In the fifteen years that follow we see his old warlike spirit still unbroken.  Thus his defiance of the German Emperor, whose anger was hot.  Frederick, in revenge, persuaded the Pomeranian duke Bugislav to organize a raid on Denmark with a fleet of five hundred sail.  Scant warning reached Absalon of the danger.  King Knud was away, and there was no time to send for him.  Mustering such vessels as were near, he sailed across the Baltic and met the enemy under Ruegen the day after Whitsuntide (1184).  The bishop had gone ashore to say mass on the beach, when word was brought that the great fleet was in sight.  Hastily pulling off his robe and donning armor instead, he made for his ship with the words:  “Now let our swords sing the praise of God.”  The Pomeranians were taken completely by surprise.  They did not know the Danes were there, and when they heard the archbishop’s dreaded war-cry raised, they turned and fled in such terror and haste that eighteen of their ships were run down and sunk with all on board.  On one, a rower hanged himself for fear of falling into the hands of the Danes.  Absalon gave chase, and the rout became complete.  Of the five hundred ships only thirty-five escaped; all the rest were either sunk or taken.  Duke Bugislav soon after became a vassal of Denmark, and of the Emperor’s plots there was an end.

It was the last blow, and the story of it went far and wide.  Absalon’s work was nearly done.  Denmark was safe from her enemies.  The people were happy and prosperous.  Valdemar’s son ruled unchallenged, and though he was childless, by his side stood his brother, a manly youth who, not yet full grown, had already shown such qualities of courage and sagacious leadership that the old archbishop could hang up the sword with heart at ease.  The promise was kept.  The second Valdemar became Denmark’s royal hero for all time.  Absalon’s last days were devoted to strengthening the Church, around which he had built such a stout wall.  He built churches and cloisters, and guided them with a wise and firm hand.  And he made Saxo, his clerk, set it all down as an eye-witness of these things, and as one who came to the task by right; for, says the chronicler, “have not my grandfather and his father before him served the King well on land and sea, hence why should not I serve him with my book-learning?” He bears witness that the bishop himself is his authority for much that he has written.

Archbishop Absalon closed his eyes on St. Benedict’s Day, March 21, 1201, in the cloister at Soroe which Sir Asker built and where he lived his last days in peace.  Absalon’s statue of bronze, on horseback, battle-axe in hand, stands in the market square in Copenhagen, the city he founded and of which he is the patron saint; but his body lies within the quiet sanctuary where, in the deep forest glades, one listens yet for the evensong of the monks, long silent now.  When his grave was opened, in 1826, the lines of his tall form, clad in clerical robes, were yet clearly