One quick look out over the mountains and down upon the sea, and Loke seized Idun in his talons, changed her at once into a nut, the apples safe within the shell, and swept away towards Asgard.
But alas for Loke! The giant had heard the whirr of the great white wings. Leaping to his feet in his boat, he scanned the sky with his sharp giant eye. “It is Loke! It is Loke!” bellowed he, catching sight of the great white bird among the clouds. “It is Loke! It is Loke! No bird of Midgard flies so high nor sweeps the air with such mighty wings.”
With one great giant pull, he shot his boat upon the shore; with one great giant bound he struck the mountain top.
“The apples of life! the apples of life!” he thundered. “Gone! gone! The apples of life are gone!”
One second, and putting on the guise of a great grey eagle he shot up into the sky in swift pursuit of Loke. The Sungod hid his chariot behind a cloud that the shadows might protect and cover Loke. Thor sent forth his thunder. The skies blackened; the wind beat back the great grey eagle; the lightnings staggered and blinded him. Still on and on he flew, gaining in spite of all upon the track of Loke.
Every eye in Asgard was strained; every giant in Jotunheim stood breathless upon his mountain. The great round faces of the giants grew tense; the wrinkled aged faces of the gods grew pale. It was a terrible race. It was a race for life and health and everlasting youth.
“Build fires upon the walls! Heap up the brush! Stand ready with the tapers!” cried Odin, who foresaw the end.
The brush is heaped. Each god stands ready, his haggard face growing whiter and thinner with fright and dread and eagerness.
Already the rush of Loke’s wings are heard. The eagle follows close. Nearer and nearer they come, closer and closer is the race. One moment more!—One second!—The frightened eyes of Loke can be seen, so near he is. Thor sends his blinding fire once more across the eagle’s track. It reels, for an instant it falls back. In that one second, with one last mighty stroke, Loke clears the walls and falls, exhausted, breathless, almost dead upon the golden pavement of the city.
“The fires! the fires! the fires!” cried Odin. An instant, and there rises from the walls great sheets of blaze. The brush crackles and snaps and sends up great tongues of fire. The eagle, angry, desperate, and blinded by the lightning sweeps on, straight towards them. Like a foolish moth, he bears down upon the city, into the very heart of the blaze. A sudden crackling, a cry of pain, a cloud of black, black smoke, and the great grey eagle falls a helpless mass upon the pavement beside the breathless Loke.