"Well, then, you may ride with me, if you will stand on the runners of my sledge," answered the man, and turned into a side street where his horse was standing. He mounted his seat and looked over his shoulder at Blessom, who was just getting on the runners. "You had better hold fast," said the stranger. Blessom did as he was told, and it was well he did, for their journey was evidently not by land. "It seems to me that you are driving on the water," cried Blessom. "I am," said the man, and the spray whirled about them. But after a while it seemed to Blessom their course no longer lay on the water. "It seems to me we are moving through the air," said he. "Yes, so we are," replied the stranger. But when they had gone still farther, Blessom thought he recognized the parish they were driving through. "Is not this Vaage?" cried he. "Yes, now we are there," replied the stranger, and it seemed to Blessom that they had gone pretty fast. "Thank you for the good ride," said he. "Thanks to yourself," replied the man, and added, as he whipped up his horse, "Now you had better not look after me." "No, indeed," thought Blessom, and started over the hills for home. But just then so loud and terrible a crash was heard behind him that it seemed as if the whole mountain must be tumbling down, and a bright light was shed over the surrounding landscape; he looked round and beheld the stranger in the white coat driving through the crackling flames into the open mountain, which was yawning wide to receive him, like some huge gate. Blessom felt somewhat strange in regard to his traveling companion; and thought he would look in another direction; but as he had turned his head so it remained, and never more could Blessom get it straight again. The boy had never heard anything to equal this in all his life. He dared not ask his father for more, but early the next morning he asked his mother if she knew any stories. Yes, of course she did; but hers were chiefly about princesses who were in captivity for seven years, until the right prince came along. The boy believed that everything he heard or read about took place close around him. He was about eight years old when the first stranger entered their door one winter evening. He had black hair, and this was something Thrond had never seen before. The stranger saluted them with a short "Good-evening!" and came forward. Thrond grew frightened and sat down on a cricket by the hearth. The mother asked the man to take a seat on the bench along the wall; he did so, and then the mother could examine his face more closely. "Dear me! is not this Knud the fiddler?" cried she. "Yes, to be sure it is. It has been a long time since I played at your wedding." "Oh, yes; it is quite a while now. Have you been on a long journey?" "I have been playing for Christmas, on the other side of the mountain. But half way down the slope I began to feel very badly, and I was obliged to come in here to rest."