cried the hunter, snatching it back. He drew his breath sharply and stared.
"It is strange," he declared; "a moment ago I almost thought that I saw the
white doe."

"If you stay here to-night," said the maiden, "about midnight you will see the
white doe go by. Take this arrow, and have your bow ready, and watch! And if
to-morrow, when I return, the arrow is still unused in your hand, I will
believe you when you say that you love me. And you have only to ask, and I
will do all that you desire."

Then she gave the huntsman food and drink and a bed of ferns upon which to
rest. "Sleep or wake," said she as she parted from him; "if truly you have no
wish to kill the white doe, why should you wake? Sleep!"

"I do not wish to kill the white doe," said the huntsman. Yet he could not
sleep: the memory of the one wild creature which had escaped him stung his
blood. He looked at the arrow which he held ready, and grew thirsty at the
sight of it. "If I see, I must shoot!" cried his hunter's heart. "If I see, I
must not shoot!" cried his soul, smitten with love for the beautiful maiden,
and remembering her word. "Yet, if I see, I know I must shoot--so shall I lose
all!" he cried as midnight approached, and the fever of long waiting remained
unassuaged.

Then with a sudden will he drew out his hunting-knife, and scored the palms of
his two hands so deeply that he could no longer hold his bow or draw the arrow
upon the string. "Oh, fair one, I have kept my word to you!" he cried as
midnight came. "The bow and the arrow are both ready."

Looking forth from the threshold by which he lay, he saw pale moonlight and
mist making a white haze together on the outer air. The white doe ran by, a