Wise old Louhi, gray and grim and toothless, was standing in her doorway. She heard the roar of the tempest and the shrieks of the night wind. She saw the inky clouds swiftly sailing from the South Land and the gray wolves of the air racing madly over the sea. Then in the misty darkness she heard footsteps; but the watch dogs lay sleeping in the sledgeway, their ears were closed, they did not bark. She listened, and presently a voice—a strange and manly voice—was heard above the storm wind’s roar; but still the watch dogs slept and gave no alarm.
The Mistress, grim and fearless, spoke up bravely in the darkness, heeding not the dreadful turmoil. “Who goes there?” she cried. “Who is it that comes on the storm wind’s back, and yet so quietly that he does not rouse nor waken my watch dogs?” [[62]]
Then the voice answered from out the turmoil and the gloom, and a young man tall and handsome stepped into view. “I am a wayfarer and a stranger,” he said, “and I am not here through my own choice. Nevertheless, I beg that I may find in this place some shelter till this fearful storm has passed.”
“You have no need to ask shelter of me,” answered the woman; “for when did the Mistress of Pohyola turn a stranger from her door? When did she refuse to give a wayfarer the warmest place by her fireside?”
Forthwith she led him into her long, low hall; she gave him a seat by the pleasant fire. She brought food in plenty and set it before him. She did everything that would take away his weariness, everything that would add to his comfort.
At length, when he had warmed and rested himself and had satisfied his hunger, she ventured to ask him a question. “Have you ever in all your travels met a minstrel, old and steady, whom men call Wainamoinen?”
“Oh, yes, surely,” answered the Smith. “He is an ancient friend of mine, dear as a brother, precious as a father. He has just returned [[63]]home from a long visit to this North Country. He tells wonderful stories of the good people of Pohyola—pleasant tales of a pleasant land.”
“How glad I am,” said the Wise Woman. “Now tell me if in all your travels you have ever met a certain smith, young and wondrously skilful, whom men call Ilmarinen.”
The stranger leaped to his feet and answered, “Surely, surely, I have often met that famous workman. Indeed, I myself am he; I am Ilmarinen, the Prince of Smiths, the maker of beautiful things, the skilfulest of men.”
“Then, welcome, welcome!” cried Louhi, grim and gray; and she grasped the stranger’s hand. “We have been waiting for you a long time. We expect you to forge the Sampo for us. I know you will do so, for Wainamoinen the Minstrel promised me.”