s of the Giants, and clapped his hands, and
cried, "Good, good!"

But his grandfather, when he caught a glimpse of the white wonder that
went without even sound of bells, felt a cold chill in his scalp, and
went back to light a candle that he kept at the window till the sun was
high, for surely this was the Storbuk of Jotunheim.

But the Ren whirled on, and the driver shook the reins and thought only
of Bergen. He struck the White Steed with the loose end of the rope.
The Buk gave three great snorts and three great bounds, then faster
went, and as they passed by Dyrskaur, where the Giant sits on the edge,
his head was muffled in scud, which means that a storm is coming. The
Storbuk knew it. He sniffed, and eyed the sky with anxious look, and
even slacked a little; but Borgrevinck yelled at the speeding beast,
though going yet as none but he could go, and struck him once, twice,
and thrice, and harder yet. So the pulk was whirled along like a skiff
in a steamer's wake; but there was blood in the Storbuk's eye now; and
Borgrevinck was hard put to balance the sled. The miles flashed by like
roods till Sveggum's bridge appeared. The storm-wind now was blowing,
but there was the Troll. Whence came he now, none knew, but there he
was, hopping on the keystone and singing of

Norway's fate and Norway's luck,
Of the hiding Troll and the riding Buk.

Down the winding highway they came, curving inward as they swung around
the corner. At the voice on the bridge the Deer threw back his ears and
slackened his pace. Borgrevinck, not knowing whence it came, struck
savagely at the Ren. The red light gleamed in those ox-like eyes. He
snorted in anger and shook the great horns, but he did not stop to
avenge the blow. For him was a vaster vengeance still. He onward sped
as before, but from that time Borgrevinck had lost all control. The one
voice that the Ren would hear had been left behind. They whirled aside,
off the road, before the bridge was reached. The pulk turned over, but
righted itself, and Borgrevinck would have been thrown out and killed
but for the straps. It was not to be so; it seemed rather as though the
every curse of Norway had been gathered into the sled for a purpose.
Bruised and battered, he reappeared. The Troll from the bridge leaped
lightly to the Storbuk's head, and held on to the horns as he danced
and sang his ancient song, and a new song, too:

Ha! at last! Oh, lucky day,
Norway's curse to wipe awa