The Legend of the Christmas Rose

One day the Robber Mother left the robbers' cave in which she lived with her husband and children in the forest of Göinge, to go on a begging round in the neighboring village. Her husband, the Robber Father, was an outlaw who dared not step beyond the bounds of the forest. All he could do was waylay the travelers who ventured deep into the forest and strip them of their money and their goods. But in those days travelers were few in the northern district of Skåne.

Weeks upon weeks would pass without the Robber Father being granted any travelers whose belongings he might seize, and then the Robber Mother was driven to beg. On this round she was accompanied by her five little ones in their ragged clothes of deerskin; they wore shoes of sandar bark, and every one of them carried a long sack that hung down to his heels.

The Robber Mother would enter the huts, and no one refused her anything she asked, for she did not scruple to set fire by night to the hut of any who bolted their door in her face. She and her little ones were worse than a pack of wolves. Many a man's soul whispered to him to plunge his spear into their breasts; but such men knew, of course, that her husband dwelt in the forest, and that he would not fail to take vengeance on anyone who assaulted his wife and little ones or touched them with the least harm.

The Robber Mother wandered from place to place until one day she halted at the farm of Övid. She found herself before the cloister, so she rang the bell and asked for food. The gatekeeper opened a little hatch in the great door and handed her six loaves, for herself and her five children, who were close by, romping and playing. Presently one of them came and tugged at the hem of her dress, and she understood at once that her son had seen something and was calling her to come and look at it, so she went along with him.

The cloister was enclosed by a high, strong wall. The boy had noticed that the narrow back gate of the wall stood slightly ajar. The Robber Mother simply pushed it wide open and walked into the garden, she and her little ones, without asking anyone's leave, as her way was.

The custodian of Övid Cloister was a priest named Hans. He had a passion for planting flowers; it was ever his habit to gather them and care for them. The Robber Mother stood in the middle of this exquisite little garden that the priest had made within the wall. At first she stood dumbfounded, gazing, without a word. It was summer, and the garden billowed with flowers of every kind, red and blue and yellow — lovely flowers, sweet of fragrance. Then a smile of contentment settled on her features as she advanced with steady steps along the narrow path between the many flower beds.

It so happened that there was in the garden a monk busy pulling up the wild weeds that sprouted here and there. It was he who had left the gate in the wall partly open, so that he might throw the weeds outside it. Hardly a moment passed before his eye fell on the Robber Mother and her little ones in the middle of the garden, and he hurried toward them and ordered them out, back the way they had come. But the woman paid no heed to the monk's words. She went on her way, turning now to the white lilies spread before her, now to the green ivy that had climbed the cloister wall and clothed it. The woman kept gazing, and gazing long, without showing the slightest concern for the monk. He supposed she had not understood what he said, and was about to take her by the arm to show her the gate; but she wheeled on him and fixed him with a look that nailed him to the spot. Her figure straightened up from where it had been bent under the weight of the sack she carried, and she said to the monk: "I am the Robber Mother from the forest of Göinge. Reach out your hand to me, if you dare."

(1) The ishqa is a plant with a tender stem that climbs walls.

It was plain that this woman was certain no one would touch her — as though she had proclaimed herself Queen of Denmark. Yet the monk took heart and ventured to trouble and confront her; even so, once he knew who she was, he tried to get her out by the gentler way. He said to her:

"You know very well, Robber Mother, that this building is a cloister, and that entry into the cloister is forbidden to women. If you do not go out, you will bring down on my head the anger and displeasure of the monks, because I left the gate open; and my punishment may well be to be driven from the cloister and the garden."

These words made no impression on the Robber Mother. She went on advancing among the flower beds, running her eyes over the hyssop with its small, deep-red flowers, and over the Frankish jasmine with its orange-colored clusters. So the monk saw nothing for it but to hurry to the cloister courtyard for help. Before long he was back with two stout monks in his company. Then the Robber Mother understood that the matter was in earnest. She planted her feet in the dust of the path and began raining a torrent of curses on the cloister and its inmates, threatening and menacing them unless she was allowed to remain in the garden as long as she pleased. But the monks were not frightened by her threats; they insisted on driving her out of the cloister grounds.

