The hunting season had come to an end, and the Mullets had not succeeded
in selling the Brogue.  There had been a kind of tradition in the family
for the past three or four years, a sort of fatalistic hope, that the
Brogue would find a purchaser before the hunting was over; but seasons
came and went without anything happening to justify such ill-founded
optimism.  The animal had been named Berserker in the earlier stages of
its career; it had been rechristened the Brogue later on, in recognition
of the fact that, once acquired, it was extremely difficult to get rid
of.  The unkinder wits of the neighbourhood had been known to suggest
that the first letter of its name was superfluous.  The Brogue had been
variously described in sale catalogues as a light-weight hunter, a lady's
hack, and, more simply, but still with a touch of imagination, as a
useful brown gelding, standing 15.1.  Toby Mullet had ridden him for four
seasons with the West Wessex; you can ride almost any sort of horse with
the West Wessex as long as it is an animal that knows the country.  The
Brogue knew the country intimately, having personally created most of the
gaps that were to be met with in banks and hedges for many miles round.
His manners and characteristics were not ideal in the hunting field, but
he was probably rather safer to ride to hounds than he was as a hack on
country roads.  According to the Mullet family, he was not really road-
shy, but there were one or two objects of dislike that brought on sudden
attacks of what Toby called the swerving sickness.  Motors and cycles he
treated with tolerant disregard, but pigs, wheelbarrows, piles of stones
by the roadside, perambulators in a village street, gates painted too
aggressively white, and sometimes, but not always, the newer kind of
beehives, turned him aside from his tracks in vivid imitation of the
zigzag course of forked lightning.  If a pheasant rose noisily from the
other side of a hedgerow the Brogue would spring into the air at the same
moment, but this may have been due to a desire to be companionable.  The
Mullet family contradicted the widely prevalent report that the horse was
a confirmed crib-biter.

It was about the third week in May that Mrs. Mullet, relict of the late
Sylvester Mullet, and mother of Toby and a bunch of daughters, assailed
Clovis Sangrail on the outskirts of the village with a breathless
catalogue of local happenings.

"You know our new neighbour, Mr. Penricarde?" she vociferated; "awfully
rich, owns tin mines in Cornwall, middle-aged and rather quiet.  He's
taken the Red House on a long lease and spent a lot of money on
alterations and improvements.  Well, Toby's sold him the Brogue!"

Clovis spent a moment or two in assimilating the astonishing news; then
he broke out into unstinted congratulation.  If he had belonged to a more
emotional race he would probably have kissed Mrs. Mullet.

"How wonderfully lucky to have pulled it off at last!  Now you can buy a
decent animal.  I've always said that Toby was clever.  Ever so many
congratulations."

"Don't congratulate me.  It's the most unfortunate thing that could have
happened!" said Mrs. Mullet dramatically.

Clovis stared at her in amazement.

"Mr. Penricarde," said Mrs. Mullet, sinking her voice to what she
imagined to be an impressive whisper, though it rather resembled a
hoarse, excited squeak, "Mr. Penricarde has just begun to pay attentions
to Jessie.  Slight at first, but now unmistakable.  I was a fool not to
have seen it sooner.  Yesterday, at the Rectory garden party, he asked
her what her favourite flowers were, and she told him carnations, and to-
day a whole stack of carnations has arrived, clove and malmaison and
lovely dark red ones, regular exhibition blooms, and a box of chocolates
that he must have got on purpose from London.  And he's asked her to go
round the links with him to-morrow.  And now, just at this critical
moment, Toby has sold him that animal.  It's a calamity!"

"But you've been trying to get the horse off your hands for years," said
Clovis.

"I've got a houseful of daughters," said Mrs. Mullet, "and I've been
trying--well, not to get them off my hands, of course, but a husband or
two wouldn't be amiss among the lot of them; there are six of them, you
know."

"I don't know," said Clovis, "I've never counted, but I expect you're
right as to the number; mothers generally know these things."

"And now," continued Mrs. Mullet, in her tragic whisper, "when there's a
rich husband-in-prospect imminent on the horizon Toby goes and sells him
that miserable animal.  It will probably kill him if he tries to ride it;
anyway it will kill any affection he might have felt towards any member
of our family.  What is to be done?  We can't very well ask to have the
horse back; you see, we praised it up like anything when we thought there
was a chance of his buying it, and said it was just the animal to suit
him."

"Couldn't you steal it out of his stable and send it to grass at some
farm miles away?" suggested Clovis; "write 'Votes for Women' on the
stable door, and the thing would pass for a Suffragette outrage.  No one
who knew the horse could possibly suspect you of wanting to get it back
again."

