neck and from that time believed no more in tales of demons.
Near the wood, several hundred steps beyond the river, was a cemetery. After prayers the people did not like to go in that direction. There were many weird tales of dead men who roved about at midnight. But Bára passed that way many a time at night and never yet had she met with any fearful experience. She did not, therefore, believe that the dead arise and dance on their own graves or go about scaring people.
When the young people went out into the forest to gather strawberries or juniper berries and came upon a snake there was always a great scurrying. If the snake lifted its head and showed its fangs they all ran to the water, believing if they could reach it first the snake would be deprived of all power.
Bára never ran away. She was not afraid of a wicked bull, and therefore much less of a snake or a scorpion. If it lay in her path, she drove it away. If it refused to move and defended itself, she killed it. If it did not obstruct her path, she left it alone.
In short, Bára did not know fear or dread. Even when the thunder rolled and the storm poured forth its wrath over the valley Bára never trembled. On the contrary, when the villagers closed their windows and doors, lighted the consecrated Candlemas candles and prayed in fear and trembling lest the Lord be angry with them, Bára delighted in standing out on the
