[Illustration: Boy walking through forest following a small ball.]
Once upon a time there lived in an old and ruinous house by the shore of
the wild sea, a widowed nobleman and his only child, a daughter named
Isabella. They were very poor in spite of their high birth, so poor that
one by one the fields and woods of their little domain had been sold in
order to buy the bare necessities of life. Knowing that his death would
leave Isabella quite alone in the world and practically penniless, her
father brought her up more like a boy than a girl; she could ride a
horse as gracefully as an Amazon, she could swim like a born mermaid,
and even outdo her father in his favorite sport of fencing. Yet so sweet
was the gentle nature which the girl had inherited from her mother, that
this strange upbringing never spoiled her in the least.
Late one October evening, when the fierce gusts of wind from the sea
shook the old house to its very foundation and set the ragged tapestries
swaying on the walls, Isabella's father died, leaving her only the
ruinous house, a handful of copper pence, and a single golden florin.
The sum of money was enough to keep body and soul together for a few
weeks, but what was Isabella to do when the little pittance was gone?
Her father had once counseled her to go to the King and ask for his
protection; but the King's castle was hundreds of miles distant, and
Isabella shrank from begging or the highway.
At last the brave girl resolved to make her own way in the world. Taking
the golden florin with her, she went to a neighboring town, and
purchased a suit of clothes such as pages and squires wear who are in
the service of noblemen. She then caused her black hair to be cut short,
boy-fashion, put on the boy's clothes she had purchased, and went into
the market-place to see if she could not find a situation in the service
of some great family.
Now, it was the custom in those days for masters and servants to meet by
a fountain in the market-place, the masters who were in need of servants
standing on one side of the fountain, the servants who were in search of
masters on the other.
When Isabella came into the market-place, there was no one standing on
the masters' side of the fountain, but on the other side, ready for the
first master who should appear, was a little group of noisy and impudent
squires and pages. Isabella, or, as she now called herself, Florian,
strode boldly over and joined this group, her heart beating high with
the thrill of the great adventure.
Suddenly a black knight, mounted on a black horse and leading another
horse by the bridle, clattered over the cobble-stones of the square, and
taking his place by the fountain, called on the pages to come to him. In
spite of the horseman's summons, however, the pages paid no attention to
him at all. Curious to know the reason of this disdain, Florian
questioned a fellow page, and was told that the knight was no other than
the Enchanter of the Black Rock, and that no page or squire would take
service with him because his castle was haunted by goblins, ghosts, and
all manner of terrifying spirits.
Now, Florian was no coward, and, as the saying is, beggars cannot be
choosers. So, much to the astonishment of the pages, Florian walked over
to the Enchanter, who sat fuming with anger and impatience, and offered
to go with him. The Knight bade Florian mount the horse which he was
holding; and amid the cat-calls and hooting of the pages, master and boy
galloped away.
All day long they rode, and when it was near the end of the afternoon
Florian found himself at the edge of a wild and desolate moor. Within
the great circle of the horizon, under the pale sky, not a tree, not a
house, not a shepherd's hut even was to be seen--nothing but the great
barren waste rolling, rising and falling to the very edge of the world.
Lower and lower sank the sun; it grew cold, and a blue mist fell.
Twilight came, a green, mysterious twilight.
Suddenly, from a hillock of the moor, Florian beheld afar the enchanted
dwelling. A great sunken marsh lay before him, beginning at the foot of
the little hill and stretching away, league after league, till its
farther shore was hidden in the gathering darkness. The autumn wind
stirred the dead sedges at its brim, and though the dying twilight was
still gleaming in the sky, the great bog had caught little of its glow,
and lay full of coiling blue mists, pale quagmires, and islands of
mysterious darkness. A dreadful moaning cry, uttered by some demon of
the moor, sounded through the mist, chilling the blood in Florian's
veins; and as if in answer to the cry, thousands upon thousands of
will-o'-the-wisps appeared, darting and dancing. In the very heart of this
terrible marsh a great black rock uprose, and on this rock, its turrets
and battlements outlined against the burning face of the moon, stood the
castle. Ghostly lights, now green, now blue, flickered in its windows.