“Take courage, mistress,” said the Yule log cheerily, “things may take a turn for the better with you, just as they did with me. Look you, I stood a long while in the forest, perished with cold, snow upon my head and snow at my feet, but now I am a merry Yule log, and warm to the inmost heart of me.”
“Then I too will take courage,” said Carey, though she sighed as she spoke.
Now between Christmas and Twelfth Night the Wild Huntsman rode abroad every night, and Carey rode with him. But on Twelfth Night itself, as she sat before him on horseback, she caught a glimpse of a far silver streak upon the horizon, and as the Wild Hunt swept onward through the frosty air, the streak broadened and broadened till it grew to a shining expanse, and Carey knew that at last she was within sight of the sea. Tremblingly she put up her hand to her neck, and felt for the necklace of shells that was still securely clasped about it.
“I will throw myself upon the mercy of the sea,” said she to herself, “am I not its godchild? And if I die, death will be better than my present lot.” Already the waters were rolling beneath her, ashen grey in the moonlight. Therefore, on a sudden, she sprang down from the Wild Huntsman’s horse, and plunged into the wintry sea. Coldly, darkly, thunderously, the waves closed overhead, and her senses forsook her.
When she came to herself she was lying stretched upon an immense plain, with strange trees waving above her and strange flowers round about; strange, many-eyed creatures slipped past her, gazing curiously, and over her hung the still waters, green as twilight skies. Carey got to her feet, all lost in wonder, and as she stood looking about her, a mighty shadow purpled the water, and towards her a monstrous serpent came swimming.
“Fear nothing, Carey,” it said, “for we are all your friends.”
“Then I pray you take me to my godfather,” she begged, “I am afraid to linger in this strange country all alone.”
“Mount upon my back then,” quoth the sea-serpent, “and cling to my shaggy mane.” So together they sped away over mountain and valley, through forests of branching coral, past cities and hamlets where the mer-folk dwelt, and sunken ships in the midst of forgotten treasures.
At last they reached a cave in a hillside, and here the sea-serpent set her down and left her. On the instant her godfather came to meet her; tenderly he kissed away her self-reproaches, and bidding her rest and refresh herself, he led her to an inner room, where the roof and walls were all of amber, while the floor was strewn with pure white sand. Then he sent his servants to her, swift and silent fishes, who waited upon her with the choicest dainties of the sea, and prepared for her a bed of seamew’s down, upon which she lay and slept for many hours.
As soon as she was awake again, the noiseless fishes returned, and deftly robed her in a fair green dress of feathery seaweed, more delicate than any lace; also they adorned her with chains of lustrous pearls, and wound red sea-anemones in her dark hair, and when she was ready she went in to her godfather, who greeted her with all affection.