emained in her chamber
refusing to appear among the guests.

It was moonlight and from the rock in the field the little horse
carried his master for the last time. When they reached the castle
Bayaya dismounted. Then he kissed his faithful friend farewell, and
the little horse vanished.

Slavena still sat in her chamber, sad and unhappy. When a maidservant
opened the door and said that Bayaya wished to speak to her, the
princess hid her face in the pillows.

Presently some one took her by the hand and when she raised her head
she saw standing before her the beautiful knight of her dreams.

"Are you angry with your bridegroom that you hide from him?" he asked.

"Why do you ask me that?" Slavena whispered. "You are not my
bridegroom. Bayaya is my bridegroom."

"I am Bayaya. I am the dumb youth who wove you garlands. I am the
knight who saved you and your sisters from death and who helped your
father in battle. See, here is the piece of your father's cape with
which he bound up my wounded foot."

That this was so was joy indeed to Slavena. She led the white knight
into the banquet hall and presented him to the king as her bridegroom.
When all had been explained, the king rejoiced, the guests marveled,
and Zdobena and Budinka looked sideways at each other with little
gasps of envy.

After the wedding Bayaya rode away with Slavena to visit his parents.
When he reached his native town the first news he got was of the death
of his brother. He hurried to the castle to comfort his parents. They
were overjoyed at his return, for they had long ago given him up for
dead.

After a time Bayaya succeeded to the kingdom. He lived long and
prospered and he enjoyed unclouded happiness with his wife.

KATCHA AND THE DEVIL

THE STORY OF A CLINGING VINE

[Illustration: {The devil}]

KATCHA AND THE DEVIL

There was once a woman named Katcha who lived in a village where she
owned her own cottage and garden. She had money besides but little
good it did her because she was such an ill-tempered vixen that
nobody, not even the poorest laborer, would marry her. Nobody would
even work for her, no matter what she paid, for she couldn't open her
mouth without scolding, and whenever she scolded she raised her shrill
voice until you could hear it a mile away. The older she grew the
worse she became until by the time she was forty she was as sour as
vinegar.

Now as it always happens in a village, every Sunday afternoon ther