“‘You look to me,’ she said, ‘like a stirk that is roped for the axe. Your eyes are dark, but they are wide open.’
“‘Then I will sleep,’ said I, ‘but will not wake too late.’
“‘Do not stay here,’ she said.
“‘I will not sleep in the wood,’ I answered, and it was my heart that spoke, ‘for I am afraid. I had better be afraid of the voice of man and dogs, than the sounds in the woods. Bring me a knife, and in the morning I will go. Alone will I not go now.’
“‘The searchers will take you,’ she said.
“‘Bring me a knife,’ I answered.
“‘Ah, go,’ she wept.
“‘Not now—I will not——’
“With that she lifted the lanthorn, lit up her own face and mine. Her blue eyes dried of tears. Then I took her to myself, knowing she was mine.
“‘I will come again,’ she said.