PART II.

THE FRIENDS IN THE ROCK.

[Illustration: ECKBERT'S WILD RIDE ON KUNO'S HORSE.]

A sunny terrace of the castle hill became the last resting-place of

the Countess Matilda. It had been her favourite spot both in her days

of health and of sickness. Here she had spent part of every day with

her Kuno, and with him looked down on the fruitful plains of

Thuringia; and here she had taken a sad farewell of the blooming life

around. She did not wish to rest in the dark and gloomy vault, but

here on the lonely height, with flowers around her and sunshine above

her head.

It was an autumn afternoon. There were no longer any flowers in field

or garden, but around the grave of the Countess was a freshness and

fragrance as of spring, and the sun in which she had so delighted let

no day pass without looking kindly down on the lonely grave, if only

for a few minutes.

The wind was shaking the lofty trees of the castle garden, and

playfully driving the yellow leaves along the paths, when a little

figure with a pale sad face came up the broad gravel walk, climbed the

rock, and threw himself on the grave. It was Kuno, Countess Matilda's

only child.

How one year had changed everything!--his dear mother dead, his father

gone to distant scenes of war along with many noble knights, and he

left alone with heartless and ill-natured strangers! A distant

relation, the Lady Von Allenstein, had been asked by the Earl to

preside over his household, and to act the part of a mother to the

little Kuno. She was a woman as heartless as she was clever, and so

successfully did she ingratiate herself into the favour of the

unsuspicious Earl, that before he left he gave her full control over

his vassals and his estate. Her son Eckbert, a lad of about fifteen

years of age, had the reputation of being well brought up, because in

the presence of strangers he could assume fine courtly manners; but

he had a mischievous and malicious disposition, and was both feared

and hated by the castle servants.

That Kuno, this child, this dreamer, who in Eckbert's opinion

possessed no knightly qualities whatsoever, should be some day lord

and possessor of so many noble castles and estates with their numerous

dependants, while to his lot had fallen nothing but one small and

half-ruined castle, to which not even a single village was

attached--this vexed him, and in his heart burned envious hatred

towards the orphan child. Hitherto Kuno had borne all Eckbert's malice

with the gentleness which he had inherited from his mother; but when

the news came that the Earl had been dangerously wounded, and when the

messenger spoke of his master's death as probable, Eckbert counted

himself freed from restraint, and tormented the little Earl with

greater spitefulness than ever.

To-day he had cut him to the heart. Kuno's little horse, which had

borne him when he was scarcely more than a baby, and which had never

felt either whip or spur, had been mounted to-day by the cruel

Eckbert. For the first time Kuno ventured a decided protest, and

Eckbert, seeing by this unusual courage how dear the animal was to its

young master, struck the spurs with all his might into the horse's

sides, so that it reared suddenly and then dashed with bleeding flanks

out by the castle gate. When Kuno, after Eckbert's return, ran to the

stable to see how his favourite had borne the dreadful ride, the horse

did not turn his head as usual to greet him with a joyous neigh; he

lay panting on the straw, covered with foam and blood, his feet

stretched out, his head drooping, and his breast heaving with a loud

rattling sound. Kuno threw himself down beside him, put his arms round

his neck, and called him by the tenderest names. Then the creature

opened his eyes, fixed his last look on his young master, and with a

feeble attempt at a neigh, that sounded like a death-sigh, he died.

Kuno's tears were dried; he remained speechless before his dead

favourite, and gazed with tearless eyes upon the body. Thus Margaret,

the castellan's wife, Kuno's old nurse, found him. She had seen

Eckbert mount the horse, and heard Kuno's words. When she saw the dead

animal and the child's grief, her anger at Eckbert's malice knew no

bounds. She went at once to Lady Von Allenstein, and said what she

thought of Eckbert's shameful deed with vehemence such as the proud

lady had never before witnessed in an inferior.

