The Minstrel pulled the reins and turned his sledge about. He cracked his whip, and the steed leaped forward. Soon he came into the middle pathway, and madly he drove to the second little cottage. He drove right up under the window and looked in. There he saw an old woman resting on a couch, while another woman was spinning by the fire. They were telling pleasant tales of their neighbors and of goblins and ghosts and unnamable things.
“Hail, ho!” cried the Minstrel, not too loudly.
The women jumped up in alarm; but when they saw his pale and weary face they answered, “Welcome, stranger! Alight, and rest thyself by our fireside.”
Wainamoinen sat still in his sledge. The blood was pouring in torrents from his wound.
“Tell me,” he said, “is there any one in this [[23]]house that can stop the flow of blood, that can heal the wounds of Iron?”
“Ah, no!” answered the elder of the two, and her three teeth gnashed together. “Naught do we know about blood or iron. Drive away to some other house. Speed thee, rash man!”
Again the Minstrel pulled the reins and turned the sledge about in the narrow pathway. Again he cracked his whip, and the steed rushed onward. With furious speed he drove into the upper pathway, and paused not until he reached the highest cottage. There he drew up before the doorway and called as before, but very feebly:
“Hail, ho! Hail, ho!”
“Welcome, stranger!” was the answer from within. Then an old Graybeard opened the door and repeated, “Welcome, stranger!”
“Welcome, stranger!” echoed the Graybeard’s son, peeping over his father’s shoulder. “Alight and rest yourself and your steed.”