“You bring little, Squire Ebbe,” said the Knight Borre, from his seat beside his daughter.

“I bring what is most precious in the world to me,” said Ebbe.

“Your lance is broken, I believe?” said the old knight scornfully.

“My lance is not broken,” he answered; “else you should have it to match your word.”  And rising, without a look at Mette, whose eyes were downcast, he strode back to the door.

I had now given up hope, for the maid showed no sign of kindness, and the old man and the youth were like two dogs—­the very sight of the one set the other growling.  Yet—­since to leave in a huff would have been discourteous—­I prevailed on my master to bide over the morrow, and even to mount Holgar and ride forth to the hunt which was to close the Bride-show.  He mounted, indeed, but kept apart and well behind Mette and her brisk group of wooers.  For, apart from his lack of inclination, his horse was not yet recovered; and by and by, as the prickers started a deer, the hunt swept ahead of him and left him riding alone.

He had a mind to turn aside and ride straight back to Nebbegaard, whither he had sent me on to announce him (and dismally enough I obeyed), when at the end of a green glade he spied Mette returning alone on her white palfrey.

“For I am tired of this hunting,” she told him, as she came near.  “And you?  Does it weary you also, that you lag so far behind?”

“It would never weary me,” he answered; “but I have a weary horse.”

“Then let us exchange,” said she.  “Though mine is but a palfrey, it would carry you better.  Your roan betrayed you yesterday, and it is better to borrow than to miss excelling.”

“My house,” answered Ebbe, still sulkily, “has had enough borrowing of Egeskov; and my horse may be valueless, but he is one of the few things dear to me, and I must keep him.”

“Truly then,” said she, “your words were nought, last night, when you professed to offer me the gifts most precious to you in the world.”

And before he could reply to this, she had pricked on and was lost in the woodland.

Ebbe sat for a while as she left him, considering, at the crossing of two glades.  Then he twitched Holgar’s rein and turned back towards Nebbegaard.  But at the edge of the wood, spying a shepherd seated below in the plain by his flock, he rode down to the man, and called to him and said—­

“Go this evening to Egeskov and greet the lady Mette, and say to her that Ebbe of Nebbegaard could not barter his good horse, the last of his father’s stable.  But that she may know he was honest in offering her the thing most precious to him, tell her further what thou hast seen.”

So saying, he alighted off Holgar, and, smoothing his neck, whispered a word in his ear.  And the old horse turned his muzzle and rubbed it against his master’s left palm, whose right gripped a dagger and drove it straight for the heart.  This was the end of the roan stock of Nebbegaard.