Jette’s peace of mind had gone too, it seemed, for she could think of naught but the handsome stranger.
On the following evening he returned, and again she delayed to give him the information he sought. He was no less rejoiced than was Jette at the prospect of another meeting.
On the third day the priestess greeted him with downcast eyes.
“I cannot read thy destiny, youth,” she said; “the stars do not speak plainly. Yet methinks thy star and mine are very close together.” She faltered and paused.
“Dost thou love me, Jette?” cried the young man joyfully. “Wilt thou be my bride?”
The maiden’s blushing cheeks and downcast glance were sufficient answer.
“And wilt thou come with me to my tower?” pursued the youth eagerly.
Jette started back in affright.
“Nay, that I cannot,” she cried. “A priestess of Herthe is doomed an she marry. If I wed thee we must meet in secret and at night.”
“But I will take thee to Walhalla, and Freya shall appease Herthe with her offerings.”