The Legend of the White Reindeer 
over the rougher snow, and vainly tried to con- 
trol 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, skim- 
ming 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 mys- 
terie.” 
On like the little snow-wreath that the storm- 
wind sends dancing before the storm, on like 
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