Nevertheless, under my tutoring he grew into a tall lad and a bold, a good swordsman, skilful at the tilt and in handling a boat; but not talkative or free in his address of strangers.  The most of his days he spent in fishing, or in the making and mending of gear; and his evenings, after our lesson in sword-play, in the reading of books (of which Nebbegaard had good store), and specially of the Icelanders, skalds and sagamen; also at times in the study of Latin with me, who had been bred to the priesthood, but left it for love of his father, my foster-brother, and now had no ambition of my own but to serve this lad and make him as good a man.

But there were days when he would have naught to do with fishing or with books; dark days when I forbore and left him to mope by the dunes, or in the great garden which had been his mother’s, but was now a wilderness untended.  And it was then that he first met with the lady Mette.

For as he walked there one morning, a little before noon, a swift shadow passed overhead between him and the sun, and almost before he could glance upward a body came dropping out of the sky and fell with a thud among the rose-bushes by the eastern wall.  It was a heron, and after it swooped the bird which had murdered it; a white ger-falcon of the kind which breeds in Greenland, but a trained bird, as he knew by the sound of the bells on her legs as she plunged through the bushes.  Ebbe ran at once to the corner where the birds struggled; but as he picked up the pelt he happened to glance towards the western wall, and in the gateway there stood a maiden with her hand on the bridle of a white palfrey.  Her dog came running towards Ebbe as he stood.  He beat it off, and carrying the pelt across to its mistress, waited a moment silently, cap in hand, while she called the great falcon back to its lure and leashed it to her wrist, which seemed all too slight for the weight.

Then, as Ebbe held out the dead heron, she shook her head and laughed.  “I am not sure, sir, that I have any right to it.  We flushed it yonder between the wood and the sandhills, and, though I did not stay to consider, I think it must belong to the owner of the shore-land.”

“It is true,” said Ebbe, “that I own the shore-land, and the forest, too, if law could enforce right.  But for the bird you are welcome to it, and to as many more as you care to kill.”

Upon this she knit her brows.  “The forest?  But I thought that the forest was my father’s?  My name,” said she, “is Mette, and my father is the Knight Borre, of Egeskov.”

“I am Ebbe of Nebbegaard, and,” said he, perceiving the mirth in her eyes, “you have heard the rhyme upon me—­

    “’Ebbe from Nebbe, with all his men good,
     Has neither food nor firing-wood.’”

“I had not meant to be discourteous,” said she contritely; “but tell me more of these forest-lands.”

“Nay,” answered Ebbe, “hither comes riding your father with his men.  Ask him for the story, and when he has told it you may know why I cannot make him or his daughter welcome at Nebbegaard.”