Looking forth from the threshold by which he lay, he saw pale moonlight and mist making a white haze together on the outer air. The white doe ran by, a body of silver; like quicksilver she ran. And the huntsman, the passion to slay rousing his blood, caught up arrow and bow, and tried in vain with his maimed hands to notch the shaft upon the string.
The beautiful creature leapt lightly by, between the curtains of moonbeam and mist; and as she went she sprang this way and that across the narrow streamlet, till the pale shadows hid her altogether from his sight. “Ah! ah!” cried the huntsman, “I would have given all my life to be able to shoot then! I am the most miserable man alive; but to-morrow I will be the happiest. What a thing is love, that it has known how to conquer in me even my hunter’s blood!”
In the morning the beautiful maiden returned; she came sadly. “I gave you my word,” said she: “here I am. If you have the arrow still with you as it was last night, I will be your wife, because you have done what never huntsman before was able to do—not to shoot at the white doe when it went by.”
The huntsman showed her the unused arrow; her beauty made him altogether happy. He caught her in his arms, and kissed her till the sun grew high. Then she brought food and set it before him; and taking his hand, “I am your wife,” said she, “and with all my heart my will is to serve you faithfully. Only, if you value your happiness, do not shoot ever at the white doe.” Then she saw that there was blood on his hand, and her face grew troubled. She saw how the other hand also was wounded. “How came this?” she asked; “dear husband, you were not so hurt yesterday.”
And the huntsman answered, “I did it for fear lest in the night I should fail, and shoot at the white doe when it came.”
Hearing that, his wife trembled and grew white. “You have tricked us both,” she said, “and have not truly mastered your desire. Now, if you do not promise me on your life and your soul, or whatever is dearer, never to shoot at a white doe, sorrow will surely come of it. Promise me, and you shall certainly be happy!”
So the huntsman promised faithfully, saying, “On your life, which is dearer to me than my own, I give you my word to keep that it shall be so.” Then she kissed him, and bound up his wounds with healing herbs; and to look at her all that day, and for many days after, was better to him than all the hunting the king’s forests could provide.
For a whole year they lived together in perfect happiness, and two children came to bless their union—a boy and a girl born at the same hour. When they were but a month old, they could run; and to see them leaping and playing before the door of their home made the huntsman’s heart jump for joy. “They are forest-born, and they come of a hunter’s blood; that is why they run so early, and have such limbs,” said he.
“Yes,” answered his wife, “that is partly why. When they grow older they will run so fast—do not mistake them for deer if ever you go hunting.”
No sooner had she said the word than the memory of it, which had slept for a whole year, stirred his blood. The scent of the forest blew up through the rocky ravine, which he had never repassed since the day when he entered, and he laid his hands thoughtfully on the weapons he no longer used.