"Every newspaper in the country would ring with the affair," said Mrs.
Mullet; "can't you imagine the headline, 'Valuable Hunter Stolen by
Suffragettes'?  The police would scour the countryside till they found
the animal."

"Well, Jessie must try and get it back from Penricarde on the plea that
it's an old favourite.  She can say it was only sold because the stable
had to be pulled down under the terms of an old repairing lease, and that
now it has been arranged that the stable is to stand for a couple of
years longer."

"It sounds a queer proceeding to ask for a horse back when you've just
sold him," said Mrs. Mullet, "but something must be done, and done at
once.  The man is not used to horses, and I believe I told him it was as
quiet as a lamb.  After all, lambs go kicking and twisting about as if
they were demented, don't they?"

"The lamb has an entirely unmerited character for sedateness," agreed
Clovis.

Jessie came back from the golf links next day in a state of mingled
elation and concern.

"It's all right about the proposal," she announced; "he came out with it
at the sixth hole.  I said I must have time to think it over.  I accepted
him at the seventh."

"My dear," said her mother, "I think a little more maidenly reserve and
hesitation would have been advisable, as you've known him so short a
time.  You might have waited till the ninth hole."

"The seventh is a very long hole," said Jessie; "besides, the tension was
putting us both off our game.  By the time we'd got to the ninth hole
we'd settled lots of things.  The honeymoon is to be spent in Corsica,
with perhaps a flying visit to Naples if we feel like it, and a week in
London to wind up with.  Two of his nieces are to be asked to be
bridesmaids, so with our lot there will be seven, which is rather a lucky
number.  You are to wear your pearl grey, with any amount of Honiton lace
jabbed into it.  By the way, he's coming over this evening to ask your
consent to the whole affair.  So far all's well, but about the Brogue
it's a different matter.  I told him the legend about the stable, and how
keen we were about buying the horse back, but he seems equally keen on
keeping it.  He said he must have horse exercise now that he's living in
the country, and he's going to start riding to-morrow.  He's ridden a few
times in the Row, on an animal that was accustomed to carry octogenarians
and people undergoing rest cures, and that's about all his experience in
the saddle--oh, and he rode a pony once in Norfolk, when he was fifteen
and the pony twenty-four; and to-morrow he's going to ride the Brogue!  I
shall be a widow before I'm married, and I do so want to see what
Corsica's like; it looks so silly on the map."

Clovis was sent for in haste, and the developments of the situation put
before him.

"Nobody can ride that animal with any safety," said Mrs. Mullet, "except
Toby, and he knows by long experience what it is going to shy at, and
manages to swerve at the same time."

"I did hint to Mr. Penricarde--to Vincent, I should say--that the Brogue
didn't like white gates," said Jessie.

"White gates!" exclaimed Mrs. Mullet; "did you mention what effect a pig
has on him?  He'll have to go past Lockyer's farm to get to the high
road, and there's sure to be a pig or two grunting about in the lane."

"He's taken rather a dislike to turkeys lately," said Toby.

"It's obvious that Penricarde mustn't be allowed to go out on that
animal," said Clovis, "at least not till Jessie has married him, and
tired of him.  I tell you what: ask him to a picnic to-morrow, starting
at an early hour; he's not the sort to go out for a ride before
breakfast.  The day after I'll get the rector to drive him over to
Crowleigh before lunch, to see the new cottage hospital they're building
there.  The Brogue will be standing idle in the stable and Toby can offer
to exercise it; then it can pick up a stone or something of the sort and
go conveniently lame.  If you hurry on the wedding a bit the lameness
fiction can be kept up till the ceremony is safely over."

Mrs. Mullet belonged to an emotional race, and she kissed Clovis.

It was nobody's fault that the rain came down in torrents the next
morning, making a picnic a fantastic impossibility.  It was also nobody's
fault, but sheer ill-luck, that the weather cleared up sufficiently in
the afternoon to tempt Mr. Penricarde to make his first essay with the
Brogue.  They did not get as far as the pigs at Lockyer's farm; the
rectory gate was painted a dull unobtrusive green, but it had been white
a year or two ago, and the Brogue never forgot that he had been in the
habit of making a violent curtsey, a back-pedal and a swerve at this
particular point of the road.  Subsequently, there being apparently no
further call on his services, he broke his way into the rectory orchard,
where he found a hen turkey in a coop; later visitors to the orchard
found the coop almost intact, but very little left of the turkey.

