Never had such a thing happened before.  Never had the tones of a child’s voice pierced his dull ears, and made that big sledge-hammer of a heart positively ache with its throbs.  It was a new and even a dangerous feeling; for though he made young Chilblain’s impertinence the pretext of an outburst, he might just as readily have given a cuff to the hoary-headed Prime-minister, Sir Solomon Snow-Ball—­and then there would have been a revolution.  But happily for the peace of the Polar Sea palace, B.B. was satisfied with Chilblain’s howl of rage, and in another moment had sunk down into his favorite arm-chair of twisted walrus tusks, and was lost in thought.

It was a curious scene, these three old men half asleep in their bear-skins, smoking long pipes of smouldering sea-weed.  No fire danced on the hearth, no lamp shed its lustre, but the moon’s pale beams gleamed on the glittering walls and lit the ice-crystals with its silver rays.  B.B.’s thoughts seemed to be of a troublesome nature, for he sighed heavily, almost creating a whirlwind, and at last, looking cautiously at his companions, and seeing they were asleep, he rose and went softly from the room.  In the hall was a huge pile of furs, among which B.B. gently pushed until he found the object of his search, which, lifting carefully, he bound about him with thongs of reindeer hide.  Then pulling on his immense snow-shoes, and drawing his cap closely about his ears, he went out into the night.

B.B. was aware that it would be impossible for him to keep his little Flax-Flower any longer in Frozen Nose’s dominions; indeed, he had only hidden her in the hall until he could decide what course to pursue, for he knew only too well that Chilblain, in seeking revenge, would be sure to discover his secret, and do all he could to injure him.  Personally he had little to fear, but the punishment for mortals entering Frozen Nose’s realm was death, and Flax-Flower was mortal.

With the speed for which he was so celebrated, Boreas slid over the ground in a southerly direction, never stopping until he had come upon what seemed to be a river which led down to a dark forest of pine-trees.

He was now at least three thousand miles from the Storm King’s palace, and could afford to rest Wiping his brow, and panting still with his recent efforts, Boreas drew a corner of the bundle of furs away from the face of Flax-Flower, and looked at the sleeping child.  As he did so a thrill of tenderness made him long to kiss her, but he knew that his rough caress would chill her with fear.  So, softly wrapping her up again, he plunged into the pine forest.  Stopping again when in the middle of it, he gave a shrill whistle, which was responded to by one fainter and farther away, and presently a dwarf in the garb of an Esquimau emerged from the dusky gloom, and bending low, said,

“What will you, my master?”

“I would see thy lord, the good St. Nicholas—­the Storm King’s enemy.  Is he at home?”