"Do you know," said the lady, with flashing eyes, "what you

deserve?--a place in the dungeon among frogs and toads. But I will be

merciful. In one hour you and your family leave this castle; that will

serve as a warning to your fellow-servants, and will make Master Kuno

more submissive to me and my son, as he will no longer have you to

encourage him in his obstinacy."

So they left. In one short hour the last true friends of the poor

orphan left the castle, although he clung to Margaret and besought her

with passionate weeping not to leave him quite alone. He watched them

as long as he could, and then crept back through the garden to his

mother's grave.

Here dreams of bygone days passed before his mind. He thought of the

happy hours which he had spent here on the solitary height with his

beloved mother; when he had looked down with her over the blooming

country, and listened to her tales of the wonders of foreign lands, of

our lost Paradise, and of the heavenly home which she soon hoped to

reach. Then when, at the thought of the coming parting, his little

heart shrank, his mother would take him in her arms and try to comfort

him by telling him about the friendly feelings that the good dwarfs

cherish towards poor defenceless children, and about the splendour and

beauty of the enchanted realm below the ground.

And now? He knelt down beside the grave, laid his head on the grass,

and sobbed, till at last, tired out with grief and weeping, he fell

asleep. The sun set, but he did not know it; the stars rose, and the

child slept on, with his head pillowed on his mother's grave. A gentle

touch on his shoulder woke him. He started up in surprise. Before him

stood a tiny little man of insignificant appearance, and with a

lantern in his hand. It was the same dwarf that had once led the boy's

mother to King Goldemar's dying Queen.

"Who are you?" asked the child in astonishment, as he rubbed his

sleepy eyes.

"One of your mother's friends," answered the little man kindly; "dost

thou not remember what she told thee about us? Wilt thou come with

me?"

Kuno rose at once, took the dwarf's hand, and walked away by his side.

They soon reached the clump of ferns that covered the secret

entrance, and stepped into the vaulted corridor. The first door

opened, and the child found himself suddenly in the enchanted realm of

his mother's stories. Yes, this was the crystal hall with the emerald

lizards and the sky-blue snakes. The place still glimmered and shone

as when the Countess trod its floor; the snakes looked down kindly on

the boy with their diamond eyes, and the transparent lizards bowed

their crowned heads in friendly greeting.

"I know what the other hall is like," said Kuno in delight to his

little guide. "Do not flowers made of precious stones gleam along the

silver walls; and in the third hall is there not the Queen's ruby bed

swinging from the golden ceiling, and the eagle flapping his golden

wings?"

The dwarf smiled. "See for yourself," he said. Then he led him through

the halls. Yes, it was all as Kuno's mother had described it;

everything was wonderful, and yet he knew it all so well. Last of all,

he was led into the throne-room.

The walls and ceiling were of blue crystal, so that it looked like the

vault of heaven, and in the high dome shone stars cut out of rubies.

There were no lamps in the hall, but from without a hidden artificial

light streamed through the crimson stars, and filled the whole room

with rosy radiance. At the far end of the room stood a throne made of

large and costly pearls, which glowed in the light like rosebuds, and

on it sat in her brilliant beauty the Queen of this enchanted palace,

with her golden hair flowing to the pearl-built steps of the throne.

Beside her sat King Goldemar in a purple mantle, his noble brow

adorned once more with the diamond crown.

With a low obeisance the dwarf introduced the boy to the royal pair.

The lovely Queen was much smaller than Kuno, and yet she looked so

dignified that the child knelt and reverently kissed the little hand

which she graciously extended to him.

"Thy noble mother was my friend," she said with a gentle voice, "and

thou art dear to us as one of our own. Every night, if thou wilt, thou

mayest come to us to forget thy little troubles in our hall. Look thou

around; all are ready to love thee and give thee pleasure."

