y!

Borgrevinck was terrified and furious. He struck harder at the Storbuk
as he bounded over the rougher snow, and vainly tried to control him.
He lost his head in fear. He got out his knife, at last, to strike at
the wild Buk's hamstrings, but a blow from the hoof sent it flying from
his hand. Their speed on the road was slow to that they now made: no
longer striding at the trot, but bounding madly, great five-stride
bounds, the wretched Borgrevinck strapped in the sled, alone and
helpless through his own contriving, screaming, cursing, and praying.
The Storbuk with bloodshot eyes, madly steaming, careered up the rugged
ascent, up to the broken, stormy Hoifjeld; mounting the hills as a
Petrel mounts the rollers, skimming the flats as a Fulmar skims the
shore, he followed the trail where his mother had first led his
tottering steps, up from the Vand-dam nook. He followed the old
familiar route that he had followed for five years, where the
white-winged Rype flies aside, where the black rock mountains, shining
white, come near and block the sky, "where the Reindeer find their
mysterie."

On like the little snow-wreath that the storm-wind sends dancing before
the storm, on like a whirlwind over the shoulder of Suletind, over the
knees of Torholmenbrae--the Giants that sit at the gateway. Faster than
man or beast could follow, up--up--up--and on; and no one saw them go,
but a Raven that swooped behind, and flew as Raven never flew, and the
Troll, the same old Troll that sang by the Vand-dam, and now danced and
sang between the antlers:

Good luck, good luck for Norway
With the White Storbuk comes riding.

Over Tvindehoug they faded like flying scud on the moorlands, on to the
gloomy distance, away toward Jotunheim, the home of the Evil Spirits,
the Land of the Lasting Snow. Their every sign and trail was wiped away
by the drifting storm, and the end of them no man knows.

The Norse folk awoke as from a horrid nightmare. Their national ruin
was averted; there were no deaths, for there were no proofs; and the
talebearer's strife was ended.

The one earthly sign remaining from that drive is the string of silver
bells that Sveggum had taken from the Storbuk's neck--the victory
bells, each the record of a triumph won; and when the old man came to
understand, he sighed, and hung to the string a final bell, the largest
of them all.

Nothing more was ever seen or heard of the creature who so nearly sold
his country,