At length the gunboats reached the shore. In the deeply-affecting scene that followed were mingled joyous exclamations and groans of despair--smiles and tears--as those so dear and so anxiously looked for were found to be safe, or, alas! to be among the wounded and the dead. Christine's eyes sought Jan everywhere--but in vain--she did not see him. She covered her face, and burst into tears.
In a few minutes Kjeld approached her, and laid his hand gently on her arm.
'Where is my husband?' she asked, impatiently.
'Dead! dead!' exclaimed Christine, in a voice faint and trembling from agitation.
'Yes! He fell at the very moment that he ordered us to return to our boats, when the Englishmen had set fire to the corvette. I did all I could to save him, dear Christine; I posted myself at his side, and defended him to the last. But it was all in vain; it was impossible to rescue him from death.'
'Why did you not go with him at first?' asked Christine abruptly.
'Because he insisted that I should not. He knew all that we, too, have felt and thought; he desired me to remain behind, and carry a message to you, but I was not to deliver it until to-morrow.'
'It will be needless,' said Christine. 'To-morrow I shall be gone to my aunt at Kjærup.'
She stretched out both her hands to him, and struggling with her tears, she added, in a tone of deep emotion.
'God be with you, Kjeld! my dear, my only friend!'
'You are not going away, Christine?' exclaimed Kjeld.
'Yes,' she replied. 'I made a vow to the Almighty that I would do so when I offered up my prayers to Him to bring you back unhurt.'
'But still why must you go away?' he asked, in a voice of alarm and anxiety.
'Because we two must forget our hopes and our dreams; because we must separate from each other, never more to meet again!'
On a lovely summer evening, in the month of July, an old lady was to be seen walking alone by the row of small houses which forms one side of St. Anne's Place, and stretches down towards the harbour. This part of Copenhagen contains the domiciles of the fashionable world; it is what the Faubourg Saint-Germain used to be to the Parisians; palace succeeds to palace, the Court is situated in this neighbourhood, and the foreign diplomatists--a class more important in Copenhagen than perhaps in any other place on earth--honour this portion of the city by making it their abode. But, as it were, to remind the world that great people cannot do without the poorer sort, certain small houses have here and there thrust themselves into good society, and the many signboards hanging out plainly evince that their inhabitants do not wear laurels so easily won, or enjoy such luxurious repose as their neighbours do. At any rate, such certainly is the case with the dwellers in the row of houses above mentioned, which, from one end to the other, is occupied by mechanics, seafaring men, and other common people.