As she spoke she raised her white hand and pointed to the lovely

children at the foot of the throne, and to the troops of little dwarfs

that were assembled in the hall. Then the royal children came up to

greet him, and after them the little dwarfs with their grave wise

countenances; they gave him their hands, and met his wondering gaze

with friendly looks. And the poor friendless boy, who hitherto had

felt himself alone and forsaken, felt happy, now that he found such

unexpected kindness and love such as he had never felt since his

mother's death. All his troubles vanished from his memory in this

enchanted kingdom. Hour after hour flew by, and to the child they

seemed but minutes. Then the dwarf who had brought him took his hand

and drew him away. Kuno was sorry to go, but he followed his little

guide.

"Do not weep," said the latter kindly. "Thou mayest come back every

night; but take care that thou tell no one of thy visits, or some

great calamity may be the consequence."

When they reached the garden the stars had already grown pale, and the

first streaks of dawn were showing in the east.

"Let us make haste," said the dwarf anxiously, "for we dwellers below

ground can only live under the light of the stars--the sun's rays kill

us."

Soon they arrived at the winding staircase at the foot of the tower.

The gate was locked, but the dwarf brought out a strangely-formed key,

put it into the lock, and immediately the heavy iron-barred door

turned noiselessly on its hinges. It was the same with all the other

doors as soon as the wonderful key touched them, and softly the

wanderers slipped through the rooms and passed the sleeping servants.

Kuno reached unseen the room that he shared with Eckbert, and then the

dwarf hastened home.

Eckbert had tried to keep awake to receive Kuno with scolding and

reproaches, for the child had been missed at supper and sought for, of

course in vain. But he had fallen asleep over his generous plan.

Kuno was still slumbering sweetly when Eckbert woke, sprang out of

bed, and shook the boy roughly.

"Where were you yesterday? Speak!" he shouted; but Kuno, mindful of

the dwarf's warning, kept silence. But when Eckbert raised his arm to

strike the child, an invisible hand gave him such a powerful blow on

the ear that he staggered half unconscious against the wall. He felt

uncomfortable at the thought of the unseen avenger, and he left Kuno

in peace, but told the whole story to his mother, wickedly distorting

it as he went on. At breakfast she ordered the boy to tell where he

had been; but though his heart beat fast with terror, he closed his

lips tightly and remained silent.

"I will conquer your obstinacy," said the lady angrily; "you shall

sleep in the room in the tower, and go earlier to bed."

In the evening she took him herself to the lonely chamber, from which

the winding stair led to the garden; for she thought that fear of the

uninhabited and lonely room would force the boy to tell his secret.

But when he went without a word, and lay down uncomplainingly on his

bed, anger rose high in the proud lady's heart. "Eckbert is right,"

she thought; "his obstinacy must be conquered."

With a prayer to God, and a fervent wish that his little friends would

not forget him, Kuno fell asleep. And they did not forget him. About

midnight the little dwarf stood once more at his side, wakened him,

and led him into the enchanted palace.

The little folk greeted him joyfully, the royal pair reached him their

hands, and amid splendour and pleasure the hours flew by. His friends

showed him the rooms that he had not seen the day before--the crystal

chambers full of golden ornaments, which every family possessed, and

which far outshone the most splendid palaces of earthly kings. They

showed him wonderful things which they knew how to make--birds made of

precious stones, from whose transparent throats sweet songs poured

forth; fruits and flowers, shaped out of jewels, whose beauty and

fragrance was like that of the flowers of Eden. Kuno's astonishment

and delight knew no bounds; the hours went by too quickly, and when

the stars began to pale the dwarf led him back to his room in the

tower. And every night at midnight the same dwarf brought him back to

the enchanted kingdom. There he forgot all the trials of the day--all

Eckbert's spiteful tricks, and Lady Von Allenstein's injustice. But it

was not alone to please and amuse him that the little people brought

the boy to visit them--they cared also for his mind and heart.

