Then he rode right into the wood. On each side of the way the rows of flowers began to praise Petru, and to try and persuade him to pick some of them and make himself a wreath.
‘Take me, for I am lovely, and can give strength to whoever plucks me,’ said one.
‘No, take me, for whoever wears me in his hat will be loved by the most beautiful woman in the world,’ pleaded the second; and then one after another bestirred itself, each more charming than the last, all promising, in soft sweet voices, wonderful things to Petru, if only he would pick them.
Petru was not deaf to their persuasion, and was just stooping to pick one when the horse sprang to one side.
‘Why don’t you stay still?’ asked Petru roughly.
‘Do not pick the flowers; it will bring you bad luck; answered the horse.
‘Why should it do that?’
‘These flowers are under a curse. Whoever plucks them must fight the Welwa(1) of the woods.’
(1) A goblin.
‘What kind of a goblin is the Welwa?’