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smoked, and they carried freshly smoked hams on
a pole between them.
“Will the Countess deign to come and smell
them?” asked one of the girls. “Is the meat
sufficiently smoked?”
Countess Märta, who was mistress at Borg Hall
at that time, bent over the balustrade to look at the
meat; but at the same moment the old witch laid
her hand upon one of the hams.
Look at the shining, brown rind and the thick
layer of fat, and smell the fresh scent of juniper on
the newly smoked hams! Oh, food for the lost gods!
The witch wanted all this, and laid her hand
upon it.
The daughter of the mountain was not accustomed
to beg and pray for what she wanted! Was
it not by her clemency that flowers bloomed and
men flourished? Frost and devastating storms and
floods were in her power—therefore it did not
become her to beg and pray. She laid her hands upon
what she wished, and it was hers. But Countess
Märta knew nothing of the old woman’s power.
“Go away, you beggar,” she said.
“Give me the ham,” replied the Dovre witch, the
leader of the wolfpacks.
“She is mad!” cried the Countess, and she ordered
the servant girls to go on with their load.
The eyes of the aged dame flamed with anger and
desire.
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