“Fair prophetess,” he said in a low voice, fearing to break in rudely upon her meditations, “wilt thou read me my fate?”

Jette, roused from her reverie, fixed her startled gaze on the handsome stranger, whose dark, burning eyes met hers in deepest admiration.  Something stirred in her heart at the ardent glance, the thrilling tones, and her wonted composure deserted her.

“Youth,” she faltered at length, “thou comest at a time when my prophetic skill hath failed me.  Ere I tell thee thy fate I must offer sacrifice to Herthe.  If thou wilt come to-morrow at this hour I will tell thee what the stars say concerning thy destiny.”

It was true that her skill had deserted her under the admiring scrutiny of the young warrior, yet she delayed also because she wished to hear his voice again, to meet the ardent yet courteous glance of his dark eyes.

“I will return, O prophetess,” said he, and with that he was gone.

Jette’s peace of mind had gone too, it seemed, for she could think of naught but the handsome stranger.

On the following evening he returned, and again she delayed to give him the information he sought.  He was no less rejoiced than was Jette at the prospect of another meeting.

On the third day the priestess greeted him with downcast eyes.

“I cannot read thy destiny, youth,” she said; “the stars do not speak plainly.  Yet methinks thy star and mine are very close together.”  She faltered and paused.

“Dost thou love me, Jette?” cried the young man joyfully.  “Wilt thou be my bride?”

The maiden’s blushing cheeks and downcast glance were sufficient answer.

“And wilt thou come with me to my tower?” pursued the youth eagerly.

Jette started back in affright.

“Nay, that I cannot,” she cried.  “A priestess of Herthe is doomed an she marry.  If I wed thee we must meet in secret and at night.”

“But I will take thee to Walhalla, and Freya shall appease Herthe with her offerings.”

Jette shook her head.

“Nay,” said she; “it is impossible.  The vengeance of Herthe is swift—­and awful.  I will show thee a spring where we may meet.”

She led him to a place where the stream branched off in five separate rivulets, and bade him meet her there on the following night at a certain hour.  The lovers then parted, each full of impatience for the return of the hour of meeting.

Next evening, when the dusk had fallen on the sacred grove of Herthe, Jette made her way to the rendezvous.  The appointed time had not yet arrived, but scarcely had she reached the spot ere she fancied she heard a step among the undergrowth, and turned with a glad smile, prepared to greet her lover.  Imagine her dismay when instead of the youth a grisly wolf confronted her!  Her shriek of terror was uttered in vain.  A moment later the monster had sprung at her throat.

Her lover, hastening with eager steps toward the place of meeting, heard the agonized shriek and, recognizing the voice of Jette, broke into a run.  He was too late!  The monster wolf stood over the lifeless body of his beloved, and though in his despairing fury the youth slew the huge brute, the retribution of Herthe was complete.