Suddenly the Robber Mother let out a savage shriek and flung herself upon the three monks, tearing and biting them freely. The five children followed their mother's example, and the monks saw nothing for it but to withdraw into the cloister to call for help, once it was clear to them that the trouble was too hard for them to finish by themselves.

They were in the walk that leads to the cloister court when they met the priest Hans, who had come out into the garden to see the reason for the uproar rising from it. He questioned them, and they answered that the Robber Mother of Göinge forest had entered the garden and they had been unable to drive her out, and so they were on their way to call the rest of the cloister to their aid. He rebuked them for using violence and harshness with this woman, and forbade them to seek help. Then he sent two of the monks away, taking with him only the first monk, the one who had been pulling up the weeds growing among the flowers.

The two of them went down into the garden and found the Robber Mother pacing back and forth among the colored flower beds, and Father Hans could not help admiring her at first sight. He was certain she had never seen a garden before; and yet she strolled unhurried among the beds — each of which held one particular kind of rare flower — looking at them as though she had known them of old. Over this cluster of flowers she would linger, breathing in their scent; toward that one she would nod her head.

The priest loved his garden as much as he could love anything earthly, doomed to pass away and perish. And despite the woman's wild, fearsome look, the priest did not hold back from admiring her and her courage, since she had taken on the three monks for the sake of her right to enjoy, at leisure and in peace, the sight of the garden. He came up to her and asked her gently whether the garden had pleased her.

The Robber Mother turned toward the monk with defiance in her glance. It had flashed into her mind that he meant to trap her; but she was quickly struck by the whiteness of his locks, his gauntness, and the frailty of his frame. She answered in a low, gentle voice:

"At first I thought my eyes had never fallen on anything more beautiful than this garden; but now I see there is no likeness at all between it and the garden I know."

Father Hans had not expected such an answer. His thin, withered cheeks flushed faintly when he heard tell of the Robber Mother's garden, whose beauty outdid the beauty of his own. The monk standing beside the priest reproached her for this talk, saying:

"The beautiful flowers you see here Father Hans has gathered from many places, near and far, and planted and tended until they grew and became the ornament of the cloister. We know full well that no garden in the district of Skåne can match this garden of ours for beauty, order, and richness. But you, a woman who lives in the forest the whole year round — it is not fitting that you should pass judgment on what the venerable priest has made."

The Robber Mother said:
"I never meant to set myself up as a judge over you or over him. All I said was this: if you two were given to see the garden I am thinking of, you would pull up every flower planted here and throw it away as you throw away the wild weeds."

The monk's admiration for the garden was no less than the priest's, and he said to the Robber Mother, a sour smile hovering on his lips:
"It seems this garden you have planted among the pines of Göinge forest is a marvel! I would stake the salvation of my soul that you have never before today set foot inside the wall of any garden!"

The Robber Mother's cheeks turned crimson with the anger that took hold of her at these words. The monk doubted the truth of what she said! She answered:
"It may be true that I have never set foot in a garden before this time. But you priests, you men of the cloister, ought to know that every year, on Christmas Eve, the forest of Göinge is changed into a garden of wondrous beauty, in celebration of the Lord Christ and His blessed coming. We who live in the forest have seen this miracle repeated every year. And I bear witness that the sight of the exquisite, manifold flowers in that verdant garden so bewitched me that I never dared pull up a single one of them."

The monk was about to speak, but Father Hans checked him. For from the days of his earliest childhood he had heard tell of this forest, and how on Christmas Eve it puts on a raiment of wonderful green. How he had yearned to behold this one of God's manifest signs; yet he had found no way to it.