In this magic kingdom lived an aged dwarf with long snow-white hair

and beard; a supernatural light shone in his eyes. All the dwarfs,

even the King and Queen, treated him with the greatest reverence, for

he was the oldest man of their nation, and also the wisest. He could

look back through thousands of years; he knew everything in the whole

earth--all plants and stones; he knew about their origin, and had

watched their growth. Often, when the King and Queen were sitting on

the throne, the wise man would come into the hall and seat himself on

the pearl steps; then the lovely royal children, Kuno in their midst,

would gather round and listen as he told with beaming eyes about the

wonders of creation, and the mysterious forces of nature. Words of

kindness and wisdom flowed from his lips, and it seemed to the boy as

if he were sitting in church or at the feet of his dead mother.

[Illustration: KUNO LISTENS TO THE WISE MAN'S TALK.]

But even happier hours than these he spent playing with the children

in the crystal hall, letting the beautiful lizards dart down on his

outstretched hand, or the sky-blue snakes glide down and wind

playfully round his feet. Once, when he was preparing to go home after

one of his visits, King Goldemar held the hand that he had extended in

farewell, and spoke to him in a low and confidential tone. Kuno nodded

with a happy smile. Next morning joy shone from his soft eyes and

betrayed itself in his cheerful mood, which made so strange a contrast

to the silent gravity of his usual demeanour. The change did not

escape the quick eye of the Countess; but she took care not to ask the

reason, for she thought she could guess it already.

Earlier than usual Kuno said "Good night," and went to his room, but

not to bed. He worked about, fastening wax candles, which he had got

beforehand from the steward, on the walls, and trying to give the room

a festive appearance; then he put on his best clothes, sat down on his

bed, and waited.

At last the castle clock struck twelve, and immediately soft music

sounded in the distance; it came nearer and nearer, and soon floated

up the winding stair. In a few moments the door opened of itself, and

in came Kuno's dwarf friends, marching two and two, and all arrayed in

festive garments. They held their invisible caps in their hands,

swinging them in measured time, so that the silver bells that

ornamented them rang in magic melody. Then followed, escorted by

Goldemar and the Queen, a bridal pair, whose wedding feast was to be

held in a human dwelling for the blessing and well-being of its

occupant. Kuno advanced to meet his guests, and greeted them joyfully;

then to the sound of wondrous music the dance began. This was led by

the King and his lovely consort, their crowns flashing lightning at

every quick graceful movement; then followed the bridal pair in

garments gleaming with gold. Kuno had taken the hand of a pretty

dwarf-maiden, and now mingled merrily in the splendid throng. All was

mirth and gaiety.

Suddenly the music stopped, the dancers stood still, and all eyes

turned in indignation towards an opening in the ceiling where the face

of Lady Von Allenstein was visible.

Goldemar's eyes flashed angrily.

"Blow out the lights!" he cried to one of his train; and in a

twinkling the little fellow had climbed up the wall, and before the

lady had time to suspect that this command had anything to do with

her, the dwarf reached the opening, and blew into her face.

A fearful scream followed; then the King turned to Kuno and said--

"Accept our thanks, my dear child, for thy hospitality; it is not thy

fault that we cannot stay longer. Farewell!"

Then the little people turned quickly towards the door, and soon the

boy was alone.

Faint moans were now heard from above, and a sound as of suppressed

weeping.

Kuno also had seen the face of the lady, and knew that these doleful

sounds were uttered by her. Deep compassion filled his heart; he

forgot all the unhappiness that this woman had caused him, and, filled

only with the thought of helping her, he took a candle in his hand and

hastened to clamber up to her.

He found her crouching on the ground, her hands pressed before her

eyes.

"What is wrong, gracious lady?" asked Kuno timidly.

"Oh, I am blind! I am blind!" she groaned piteously. "The dwarf blew

into my eyes, and my sight left me."

Kuno, full of pity, seized her hand and led her tenderly step by step

down the winding stair, and on to her own apartment.

After calling a maid to her assistance, he returned to say good-night

to the poor lady. What he had never done in her days of health he did

now--he drew her hand to his lips and kissed it fervently. The lady

felt a hot tear drop on her hand; silently, but with scarce-concealed

emotion, she drew it away. This tear burned like unquenchable fire,

not only on her hand, but on her soul.

