THE WHITE DOE



One day, as the king's huntsman was riding in the forest, he came to a small
pool. Fallen leaves covering its surface had given it the colour of blood, and
knee-deep in their midst stood a milk-white doe drinking.

The beauty of the doe set fire to the huntsman's soul; he took an arrow and
aimed well at the wild heart of the creature. But as he was loosing the string
the branch of a tree overhanging the pool struck him across the face, and
caught hold of him by the hair; and arrow and doe vanished away together into
the depths of the forest.

Never until now, since he entered the king's service, had the huntsman missed
his aim. The thought of the white doe living after he had willed its death
inflamed him with rage; he could not rest till he had brought hounds on the
trail, determined to follow until it had surrendered to him its life.

All day, while he hunted, the woods stayed breathless, as if to watch; not a
blade moved, not a leaf fell. About noon a red deer crossed his path; but he
paid no heed, keeping his hounds only to the white doe's trail.

At sunset a fallow deer came to disturb the scent, and through the twilight,
as it deepened, a grey wolf ran in and out of the underwood. When night came
down, his hounds fled from his call, following through tangled thickets a huge
black boar with crescent tusks. So he found himself alone, with his horse so
weary that it could scarcely move.