He begged the Robber Mother eagerly to allow him to visit the robbers' cave on Christmas Eve, to behold God's paradise upon His earth, and entreated her to send him one of her children to show him the way. And he was at pains to assure her that he would keep their secret buried deep within him and never betray them, and that he would reward them to the utmost of his power.

At first the Robber Mother refused the priest's request, for she remembered her husband the Robber and the harm that might come to him if she allowed Father Hans to visit their cave. But in the end her desire to prove the truth of her claim won out. She consented that the priest should visit the robbers' cave, saying: "But you may bring with you one person only; and I have trusted your word that you will not give us away or set a snare to catch us."

Father Hans promised her that he would not break any condition she had named, and swore to her that he would keep his promise. So she went off the way she had come, and the priest leaned toward the monk and told him privately to keep secret the talk that had passed among them and to say nothing of the plan that had been laid. For he feared that if the rest of the priests and monks learned of the matter, they would stand between him and riding out to the robbers' cave, because of his great age.

Father Hans himself meant to speak to no one of this visit; but something happened that had not been reckoned on. Absalon, Bishop of Lund, came to see him one day and spent a night with him.

On the morrow Father Hans and the Bishop went down into the cloister garden for a walk. The priest remembered what had passed between him and the Robber Mother; and the monk who worked in the garden heard him speaking to the Bishop, telling him the story of this woman and of her husband the Robber, so many long years now banished to the far forest, and then asking him to grant the wretched husband his release, so that he might live a quiet, honorable life among the rest of his kind.

The priest said:
"This Robber's children are growing up after their father's pattern, and it is to be feared they will outdo him in wickedness when they are grown; before long this band will be mistress of the forest, working havoc in it and all around it."

But Bishop Absalon refused to release this wicked Robber, for he could not endure to picture him free and at large, roaming and making merry in the village among his good countrymen. Far better that he stay where he was, in his exile in the forest.

Then Father Hans took courage and told the Bishop the story of Göinge forest — how on Christmas Eve, before the robbers' cave, it clothes itself in an exquisite spring raiment. The priest said:
"If these outlaws were wicked in every sense of the word, God would not display this miracle before them. They deserve from us mortals every tenderness and mercy."

The Bishop knew how to answer him, and said with a smile: "This much I can promise you, venerable priest: on the day you send me a flower from the Christmas garden in Göinge forest, I will send you a letter of pardon for all the outlaws you ask me to release."

At this the monk who worked in the garden understood that the Bishop did not believe the Robber Mother's story as he himself believed it. As for Father Hans, he was far indeed from any such thoughts; he thanked the Bishop for his promise, assuring him that he would send him the flower.

*

Christmas Eve drew on, and there was Father Hans on his way to Göinge forest, one of the Robber Mother's sons going before him, and the monk following him on the back of his horse.

The priest had longed for the appointed hour of this journey, and when the time came he felt a happiness beyond which there is no more. Not so the monk. He loved the priest with a true love, and hated that anyone but himself should stand guard over him and ride with him on such journeys. But he still believed that they would never set eyes on the alleged Christmas garden, and still held that there was a plot which the Robber Mother had contrived and perfected, to ensnare the priest and deliver him into her husband's claws.

On the road running northward, the priest watched the people making ready to celebrate this blessed night. On every farm a fire was kindled in the bathhouse to warm it for the bathing. Meats and loaves of bread were being carried from the storehouses into the dwellings, while the men bore great armfuls of straw to strew upon the floors. In every church they passed, they saw the priest and the sexton decking the sanctuary. And when they reached the road that leads to the cloister of Bösjö, the priest's eye fell on the poor folk of that region carrying the bread and candles the cloister monks had given them. These glad sights only heightened the priest's longing to reach the forest, for he never stopped thinking of the celebration awaiting him — that celebration which would be greater than any that other men are given to behold.

But the monk fidgeted and grumbled as he saw the preparations in every one of the humble huts they passed. He felt a great fear and a great danger, and implored the priest that they turn their faces toward Övid cloister and give up this visit, and so escape the Robber Mother's talons.

