At dusk the sky became greenish and murky, merging into a vast tent
of deepest blue studded with a myriad of shining golden stars. Then
the eider-ducks and swans grew silent and went to roost for the
night, and the soft warm air was thrilled by the whines of bear-cubs
and the cries of land-rails. It was then that the maidens assembled
on the slope to sing of Lada and to dance their ancient dances, while
strapping youths came forth from their winter dwellings in the woods
and listened.

The slope down to the river was steep; below was the rustling sound
of water among the reeds. Everything was wrapt in stillness, yet
everywhere the throb and flow of life could be heard. The maidens sat
huddled together on the top of the slope, where the granite and slate
were covered with scanty moss and yellow grass.

They were dressed in gaily-coloured dresses: all of them strong and
robust; they sang their love-songs--old and sad and free--and gazed
into the gathering opalescent mists. Their songs seemed to overflow
from their hearts, and were sung to the youths who stood around them
like sombre, restive shadows, ogling and lustful, like the beasts in
their forest-haunts.

This festive coupling-time had its law.

The youths came here to choose their wives; they quarrelled and
fought, while the maidens remained listless, yielding to them in all.
The young men ogled and fought and he who triumphed first chose his
wife. Then he and she together retired from the festival.