‘Nay, Sweetheart!’ cried the Huntsman. ‘Ask me for aught else in the world, but not for these things, since they touch my honour!’
‘These will I have, and nothing less,’ said Elfrida wilfully, looking at him through her long gold lashes until his soul went out from him. His face was white as milk as he rode away, and the creatures of the forest cringed with shame. For they knew she had asked what was unseemly; and they ceased to attend her when she went to the stream at dawn.
When the moon was at her full the Huntsman returned with the three gifts, and now he thought to take Elfrida in his arms. But she thrust him from her with bitter words, tearing the leaf from the sacred Book into a thousand shreds, and tossing the crest and sword into the running stream.
‘What!’ she cried, and her scornful laugh rang through the woodland, ‘shall I, Elfrida, be the sport of a man who holds the honour of his house as something less than a maiden’s whim? I will have none of you—get you gone!’ And she flung out her arms to the strong North Wind, who caught her to him and bore her off. But not to her high pine palace did he take her, for he was angry because of her cruelty; and far away at the grim North Pole, she shivers yet under the thickest ice. Her green eyes shine through the frost-bound floes, and light the depths of the Northern seas.”
“And the Huntsman?” I questioned.
“He died in his rage, where Elfrida left him!” said the Moss-woman mournfully, “and his spirit seeks still to avenge his wrongs. To the last of our race it will pursue us, until none of our kindred lives.”
“Chris! Chris! where are you?”