go. The burgomaster gave him two dollars for travelling expenses， and many citizens offered him provisions and beer—there were still good people； they were not all hard and pitiless. But the best thing of all was that the merchant Bronne， of Skagen， into whose service Jorgen had proposed entering the year before， was just at that time on business in the town of Ringkjobing. Bronne heard the whole story； he was kind-hearted， and understood what Jorgen must have felt and suffered. Therefore he made up his mind to make it up to the poor lad， and convince him that there were still kind folks in the world.
So Jorgen went forth from prison as if to paradise， to find freedom， affection， and trust. He was to travel this path now， for no goblet of life is all bitterness； no good man would pour out such a draught for his fellow-man， and how should He do it， Who is love personified？
“Let everything be buried and forgotten，” said Bronne， the merchant. “Let us draw a thick line through last year： we will even burn the almanack. In two days we will start for dear， friendly， peaceful Skagen. People call it an out-of-the-way corner； but it is a good warm chimney-corner， and its windows open toward every part of the world.”
What a journey that was： It was like taking fresh breath out of the cold dungeon air into the warm sunshine. The heather bloomed in pride and beauty， and the shepherd-boy sat on a barrow and blew his pipe， which he had carved for himself out of a sheep bone. Fata Morgana， the beautiful aerial phenomenon of the wilderness， appeared with hanging gardens and waving forests， and the wonderful cloud called “Lokeman driving his sheep” also was seen.
