Over the
battlefield he drives his chariot yet, and his hammer strikes fire
as of old. The British remember it from Nelson's raid on Copenhagen;
the Germans felt it in 1849, and again when in the fight for very
life the little country held its own a whole winter against two
great powers on rapine bent; felt it at Helgoland where its sailors
scattered their navies and drove them from the sea, beaten. Yet
never did the White Christ work greater transformation in a people,
once so fierce, now so gentle unless when fighting for its firesides.
Forest and field teem with legends that tell of it; tell of the
battle between the old and the new, and the victory of peace. Every
hilltop bears witness to it.
[Illustration: Holy Andrew's Cross ]
Here by the wayside stands a wooden cross. All the country-side
knows the story of "Holy Andrew," the priest whose piety wrought
miracles far and near. Once upon a time, runs the legend, he
went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and was left behind by his
companions because he would not sail, be wind and tide ever so fair,
without first going to mass to pray for a safe journey.
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