he stood outside his palace, a white-haired bishop, he would lift up his
finger, and all the stars should break into song.

Clang, clang, sang the anvil under the hammer's beat.

In the still summer evenings a troop of boys go climbing up the naked
slopes towards the high wooded ranges to fetch home the cows for the
milking. The higher they climb, the farther and farther their sight can
travel out over the sea. And an hour or two later, as the sun goes down,
here comes a long string of red-flanked cattle trailing down, with a
faint jangle of bells, over the far-off ridges. The boys halloo them
on--"Ohoo-oo-oo!"--and swing their ringed rowan staves, and spit red
juice of the alder bark that they are chewing as men chew tobacco. Far
below them they see the farm lands, grey in shadow, and, beyond, the
waters of the fjord, yellow in the evening light, a mirror where red
clouds and white sails and hills of liquid blue are shining. And away
out on the farthest headland, the lonely star of the coast light over
the grey sea.

On such an evening Peer came down from the hills just in time to see a
gentleman in a carriole turn off from the highway and take the by-road
down towards Troen. The horse balked suddenly at a small bridge, and
when the driver reined him in and gave him a cut with his whip, the
beast reared, swung about, and sent the cart fairly dancing round on its
high wheels. "Oh, well, then, I'll have to walk," cried the gentleman
angrily, and, flinging the reins to the lad behind him, he jumped down.
Just at this moment Peer came up.

"Here, boy," began the traveller, "just take this bag, will you? And--"
He broke off suddenly, took a step backward, and looked hard at the boy.