“He is at home, but he is no man’s enemy.  What message shall I bear him?”

“Tell him that Boreas, of the Frozen Noses, awaits him.”  The dwarf vanished, and returned.

“My lord bids thee enter, but entreats thee to be gentle, and remember the manners of his court.”

“That was a needless charge, considering my errand.  Never has my mood been more peaceful.  But it strikes me as passing strange thus to dictate terms to one of my station,” responded Boreas, proudly.

“Pardon,” answered the dwarf, “but we are no sticklers for ceremony, and recognize no rank save goodness.  Follow me if it be thy wish to enter.”

Pushing aside the heavy boughs on which the snow lay in icy masses that rattled and clashed like bolts and bars, he uncovered a low-arched opening into what seemed a vast snow-bank.  Through this tunnel he and Boreas made their way to a broad court, which was as airy as a soap-bubble, round in shape, with pillars and dome of glass, through which streamed rays of light softer than sunshine and brighter than moonbeams.

From this court a broad, low stairway led to another apartment, which was as free from any show or splendor as the kitchen of a farm-house, and, indeed, in its suggestion of homely comfort and hospitality it was not unlike that cheery place.  A Saxon motto, meaning “Welcome to those who hunger,” was carved in the wooden frame of the fireplace.  The floor was sanded, the tables and chairs were of oak, blackened by age, as were also the timbers of the ceiling, and cut and carved with curious devices.

On a big settle by the fire sat an old man, whose twinkling eyes could but just see through the shaggy and snowy brows which overhung them, and whose white beard fell in a flowing mass upon his breast.  What could be seen of his face bore a kind expression.

“Ho, ho, old Bluster!” he cried, in a clear and merry voice, drawing up and around him the sheepskin mantle which was beside him, “what new freak is this of yours to enter our peaceful dwelling?  Methought you were so sworn to do the Storm King’s bidding that no power other than his rough sway could compel your presence.  Come you on your own account or on his?  Be it either, you are free to partake of our bounty.  Ho, there, Merrythought! heave on more logs and heat the poker, that we may thrust it fizzing into our tankards:  ’tis always bitter cold when Boreas is abroad.”

The dwarf skipped quickly to his task, assisted by a dozen others, and Boreas, unstrapping his bundle, drew little Flax-Flower, still sleeping, from the furs.

“Mine is a strange errand, good Claus—­so strange, that I hardly know myself to be myself.  Rough and stormy as I am ever, a child’s misery has made me once gentle.  You know my mad career, my furious passions, and that they indeed are the strength of the Storm King’s realm.  Too well I knew that I should be but the sport of mocking derision if I appealed to his mercy in behalf of this