Petru now turned toward the house.
"Stop," cried the bay again, "I haven't yet told you every thing. Take the silver wreath and knock at Holy Friday's window. When she asks 'Who is there?' say that you came on foot and have lost your way on the moor. She will rebuff you. But you mustn't stir from the spot. Say to her: 'I won't go away, for ever since I was a little child I have always heard of Holy Friday (Venus) and—I didn't have steel shoes made with calf-skin straps, did not travel nine years and nine months, did not fight for this silver wreath I want to give her, did not do and suffer all these things merely to turn back now that I have reached her.' Act and speak as I have told you—what follows must be your own care."
Petru made no reply, but went up to the house. As it was perfectly dark, the hero did not see the dwelling, and was guided only by the rays of light streaming through the window. When he reached the house several dogs began to bark, because they knew some stranger was near.
"Who is fighting with the hounds? May his life be bitter," cried Holy Friday angrily.
"It is I, Holy Friday!" said Petru, with laboring breath, like a man who likes and yet is not quite satisfied with what he is doing. "I have lost my way on the moor, and don't know where I can spend the night." Here he stopped, not daring to say more.
"Where did you leave your horse?" asked Holy Friday rather sharply.
Petru reflected; he did not know whether he ought to tell a lie or speak the truth, so he made no answer.
"Go, in God's name, my son, I have no room for you," said Holy Friday retiring from the window.
Petru now repeated what the horse had told him to say. Scarcely had he done so, when he saw Holy Friday open the window.
"Let me see the wreath, my son," she said sweetly, in a gentle tone.