Christmas Eve drew on, and there was Father Hans on his way to Göinge forest, one of the Robber Mother's sons going before him, and the monk follow-ing him on the back of his horse.

The priest had longed for the appointed hour of this journey, and when the time came he felt a happiness beyond which there is no more. Not so the monk. He loved the priest with a true love, and hated that anyone but himself should stand guard over him and ride with him on such journeys. But he still believed that they would never set eyes on the alleged Christmas garden, and still held that there was a plot which the Robber Mother had contrived and perfected, to ensnare the priest and deliver him into her husband's claws.

On the road running northward, the priest watched the people making ready to celebrate this blessed night. On every farm a fire was kindled in the bathhouse to warm it for the bathing. Meats and loaves of bread were being carried from the storehouses into the dwellings, while the men bore great armfuls of straw to strew upon the floors. In every church they passed, they saw the priest and the sexton decking the sanc-tuary. And when they reached the road that leads to the cloister of Bösjö, the priest's eye fell on the poor folk of that region car-rying the bread and candles the cloister monks had given them. These glad sights only height-ened the priest's longing to reach the forest, for he never stopped thinking of the celebration await-ing him — that celebration which would be greater than any that other men are given to behold.

But the monk fidgeted and grum-bled as he saw the preparations in every one of the humble huts they passed. He felt a great fear and a great danger, and implored the priest that they turn their faces toward Övid cloister and give up this visit, and so escape the Robber Mother's talons.

But Father Hans rode calmly on, lending no attentive ear to the monk's words and entreaties. In a little while the villages were

behind them, and they came out into a barren, desolate country. They followed a rugged track strewn with rocks and grievous obstacles and many bogs. There was no bridge over the brook and the river that cross that country; but the priest did not mind — he forded those streams without a murmur — until they came to an open plain which the snow had dressed in a bitter mantle of dazzling white. The riding along this long road was hard and hedged about with dangers; the three forced their way through raging storms and bogs and briers. Then the day was spent, the face of the sky grew pale, and there was the little robber boy, their guide, leading them across a meadow bordered by towering fir trees and covered with dry leaves. At the edge of this meadow a mountain rose up like a wall, and in it was a door made of thick pine boards.

Father Hans got down from his mount when he understood that they had come to their journey's end. The boy pushed open the door, and the priest saw before him a mean mountain cave, its walls bare, and found the Robber Mother crouched warming her-self at a tree trunk burning in the middle of the place. In the corners beds were spread, and on one of them the Robber Father lay asleep, snoring away.

The Robber Mother said, without stirring from her place:

"Come in, and bring the two horses in with you, or the bitter cold will finish them before this night is out."

Father Hans entered the cave bravely, and the monk followed him. Meanness and poverty showed everywhere in this hut, and there was nothing to tell of any preparation for keeping Christmas Eve. The Robber Mother had brewed no ale and baked nothing, had neither cleaned her hut nor wiped its floor. Her little children lay flat on the ground, bent over a wide metal pot, sipping the broth in it — the whole of their supper for Christmas Eve.

The Robber Mother said, in the tone of a haughty commander:

"Father Hans, sit down by this blazing fire and warm yourself. If you have food with you, eat, for the food we make in the forest would not please you. And if you feel tired from this journey, stretch out on one of these beds and rest yourself a while. Do not be afraid of sinking too deep in sleep: I will stay beside you and watch over you, and when the hour of the thing you came for draws near, I will wake you."

Father Hans undid the knot of the sack in which he had put his provisions; but he was weary and could not eat, so he lay down on the bed, and sleep soon stole over him.

The monk likewise was given a bed to rest on, but he refused to sleep, fearing for the priest at the hands of the Robber Father. Yet drowsiness got the better of him; his eyelids closed and he sank into a deep slumber.

When he woke he saw Father Hans sitting near the hearth, talking with the Robber Mother, the Robber Father seated at her side — a tall man, gloomy and impassive, who kept his back turned to the priest as though he were not listening to the talk.

Father Hans was telling the woman all he had seen, along the road he had traveled to the forest, of the preparations for celebrating the glorious feast of Christmas. And he kept carrying her back to the days of her youth, reminding her of the Christmas festivities and the games she used to share in, in the days when she lived a life of peace and quiet like all good folk; and he said to her:

"I grieve sorely for your little children, who will never be free to run and play in the village lanes and share the games and merriment of its little ones."

At first the Robber Mother's answers were short and curt; but very soon she turned to the priest with her whole soul and became all ears, listening to what he said. Suddenly the Robber Father turned his face toward them and