But Father Hans rode calmly on, lending no attentive ear to the monk's words and entreaties. In a little while the villages were behind them, and they came out into a barren, desolate country. They followed a rugged track strewn with rocks and grievous obstacles and many bogs. There was no bridge over the brook and the river that cross that country; but the priest did not mind — he forded those streams without a murmur — until they came to an open plain which the snow had dressed in a bitter mantle of dazzling white. The riding along this long road was hard and hedged about with dangers; the three forced their way through raging storms and bogs and briers. Then the day was spent, the face of the sky grew pale, and there was the little robber boy, their guide, leading them across a meadow bordered by towering fir trees and covered with dry leaves. At the edge of this meadow a mountain rose up like a wall, and in it was a door made of thick pine boards.

Father Hans got down from his mount when he understood that they had come to their journey's end. The boy pushed open the door, and the priest saw before him a mean mountain cave, its walls bare, and found the Robber Mother crouched warming herself at a tree trunk burning in the middle of the place. In the corners beds were spread, and on one of them the Robber Father lay asleep, snoring away.

The Robber Mother said, without stirring from her place:

"Come in, and bring the two horses in with you, or the bitter cold will finish them before this night is out."

Father Hans entered the cave bravely, and the monk followed him. Meanness and poverty showed everywhere in this hut, and there was nothing to tell of any preparation for keeping Christmas Eve. The Robber Mother had brewed no ale and baked nothing, had neither cleaned her hut nor wiped its floor. Her little children lay flat on the ground, bent over a wide metal pot, sipping the broth in it — the whole of their supper for Christmas Eve.

The Robber Mother said, in the tone of a haughty commander:

"Father Hans, sit down by this blazing fire and warm yourself. If you have food with you, eat, for the food we make in the forest would not please you. And if you feel tired from this journey, stretch out on one of these beds and rest yourself a while. Do not be afraid of sinking too deep in sleep: I will stay beside you and watch over you, and when the hour of the thing you came for draws near, I will wake you."

Father Hans undid the knot of the sack in which he had put his provisions; but he was weary and could not eat, so he lay down on the bed, and sleep soon stole over him.

The monk likewise was given a bed to rest on, but he refused to sleep, fearing for the priest at the hands of the Robber Father. Yet drowsiness got the better of him; his eyelids closed and he sank into a deep slumber.

When he woke he saw Father Hans sitting near the hearth, talking with the Robber Mother, the Robber Father seated at her side — a tall man, gloomy and impassive, who kept his back turned to the priest as though he were not listening to the talk.

Father Hans was telling the woman all he had seen, along the road he had traveled to the forest, of the preparations for celebrating the glorious feast of Christmas. And he kept carrying her back to the days of her youth, reminding her of the Christmas festivities and the games she used to share in, in the days when she lived a life of peace and quiet like all good folk; and he said to her:

"I grieve sorely for your little children, who will never be free to run and play in the village lanes and share the games and merriment of its little ones."

At first the Robber Mother's answers were short and curt; but very soon she turned to the priest with her whole soul and became all ears, listening to what he said. Suddenly the Robber Father turned his face toward them and shook his fist in the priest's face, saying in a loud voice:

"Wretched priest, have you come to this place to beguile my wife and my little ones? Do you not know that I am an outlaw, cast out from the law, and that I cannot leave this forest?"

The priest felt no fear, but looked at the Robber and said to him gently:
"I am striving with all my might to obtain for you a decree of pardon from Bishop Absalon."

At that the two Robbers plunged into laughter, for they knew only too well what kind of mercy a forest outlaw could expect from the said Bishop. The man said:
"Listen, priest. If you get me a pardon from the Bishop, I swear to you I will give up robbing!"

The monk was disgusted at their bearing toward Father Hans, and ashamed that they should laugh in his face in this fashion. Yet in all else he was somewhat content, for never before had he seen the priest sit with such calm and gentleness as he sat among this company of robbers.

