with witchcraft,"
said Thorkel.

The word "witchcraft" set the boy to thinking, and he suddenly
remembered that he had been warned not to speak to an old woman named
Martha Pladsen, because she was a witch. Now, she was probably the very
one who could tell him what he wanted to know. Her cottage lay close
up under the mountain-side, about two miles from his home. He did not
deliberate long before going to seek this mysterious person, about
whom the most remarkable stories were told in the valley. To his
astonishment, she received him kindly, gave him a cup of coffee with
rock candy, and declared that she had long expected him. The bullet
which was to slay the enchanted bear had long been in her possession;
and she would give it to him if he would promise to give her the beast's
heart.

He did not have to be asked twice for that; and off he started gayly
with his prize in his pocket. It was rather an odd-looking bullet,
made of silver, marked with a cross on one side and with a lot of queer
illegible figures on the other. It seemed to burn in his pocket, so
anxious was he to start out at once to release the beloved Stella from
the cruel enchantment. But Martha had said that the bear could only
be killed when the moon was full; and until the moon was full he
accordingly had to bridle his impatience.

III.

It was a bright morning in January, and, as it happened, Lars's
fourteenth birthday. To his great delight, his mother had gone down to
the judge's to sell some ptarmigans, and his father had gone to fell
some timber up in the glen. Accordingly he could secure the rifle
without being observed. He took an affectionate good-by of Stella,
who rubbed her soft nose against his own, playfully pulled at his
coat-collar, and blew her sweet, warm breath into his face. Lars was a
simple-hearted boy, in spite of his age, and quite a child at heart.
He had lived so secluded from all society, and breathed so long the
atmosphere of fairy tales, that he could see nothing at all absurd
in what he was about to undertake. The youngest son in the story-book
always did just that sort of thing, and everybody praised and admired
him for it. Lars meant, for once, to put the story-book hero into the
shade. He engaged little Marit to watch over Stella while he was gone,
and under no circumstances to betray him--all of which Marit solemnly
promised.

With his rifle on his shoulder and his skees on his feet, Lars glided
slowly along