Mr. Penricarde, a little stunned and shaken, and suffering from a bruised
knee and some minor damages, good-naturedly ascribed the accident to his
own inexperience with horses and country roads, and allowed Jessie to
nurse him back into complete recovery and golf-fitness within something
less than a week.

In the list of wedding presents which the local newspaper published a
fortnight or so later appeared the following item:

"Brown saddle-horse, 'The Brogue,' bridegroom's gift to bride."

"Which shows," said Toby Mullet, "that he knew nothing."

"Or else," said Clovis, "that he has a very pleasing wit."

Once upon a time, when the gods were building their abodes, a certain
builder came and offered to erect them, in the space of three
half-years, a city so well fortified that they should be quite safe in
it from the incursions of the forest-giants and the giants of the
mountains, even although these foes should have already penetrated
within the enclosure Midgard. He asked, however, for his reward, the
goddess Freyja, together with the sun and moon. The gods thought over
the matter a long while, and at length agreed to his terms, on the
understanding that he would finish the whole work himself without any
one's assistance, and that all was to be finished within the space of
one single winter. If anything remained to be done when the first day of
summer came, the builder was to entirely forfeit the reward agreed on.
When the builder was told this he asked that he might be allowed the use
of his horse, Svadilfari, and to this the gods, by the advice of Loki,
agreed.

On the first day of winter the builder set to work, and during the night
he caused his horse to draw stones for the building. The gods beheld
with astonishment the extraordinary size of these, and marked with
wonder that the horse did much more work than his master. The contract
between them and the giant had, however, been confirmed with many oaths
and in the presence of many witnesses, for without such a precaution a
giant would not have trusted himself among the gods, especially at a
time when Thor was returning from an expedition he had made into the
east against the giants.

The winter was far advanced, and towards its end the city had been built
so strongly and so lofty as to be almost secure. The time was nearly
expired, only three days remaining, and nothing was wanted to complete
the work save the gates, which were not yet put up. The gods then began
to deliberate, and to ask one another who it was that had advised that
Freyja should be given to one who dwelt in Jotunheim, and that they
should plunge the heavens in darkness by allowing one to carry away with
him the sun and moon. They all agreed that only Loki could have given
such bad counsel, and that it would be only just to either make him
contrive some way or other to prevent the builder accomplishing his work
and having a right to claim his reward, or to put him to death. They at
once laid hands on Loki, who, in his fright, promised upon oath to do
what they desired, let it cost him what it might.

That very night, while the builder was employing his horse to convey
stones, a mare suddenly ran out of a neighbouring forest and commenced
to neigh. The horse broke loose and ran after the mare into the forest,
and the builder ran after his horse.

Between one thing and another the whole night was lost, so that when day
broke the work was not completed.

The builder, recognising that he could by no means finish his task,
took again his giant form; and the gods, seeing that it was a
mountain-giant with whom they had to deal, feeling that their oath did
not bind them, called on Thor. He at once ran to them, and paid the
builder his fee with a blow of his hammer which shattered his skull to
pieces and threw him down headlong into Niflhel.

The horse Sleipner comes of the horse Svadilfari, and it excels all
others possessed by gods or men.

Among the Æsir, or gods, is reckoned one named Loki or Loptur. By many
he is called the reviler of the gods, the author of all fraud and
mischief, and the shame of gods and men alike. He is the son of the
giant Farbauti, his mother being Laufey or Nal, and his brothers Byleist
and Helblindi. He is of a goodly appearance and elegant form, but his
mood is changeable, and he is inclined to all wickedness. In cunning and
perfidy he excels every one, and many a time has he placed the gods in
great danger, and often has he saved them again by his cunning. He has a
wife named Siguna, and their son is called Nari.

Loki had three children by Angurbodi, a giantess of Jotunheim (the
giants' home). The first of these was Fenris, the wolf; the second was
Jörmungand, the Midgard serpent; and the third was Hela, death. Very
soon did the gods become aware of this evil progeny which was being
reared in Jotunheim, and by divination they discovered that they must
receive great injury from them. That they had such a mother spoke bad
for them, but their coming of such a sire was a still worse presage.
All-father therefore despatched certain of the gods to bring the
children to him, and when they were brought before him he cast the
serpent down into the ocean which surrounds the world. There the monster
waxed so large that he wound himself round the whole globe, and that
with such ease that he can with his mouth lay hold of his tail. Hela
All-father cast into Niflheim, where she rules over nine worlds. Into
these she distributes all those who are sent to her,--that is to say,
all who die through sickness or old age. She has there an abode with
very thick walls, and fenced with strong gates. Her hall is Elvidnir;
her table is Hunger; her knife, Starvation; her man-servant, Delay; her
maid-servant, Sloth; her threshold, Precipice; her bed, Care; and her
curtains, Anguish of Soul. The one half of her body is livid, the other
half is flesh-colour. She has a terrible look, so that she can be easily
known.