Suddenly the Robber Mother rose from her place and said:
"Father, our talk has made us forget to watch the forest. From here I can hear the pealing of the feast bells."

They all sprang to their feet. The darkness was still pitch-black and the air bitterly cold, and they saw nothing; but they heard a far-off ringing, the ringing of bells, borne to them on a softly blowing south wind.

Father Hans wondered:
"How can this slumbering forest, sunk in its sleep, be wakened by the pealing of bells?"

He stood in the midst of the black winter darkness, and it seemed to him far-fetched that a summer garden should burst forth in the heart of the forest, as he had believed before.

But only a few seconds passed before a wave of light flooded the forest, sweeping over it in a flash and then returning — returning like a luminous mist swimming among the black-mantled trees.

And behold, the night was steeped in a faint glow like the first rays of daybreak.

Then Father Hans noticed that the snow had melted from the ground, like a carpet that had lain spread upon it and was rolled away. He noticed too that the earth was beginning to recover its green: the bracken sprang out of it with fronds hooked like a bishop's staff, while the stalks of the simsima on the hills and the sprigs of myrtle in the bogs put on a new green.

And the henna shrubs spread and shot up, and the buds of the spring flowers came forth full, mantled in colors.

Father Hans's heart beat! It beat in quick, hurrying throbs at these first signs of the forest's wakening.

He murmured, his eyes brimming with tears: "Is it granted to me, a perishing old man, to witness this great miracle?"

Suddenly a thin cloud passed over the wood, and the priest thought the darkness would close in once more. But a new surge of light broke free, carrying with it the whispering of brooks and the murmur of waterfalls. And the trees unfolded their leaves faster than the twinkling of an eye, as though millions of green butterflies had flown up and settled on the boughs.

Nor was this wakening confined to tree and plant; it took in the birds as well. Here were flocks of great-billed birds hopping from bough to bough, and there flocks of woodpeckers hammering at the bark of the branches till the splinters flew right and left.

And companies of starlings came with wings outspread and settled on the crowns of the silver fir trees; and every time they stirred, the tips of their red feathers glittered, like precious stones in their sparkle.

Then darkness settled for a moment, followed by the breaking forth of light anew. From the south there blew a mild, warm breeze that scattered over the whole stretch of the meadow all the fine seeds which the birds and the ships and the winds had carried up from the southern lands. And scarcely had these seeds touched the rich soil before they struck root and sprouted.

Another wave of hot air blew past, and the berries of every kind ripened. The cranes and the wild geese came shrieking their familiar cry, while flocks of robins busied themselves building their nests, and the squirrels fell to playing in the trees after their wonted fashion.

(1) The tannub, or fir, is a kind of tree bearing cone-shaped fruit like the pine. (The translator)

All this passed with lightning speed before Father Hans's eyes, so that he could scarcely ponder the eloquent miracle being enacted in his sight. He could do no more than use his eyes and his ears.

With the new wave of light there spread the fragrance of fields freshly plowed; the tinkling of bells rose from the flocks of sheep, and from far, far away came the voices of young girls calling the milch cows. The pines and the silver firs appeared clothed in their small, glistening red fruits like crimson robes; the juniper berries stood out, their colors changing from one moment to the next. And soon the earth had put on a raiment of wonderful color: white and blue and yellow.

Father Hans bent his back and picked a bud of the wild strawberry, and by the time he stood upright again he felt his fingers closing on a ripe berry. The she-fox left her den, her black-legged cubs following her; she came up to the robbers' cave, drew near the Robber Mother, and clung to the hem of her garment; and the woman bent down a little and praised the little jackal cubs. The horned owl, which had set out on her nightly round, went back to her nest to wait for the dark, her sight dazzled by the light. The male cuckoo called, and his mate flew off, slipping into another bird's nest, carrying in her beak a tiny egg.

And the Robber Mother's children fell to devouring the ripe berries off the brambles — big berries hanging like the heads of pine cones — and their joyful shouts were like nothing so much as the twittering of sparrows. One of them began playing with the young wild hares; a second raced the young crows, which had come down from their nest before the feathers of their wings were full enough for flight; and a third picked up a snake and wound it about his neck and his arm!

