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Petru was not deaf to their persuasion, and was just stooping to pick one when the horse sprang to one side. 'Why don't you stay still? asked Petru roughly. 'Do not pick the flowers; it will bring you bad luck; answered the horse. 'Why should it do that? 'These flowers are under a curse. Whoever plucks them must fight the Welwa of the woods. A goblin. 'What kind of a goblin is the Welwa?
But the Welwa had ceased to throw herself upon him, and began to deliver her blows cautiously, as if she had no longer power to strike. And on the third day they were still fighting, but as the morning sky began to redden Petru somehow managed how I cannot tell to throw the bridle over the head of the tired Welwa. In a moment, from the Welwa sprang a horse the most beautiful horse in the world.
"A curse rests on these flowers whoever gathers them must fight with the Welwa of the wood." "With what sort of a Welwa?" "Now let me alone! But listen; look at the flowers and gather none of them, keep quiet." Having said this the horse went on at a walk. Petru knew by experience that he would do well to heed the bay's advice. So he turned his thoughts away from the flowers.
She had a mane like a horse, horns like a deer, a face like a bear, eyes like a polecat; while her body had something of each. And that was the Welwa. Petru planted himself firmly in his stirrups, and began to lay about him with his sword, but could feel nothing. A day and a night went by, and the fight was still undecided, but at last the Welwa began to pant for breath.
Oh, heavens! how could the Welwa now be a gold forest after having twice left it in disgrace? It flew with its feet and walked with its wings, its head was behind and its tail was before, its eyes were in its breast and its breast was on its forehead and as for the rest, no mortal could describe it.
'Sweet be your life, for you have delivered me from enchantment, said the second Welwa, and they all journeyed on as before. But soon they came to a gold wood more lovely far than the other two, and again Petru's companions pleaded with him to ride through it quickly, and to leave the flowers alone.
Stop!" said the Welwa for the second time. "Stop and let us settle our quarrel." "Don't stop!" cried the bay. Petru fought on, though he could scarcely breathe. But the Welwa no longer rushed so fiercely upon him and began to act with more care and caution, as people do when they feel they have not much strength. So the fight lasted till the dawn of the third day.
"Get your breath now, for the battle will begin again presently," said the bay. "What was that?" asked Petru. "The Welwa," replied the horse, "the Welwa changed into fog. Get your breath, it is coming again." The bay had hardly spoken and Petru had hardly had time to breathe, when he saw approaching from one side something, but what it was he did not know.
The tempest howled louder, the darkness was greater, and the earth quaked still more than in the Copper Forest; the Welwa of the Silver Wood rushed upon Petru with seven-fold greater fierceness than the other Welwa had done. But he was not idle either. The battle again lasted for three days and three nights, and at dawn on the fourth morning our hero bridled the second Welwa.
And then something came to him WHAT I cannot tell you. Perhaps, in his dreams, a man may see a creature which has what it has not got, and has not got what it has. At least, that was what the Welwa seemed like to Petru.
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