As to the wolf, Fenris, the gods let him grow up among themselves, Tyr
being the only one of them who dare give him his food. When, however,
they perceived how he every day increased prodigiously in size, and that
the oracles warned them that he would one day prove fatal to them, they
determined to make very strong iron fetters for him which they called
Loeding. These they presented to the wolf, and desired him to put them
on to show his strength by endeavouring to break them. The wolf saw that
it would not be difficult for him to burst them, so he let the gods put
the fetters on him, then violently stretching himself he broke the
fetters asunder, and set himself free.

Having seen this, the gods went to work, and prepared a second set of
fetters, called Dromi, half as strong again as the former, and these
they persuaded the wolf to put on, assuring him that if he broke them he
would then furnish them with an undeniable proof of his power. The wolf
saw well enough that it would not be easy to break this set, but he
considered that he had himself increased in strength since he broke the
others, and he knew that without running some risk he could never become
celebrated. He therefore allowed the gods to place the fetters on him.
Then Fenris shook himself, stretched his limbs, rolled on the ground,
and at length burst the fetters, which he made fly in all directions.
Thus did he free himself the second time from his chains, and from this
has arisen the saying, "To get free from Loeding, or to burst from
Dromi," meaning to perform something by strong exertion.

The gods now despaired of ever being able to secure the wolf with any
chain of their own making. All-father, however, sent Skirnir, the
messenger of the god Frey, into the country of the Black Elves, to the
dwarfs, to ask them to make a chain to bind Fenris with. This chain was
composed of six things--the noise made by the fall of a cat's foot, the
hair of a woman's beard, the roots of stones, the nerves of bears, the
breath of fish, and the spittle of birds.

The fetters were as smooth and as soft as silk, and yet, as you will
presently see, of great strength. The gods were very thankful for them
when they were brought to them, and returned many thanks to him who
brought them. Then they took the wolf with them on to the island Lyngvi,
which is in the lake Amsvartnir, and there they showed him the chain,
desiring him to try his strength in breaking it. At the same time they
told him that it was a good deal stronger than it looked. They took it
in their own hands and pulled at it, attempting in vain to break it, and
then they said to Fenris--

"No one else but you, Fenris, can break it."

"I don't see," replied the wolf, "that I shall gain any glory by
breaking such a slight string, but if any artifice has been employed in
the making of it, you may be sure, though it looks so fragile, it shall
never touch foot of mine."

The gods told him he would easily break so slight a bandage, since he
had already broken asunder shackles of iron of the most solid make.

"But," said they, "if you should not be able to break the chain, you are
too feeble to cause us any anxiety, and we shall not hesitate to loose
you again."

"I very much fear," replied the wolf, "that if you once tie me up so
fast that I cannot release myself, you will be in no haste to unloose
me. I am, therefore, unwilling to have this cord wound around me; but to
show you I am no coward, I will agree to it, but one of you must put his
hand in my mouth, as a pledge that you intend me no deceit."

The gods looked on one another wistfully, for they found themselves in
an embarrassing position.

Then Tyr stepped forward and bravely put his right hand in the monster's
mouth. The gods then tied up the wolf, who forcibly stretched himself,
as he had formerly done, and exerted all his powers to disengage
himself; but the more efforts he made the tighter he drew the chain
about him, and then all the gods, except Tyr, who lost his hand, burst
out into laughter at the sight. Seeing that he was so fast tied that he
would never be able to get loose again, they took one end of the chain,
which was called Gelgja, and having drilled a hole for it, drew it
through the middle of a large broad rock, which they sank very deep in
the earth. Afterwards, to make all still more secure, they tied the end
of the chain, which came through the rock to a great stone called
Keviti, which they sank still deeper. The wolf used his utmost power to
free himself, and, opening his mouth, tried to bite them. When the gods
saw that they took a sword and thrust it into his mouth, so that it
entered his under jaw right up to the hilt, and the point reached his
palate. He howled in the most terrible manner, and since then the foam
has poured from his mouth in such abundance that it forms the river
called Von. So the wolf must remain until Ragnarök.

Such a wicked race has Loki begot. The gods would not put the wolf to
death because they respected the sanctity of the place, which forbade
blood being shed there.