monster, cut off its head, wipe the blood from your
sword on your sleeve, and put it in the sheath, that you may be
prepared to fight when we touch the earth again."

Petru struck in the spurs, drew his sword, hacked off the head, wiped
the blood away, thrust the blade into its sheath, and was ready when
he again felt firm ground under the horse's hoofs. So they crossed the
bridge.

"Now we must go on," Petru began, after he had cast one more glance
back to his native land.

"Forward," replied the bay, "but you must now tell me, master, how we
are to hasten. Like the wind? Like thought? Like longing? Or like a
curse?"

Petru looked before him and saw nothing but sky and earth--a
wilderness which made his hair bristle with horror.

"We will change our pace and ride like each in turn,--not too fast
that we may not grow weary, and not too slow lest we should be late."

They rode on,--one day like the wind, one like thought, one like
longing, and one like a curse, until in the gray dawn of the morning
of the fourth day, they reached the end of the wilderness.

"Now stop and go on at a walk, that I may see what I have never
beheld," cried Petru, rubbing his eyes like a person waking from sleep
or one who beholds something that seems like an illusion. Before the
eyes of the young prince stretched a copper forest--trees, saplings,
shrubs, bushes, ferns, and flowers of the most beautiful varieties,
all made of copper. Petru stood staring, as a man gazes who beholds
something he has never seen or heard of. He rode into the wood. The
blossoms along the wayside began to praise themselves and tempt Petru
to gather them and make a garland:

"Take me, I am beautiful and give strength to him who breaks me," said
one.

"Oh, no, take me, for whoever wears me in his hat will be loved by the
greatest beauty in the world," said another. Then a third and a
fourth, each lovelier than its companions, stirred, and in sweet tones
tried to persuade Petru to gather it.

The bay sprang aside whenever it saw its master stoop toward a flower.

"Why don't you keep quiet?" cried Petru, somewhat sternly.

"Pick no blossoms, you will fare badly if you gather them," replied
the bay.

"Why should I fare badly?"

"A curse rests on these flowers--whoever gathers them must fight with
the Welwa[5] of the wood."

[Footnote 5: Welwa, an indescribable monster that exists in the
imagination of the Roumanian peasantry.]

"With what sort of a