over the glittering surface of the snow, for the mountain
was steep, and he had to zigzag in long lines before he reached the
upper heights, where the bear was said to have his haunts. The place
where Bruin had his winter den had once been pointed out to him, and
he remembered yet how pale his father was, when he found that he had
strayed by chance into so dangerous a neighborhood. Lars's heart, too,
beat rather uneasily as he saw the two heaps of stones, called "The
Parson" and "The Deacon," and the two huge fir-trees which marked the
dreaded spot. It had been customary from immemorial time for each person
who passed along the road to throw a large stone on the Parson's heap,
and a small one on the Deacon's; but since the Gausdale Bruin had gone
into winter quarters there, the stone heaps had ceased to grow.

Under the great knotted roots of the fir-trees there was a hole, which
was more than half-covered with snow; and it was noticeable that there
was not a track of bird or beast to be seen anywhere around it. Lars,
who on the way had been buoyed up by the sense of his heroism, began
now to feel strangely uncomfortable. It was so awfully hushed and still
round about him; not the scream of a bird--not even the falling of a
broken bough was to be heard. The pines stood in lines and in clumps,
solemn, like a funeral procession, shrouded in sepulchral white. Even if
a crow had cawed it would have been a relief to the frightened boy--for
it must be confessed that he was a trifle frightened--if only a little
shower of snow had fallen upon his head from the heavily laden branches,
he would have been grateful for it, for it would have broken the spell
of this oppressive silence.

There could be no doubt of it; inside, under those tree-roots slept
Stella's foe--the dreaded enchanted beast who had put the boldest
of hunters to flight, and set lords and baronets by the ears for the
privilege of possessing his skin. Lars became suddenly aware that it
was a foolhardy thing he had undertaken, and that he had better betake
himself home. But then, again, had not Witch-Martha said that she had
been waiting for him; that he was destined by fate to accomplish this
deed, just as the youngest son had been in the story-book. Yes, to be
sure, she had said that; and it was a comforting thought.

Accordingly, having again examined his rifle, which he had carefully
loaded with the silver bullet before leaving home, he started boldly
forward,