me in and be warmed."

"Why, thank you, good mother." Cappen shucked his cloak and grinning at
her through the smoke. He felt his clothes steaming already. "I love you
too."

Over her shoulder, he suddenly saw the girl. She was huddled in a
corner, wrapped in fear, but the eyes that watched him were as blue as
the skies over Caronne. The ragged dress did not hide the gentle curves
of her body, nor did the tear-streaked grime spoil the lilt of her face.
"Why, 'tis springtime in here," cried Cappen, "and Primavera herself is
strewing flowers of love."

"What are you talking about, crazy man?" rumbled the troll-wife. She
turned to the girl. "Heap the fire, Hildigund, and set up the roasting
spit. Tonight I feast!"

"Truly I see heaven in female form before me," said Cappen.

The troll scratched her misshapen head.

"You must surely be from far away, moonstruck man," she said.

"Aye, from golden Croy am I wandered, drawn over dolorous seas and empty
wild lands by the fame of loveliness waiting here; and now that I have
seen you, my life is full." Cappen was looking at the girl as he spoke,
but he hoped the troll might take it as aimed her way.

"It will be fuller," grinned the monster. "Stuffed with hot coals while
yet you live." She glanced back at the girl. "What, are you not working
yet, you lazy tub of lard? Set up the spit, I said!"

The girl shuddered back against a heap of wood. "No," she whispered. "I
cannot--not ... not for a man."

"Can and will, my girl," said the troll, picking up a bone to throw at
her. The girl shrieked a little.

"No, no, sweet mother. I would not be so ungallant as to have beauty
toil for me." Cappen plucked at the troll's filthy dress. "It is not
meet--in two senses. I only came to beg a little fire; yet will I bear
away a greater fire within my heart."

"Fire in your guts, you mean! No man ever left me save as picked bones."

Cappen thought he heard a worried note in the animal growl. "Shall we
have music for the feast?" he asked mildly. He unslung the case of his
harp and took it out.

The troll-wife waved her fists in the air and danced with rage. "Are you
mad? I tell you, you are going to be eaten!"

The minstrel plucked a string on his harp. "This wet air has played the
devil with her tone," he murmured sadly.

The troll-wife roared wordlessly and lunged at him. Hildigund covered
her eyes. Cappen tuned his harp. A foot from his throat, the claws
stopped.

"Pray do