“Down in the abyss the mists rolled and parted, permitting Odin for an instant to gaze into the joyless realm of death, and he saw that all was indeed made ready to receive his beloved son. With the tears starting to his eyes he mounted his steed and turned sadly homeward. Loud cries of woe broke from the waiting gods and goddesses when Odin told them the saying of the Norn. Vainly they sought some means by which the doom of their favorite might be averted, till at last Frigga bethought her of a plan, which was hailed with joy by all. As mistress of the earth, she bound by oath everything that existed thereon, fire and water, iron and all the other metals, rock and soil, bush and tree, all disease or poison, with all created beings of the earth, the air, and the water,—not to harm her son. Alone of the tender mistletoe that hangs from the bough, she took no oath, for from that she feared nothing. “Deeming their favorite safe from harm, the gods in their joy began to sport with him. Some flung sharp-pointed spears at him, and lo! they fell harmless to the ground. Others smote his uncovered head with their keen blades, yet not a hair of his head was injured. Bright and laughing as a fair spring morning, the god stood in their midst, catching the hissing darts and lances in his hands. Their joyous cries at last reached the ears of Loke, whose only pleasure it was to awaken strife and discontent within the hearts of gods and men, and he hastened thither to blight, if it might be, these heaven-born flowers of joy. Taking the form of an aged dame with a staff in her trembling hand, he approached the goddess Frigga, and said: “‘Tell me, I pray thee, O watchful Earth-mother, wherefore the gods are glad, so that I may share their joy.’ “Frigga replied: ‘All nature has sworn to me to do no harm to my son Balder. His life was in great peril, but now shall the Norn’s rede be brought to naught, nor shall he descend into the kingdom of pale Hel.’ “But Loke asked: ‘Didst thou take oath of everything upon the earth?’ “And Frigga answered: ‘Of all save the tender mistletoe that grows east of Valhalla: from that surely there is naught to fear.’ “Now was Loke rejoiced, for mistletoe causes the death of the tree from which it draws its life. Slipping softly out from the gates of Valhalla, he hastened to where it grew, and, breaking it off, fashioned from the tough stem a dart which he sharpened to the keenest point. Then, as the old woman, he again joined the circle of the gods still busy with their sports. Perceiving Höder, the blind god, who stood apart listening to his companion’s joyous cries but unable to share their sports, he drew near and said to him: “‘Why dost thou too not hurl the spear or speed the dart?’ “‘Alas! How can I?’ replied Höder. ‘Were not the light gone from my eyes, gladly would I also do honor to Balder.’ “‘Nay, then, that thou shalt,’ said Loke. ‘Take thy bow and this dart; I will guide its flight for thee.’