“For do not we,” they cried to Frigga, “love him even as you do?  And why then should we harm him?”

Gladly Frigga took her way toward home, feeling certain that she had saved Balder forever.  As she was about to enter Odin’s palace, Valhalla, she noticed on a branch of an oak that grew there, a tiny, weak-looking shrub.  “That mistletoe is too young to promise, and too weak to do any harm,” said Frigga; and she passed it by.

All the gods rejoiced with her when she told of her success; even Odin partially shook off his fears, as he told the younger gods and the heroes who dwelt with him in his palace to go and seek enjoyment after their period of gloom.  To the great playground of the gods they hastened, and there they invented a new game.  Balder, smiling as of old, took his stand in the midst, and all the others hurled at him weapons, stones and sticks, and even hit at him with their battle-axes.  They grew very merry over this pastime, for do what they would, none of them could harm Balder; the missiles either fell short, or dropped to his feet harmless.

Loki, passing by, was at first amazed when he saw Balder being used as a target; then, when he saw that Balder remained unhurt through all, he became angry—­he could not bear this proof of the fact that all things loved Balder.  Hastening away, he disguised himself as an old woman and hobbled off to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga.

“Do you know,” said this old woman, entering the room where Frigga sat spinning, “that the gods and heroes are playing a very dangerous game?  They are hurling all sorts of things at your son Balder, who stands in their midst.”

“That is not a dangerous game,” replied Frigga, smiling serenely.  “Last year it might have been, but now all things have given me their solemn oath not to harm Balder.”

“Well, well, well,” said the old woman, “isn’t that wonderful?  To think that any being should be so much beloved that everything should promise not to hurt him!  You said everything, did you not?”

“Yes,” replied Frigga.  “That is, it really amounts to everything.  There is one tiny parasite, the mistletoe, which grows on the Valhalla oak, which I did not bother with.”

Once out of sight of Frigga, Loki moved rapidly enough; and shortly he appeared, in his own form, among the gods, who were still shouting with joy over their game.  In his hand he carried a dart; but who could have guessed, to look at it, that it had been fashioned from the mistletoe on the Valhalla oak?

Outside of the circle of the gods stood Hoder, Balder’s blind brother, and there was no smile on his face.  Loki approached him and asked craftily: 

“Why do you not join in the game?  Are you not afraid that Balder will think you are jealous of his good fortune if you take no part in this sport they have invented in his honor?”

[Illustration:  Hoder hurled the dart]