On the other hand, the bear-hunts of the lord of the castle and his son took a still more desperate and to them joyous course.
About this time,--when Christmas was drawing near, and Sintram was seeking to overpower his dread of the awful dreams by the most daring expeditions,--about this time, Folko and Gabrielle stood together on one of the terraces of the castle.

The evening was mild; the snow-clad fields were glowing in the red light of the setting sun; from below there were heard men's voices singing songs of ancient heroic times, while they worked in the armourer's forge.

At last the songs died away, the beating of hammers ceased, and, without the speakers being seen, or there being any possibility of distinguishing them by their voices, the following discourse arose:-- "Who is the bravest amongst all those whose race derives its origin from our renowned land ?" "It is Folko of Montfaucon." "Rightly said; but tell me, is there anything from which even this bold baron draws back ?" "In truth there is one thing,--and we who have never left Norway face it quite willingly and joyfully." "And that is-- ?" "A bear-hunt in winter, over trackless plains of snow, down frightful ice-covered precipices." "Truly thou answerest aright, my comrade.

He who knows not how to fasten our skates on his feet, how to turn in them to the right or left at a moment's warning, he may be a valiant knight in other respects, but he had better keep away from our hunting parties, and remain with his timid wife in her apartments." At which the speakers were heard to laugh well pleased, and then to betake themselves again to their armourer's work.
Folko stood long buried in thought.

A glow beyond that of the evening sky reddened his cheek.