The Robber Father stood in the bog, eating one kind of the berries. And when ...t; for other branches had been formed during the seasons of ... raised ... in Bhamdoun and at the Bhamdoun station ... standing ... a group for hand-knitting work — and struck with it the nose of ... "Stay in ..." As for the money to buy ... the donations ...

So the great bear gave way, turned on his heels, and made off in another direction.

Meanwhile the waves of light and warmth were following one upon another. The chatter of the ducks swimming on the forest lake was heard; the golden pollen of the oat fields spread abroad and filled the air; and the great butterflies hovered until they seemed lilies flying. And there, on the stump of an aged hollow oak, a beehive brimming with honey began oozing and running down the stump till it reached the ground. Suddenly the clumps of plants and flowers, which a moment before had been nothing but seeds, burst into bloom. The breast of the mountain was clothed with roses that fell to vying with the black berries; and in the meadow there came up broad flowers, wide as a human face.

Here Father Hans remembered the flower he had promised to pick for Bishop Absalon. But not a flower did his eye light on without its seeming to him lovelier and more splendid than its sister, and he wanted to pick ... the military hospitals. And choirs were formed to sing the carols on the nights of Christmas in these hospitals. And I can bear witness how deep an effect these works had on the souls of ... and gladness, and a feeling that ... the soldiers, above all at such ... of the happiness that overflowed around him. He said to himself:

"I know not what new glories yet another of these waves will bring!"

And the light grew ever more flooding, and Father Hans felt that this surge bore with it something out of unending distances. He felt an air above this earthly air encircling him and enfolding him; he trembled at the greatness of the splendor, and waited for the heavenly glories drawing near.

A deep silence and stillness took possession of the forest. The birds fell silent, the jackal cubs and their dam grew still, the flowers stopped their growing. Everything gave tidings of the approach of the kingdom of God. And from far, far away, rose the strains of a light harp and a heavenly song...

Father Hans clasped his hands over his breast and sank reverently to his knees, his face shining with joy and bliss and happiness.

Never before had he dreamed that he would taste in his life the joys of Christmas and listen to the righteous angels singing the hymns of this glorious feast.

And beside the priest stood the monk who had come with him, black thoughts and many forebodings roving through his head. He said to himself:

"This can be no true miracle, since these criminals behold it. It is one of the works of the Devil; the powers of evil are trying to cast their spell upon us and force us to see what does not exist."

The angels' harps and their voices were sounding from afar; but the monk believed that the spirits of hell were drawing near them, and he said to himself with a sigh:

"These sinful spirits will bewitch us and lead us astray, and it will not be long before our souls perish."

But the procession of angels went on drawing nearer to the cave, until Father Hans could make out their luminous forms through the trees. The monk saw them too; yet he went on thinking that behind this strange beauty lurked something evil.

For it was his opinion that it was Satan who wrought these wonders on the night of the Savior's birth. At that moment the little birds began circling above Father Hans and around him, suffering him to take them and hold them in his hands. But they, being animals, feared the monk: not one bird of them alighted on his shoulder, and no serpent coiled at his feet. Yet one little dove, seeing the angels press on with their advance, took courage, fluttered her wings, and settled on the monk's shoulder, stroking his face with her small white head. The monk struck her away, thinking her a power of evil come to tempt him and corrupt him. And he cried in a loud voice, which the wood echoed back:

"Go back to the hell you came from!"

At that selfsame moment the angels had come so close to Father Hans that their great wings were playing upon his brow like fans. He bowed his head to the ground in greeting and reverence. But hardly had the monk uttered his words when the angels broke off their singing and vanished in the twinkling of an eye, as light and warmth flee before the darkness and the frost of the human heart.

