the experiment well worth trying, but Lars had his doubts, and

was willing" target="_blank" title="a.不愿意的；不情愿的">unwilling to take the risk; yet if she brought luck, as his
mother said, then she certainly must be something more than an

ordinary horse.
Stella had dragged little Lars out of the river when he fell

overboard from the pier; and that, too, showed more sense than he
had ever known a horse to have.

There could be no doubt in his mind that Stella was an enchanted
princess. And instantly" target="_blank" title="ad.立即，立刻">instantly the thought occurred to him that the

dreadful enchanted bear with the evil eye was the sorcerer, and
that, when he was killed, Stella would resume her human guise.

It soon became clear to him that he was the boy to accomplish
this heroic deed; and it was equally plain to him that he must

keep his purpose secret from all except Marit, as his mother
would surely discourage him from engaging in so perilous an

enterprise. First of all, he had to learn how to shoot; and his
father, who was the best shot in the valley, was very willing to

teach him. It seemed quite natural to Thorkel that a hunter's
son should take readily to the rifle; and it gave him great

satisfaction to see how true his boy's aim was, and how steady
his hand.

"Father," said Lars one day, "you shoot so well, why haven't you
ever tried to kill the Gausdale Bruin that hurt Stella so badly?"

"Hush, child! you don't know what you are talking about,"
answered his father; "no leaden bullet will harm that wicked

beast."
"Why not?"

"I don't like to talk about it--but it is well known that he is
enchanted."

"But will he then live for ever? Is there no sort of bullet that
will kill him?" asked the boy.

"I don't know. I don't want to have anything to do 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" target="_blank" title="ad.严肃地，庄严地">solemnly promised.
With his rifle on his shoulder and his skees on his feet, Lars

glided slowly along 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 strangelyuncomfortable. 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, climbed up on the little hillock between
the two trees, and began to pound it lustily with the butt-end of

his gun. He listened for a moment tremulously, and heard
distinctly long, heavy sighs from within.

His heart stood still. The bear was awake! Soon he would have to
face it! A minute more elapsed; Lars's heart shot up into his

throat. He leaped down, placed himself in front of the entrance
to the den, and cocked his rifle. Three long minutes passed.

Bruin had evidently gone to sleep again. Wild with excitement,
the boy rushed forward and drove his skee-staff straight into the