“Zebek,” cried Agnes, “oh, joy!”
The raven was welcome as a brother. Then the bird cocked his wicked head, and winked his sage eye, with which winking came a thought. To pluck the white lace from her wrist, to twine it round the raven’s foot,—this was the deed of an instant.
“Back to Witch Martha; back! Fly fast, as you love me.”
And Zebek,—wise beyond many a mortal, obeyed instantly, rising with one croak.
“Ho!” shouted Wolf, looking up; “a raven! Ill luck! Father, your crossbow!”
Fritz levelled in a trice; “whir” went the bolt, but it was growing dark. One feather fluttered to the grass; another croak from mid-air. Zebek was gone, winging straight west. Dame Gerda looked as black as the bird, when she came from the hut.
“A raven, ill luck,” spoke she, and scolded Fritz and Wolf; “to slay a raven worse luck; but a vain bolt at a raven the worst luck of all. The bird will bear the grudge, and hatch us foulest weather.”
