of rough stone, moss-covered and cosy, with a roof of wattles which had taken
root and pushed small shoots and clusters of grey leaves through their
weaving. Nature, and not man, seemed there to have been building herself an
abode.

Before the doorway ran the stream, a track of white mist showing where it
wound over the meadow; and by its edge a beautiful maiden sat, and was washing
her milk-white feet and arms in the wrinkling eddies.

To the huntsman she became all at once the most beautiful thing that the world
contained; all the spirit of the chase seemed to be in her blood, and each
little movement of her feet made his heart jump for joy. "I have looked for
you all my life!" thought he, as he halted and gazed, not daring to speak lest
the lovely vision should vanish, and the memory of it mock him for ever.

The beautiful maiden looked up from her washing. "Why have you come here?"
said she.

The huntsman answered her as he believed to be the truth, "I have come because
I love you!"

"No," she said, "you came because you wanted to kill the white doe. If you
wish to kill her, it is not likely that you can love me."

"I do not wish to kill the white doe!" cried the huntsman; "I had not seen you
when I wished that. If you do not believe that I love you, take my bow and
shoot me to the heart; for I will never go away from you now."

At his word she took one of the arrows, looking curiously at the red feathers,
and to test the sharp point she pressed it against her breast. "Have a care!"