And the place wrapped itself once more in the mantle of black, cold night. Father Hans felt his heart clenched in the grip of an unbearable pain, after it had brimmed over with gladness and happiness. He said to himself:

"I cannot understand what has happened. The angels of heaven were near, and then they were driven away... They wished to sing the hymns of Christmas before me, and they were forced to flee."

And he remembered the flower he had promised Bishop Absalon, and at the last moment he groped among the plants at his side, searching for a flower.

The robbers and the monk went back to the cave, feeling their way through that pitch darkness; and when they missed Father Hans they could not find him. So they took burning brands from the fire and set about searching for him... and they found him a lifeless corpse, stretched out on a bed of snow.

The monk wept, and his wailing grew loud. He knew that it was he who had struck down Father Hans, when he wrenched from him the cup of happiness he had thirsted to drain to the dregs.

The priest's body was carried to Övid cloister, and the monks gathered around it. At once they noticed that the priest's right hand was clenched fast upon something the dead man must have gripped in the hour his end came. They worked at the hand until they opened it, and found that what it held so tightly was nothing but two white bulbs of some plant, which the priest had pulled up in the forest. The monk who had been his companion on his journey took them and planted them in the cloister garden. He tended them with the greatest care through the length of the year, in the hope that one day they would flower. But he waited in vain all through spring and summer and autumn, till winter came with its gloom and desolation, and the leaves scattered from the trees, and all the flowers vanished; and the monk gave the two bulbs up in despair.

Then came Christmas Eve, and the monk remembered Father Hans and went out into the garden to think of him a while. And no sooner had he come to the place where he had planted the two bulbs than he saw tall green stalks bearing beautiful flowers with petals of gleaming silver.

He called the monks to see these two bulbs that had flowered only on Christmas Eve. And when they beheld it — at the very season when flowers of every kind had vanished — it was plain to them that this flower was in truth the flower which the departed priest had plucked from the Christmas garden in Göinge forest.

The monk asked leave of his brethren to carry a bouquet of these flowers to Bishop Absalon, and set off to him. He presented him the bouquet, saying:

"Father Hans sends you these flowers, which he promised to pick for you from the Christmas garden in Göinge forest."

The Bishop's color paled when he heard the monk's words and saw the exquisite flowers the earth had brought forth in the season of winter. He sank a long while into silence, and then said:

"Father Hans has kept his pledge, and I in my turn shall keep my word."

And he ordered a letter drawn up granting release to the Robber who had been banished to the forest since his youth, and handed the letter to the monk, who hurried with it to the forest.

The monk entered the robbers' cave on Christmas Day, and the Robber Father met him, brandishing his axe in his face and saying:

"Ah, how I long to cut you down, you monks, however many you may be! You, past all doubt — you are the reason the forest stayed as it was last night and did not put on its joyous Christmas raiment."

The monk answered:

"No — I alone am the cause of it."

"And I am ready to atone for this sin with the sacrifice of my life. But before I die I must deliver you a message from Father Hans." And the monk slipped his hand into his pocket, drew out Bishop Absalon's letter, and gave it to the Robber Father, telling him that from this day forth he was free and at large. He said to him:

"From this hour, you and your children are loosed from every bond, and you may keep the Christmases to come among your brothers, the sons of men, as Father Hans wished for you."

The Robber Father stood frozen in his place, silent, his color ashen. So his wife, the Robber Mother, said in his stead:

"Father Hans has kept his pledge, and the Robber Father will do his part."

And the robbers left their cave, and the monk moved into it, where he lived for a stretch of time alone, secluded in the wilderness of the forest, praying and doing penance for his evil deed.

From that time on, the forest has never again kept the hour of the Savior's birth, and nothing remains today of its former glory but the flower Father Hans plucked. It has been named the "Christmas Rose," (1) and every year, before Christmas, its green stalks appear above the ground with their gleaming silver flowers, as though it could not forget that it once grew in the great garden of Christmas.

(From Shahrazad)

(1) By the Christmas rose is meant here the flower of the muda''af, or the winter lily. (The translator)