She spent a long and sleepless night; this unexpected calamity had

crushed her hard heart. But though the light was taken from her eyes,

a new day dawned within her. Her dislike of Kuno, her hardness and

injustice towards the orphan child, all passed through her mind in

fiery procession; and when she thought of Kuno's noble conduct, a

flood of penitent tears streamed from her sightless eyes.

Eckbert, on hearing of his mother's misfortune, showed himself as

heartless as ever. He railed at the dwarf and at Kuno as the real

cause of it. But he had not any idea of sitting through the long

tedious hours with his poor blind mother--that was Kuno's business, he

thought, for he had been the cause of it all. On the contrary, freed

from all restraint, Eckbert amused himself more than ever with the

chase and with drinking bouts, and tyrannised worse than before over

all around him.

Kuno behaved towards the unhappy lady like a loving son. He sat with

her and cared for her wants as if she had been his own beloved mother.

When the summer came he led her out every day into the garden or to

the rock where his mother lay, and tried to amuse her with his

childish talk.

Lady Von Allenstein was often deeply moved when she felt Kuno's

tenderness and thought of her own heartlessness. Once her emotion

overcame her, and she drew Kuno to her side, and said with tears--"You

are so good to me, who was so unkind to you; can you forgive me for

all the wrong I have done you? Oh! if I could only get back my sight,

I would take every opportunity of making up to you for my injustice."

Kuno was still on the most friendly terms with the dwarf nation, and

regarded the enchanted palace as his second home.

Exactly a year had passed since that wedding in the tower-chamber,

when King Goldemar again expressed a wish to hold a similar feast in

the same room.

Kuno's heart beat high with joy at these words; perhaps--but he would

cherish no presumptuous hopes.

Again the room was festively decorated; but no one in the castle got

the least hint of what was to take place in the isolated room. The

little guests appeared, and this time the merriment went on

undisturbed.

But dawn, the time of separation, was drawing near, and Goldemar held

out his hand to his protege to say good-bye. Then Kuno held it fast,

and looked entreatingly into the good King's face.

"What dost thou want, Kuno?" asked Goldemar.

"I have one petition, the fulfilment of which will make me happy,"

answered the boy.

"Name it," said the King graciously; "it is granted."

Then Kuno led the King to the bed and drew back the curtains. There

sat a pale lady in deep mourning, her dark sightless eyes fixed

vacantly before her.

"Give her back her sight," begged Kuno, pointing to Lady Von

Allenstein.

Goldemar's eyes shone as he looked approvingly on the boy; then he

bent towards the lady and said, "I light the lamps again!" at the same

time breathing into her eyes, so that the sight came back immediately.

The newly-opened eyes shone with joy and gratitude, and in a burst of

weeping she sank into Kuno's arms, while the royal pair and their

train looked on in deep emotion.

"Farewell then, Kuno," said King Goldemar. "Thou hast found what was

needed to make thee happy--a mother's heart. We have kept our word.

Shouldst thou ever in thy life again need our help, thou wilt find us

ready."

With a loving look the King held out his hand, and the Queen and the

other dwarfs likewise took an affectionate leave of the boy before

returning to their kingdom under ground. Just as they were going

through the castle garden towards the entrance in the side of the

rock, Eckbert returned from a drinking bout.

"I have come upon these dull fellows unexpectedly," he said, grinding

his teeth, when he noticed the procession of dwarfs. "Now they shall

suffer for that box on the ear, and for my mother's blindness. I will

cut off the last clown's head and throw it in at that stupid Kuno's

window."

He slipped softly behind the procession. When they reached the door in

the rock, Eckbert waited till the last had put his foot on the

threshold, then he sprang forward and raised his sword. The same

instant the heavy rock door, which so artfully closed the opening,

shut to and crushed Eckbert's head to atoms. Without uttering a sound

he fell back, and his blood stained the snow.

The next morning offered a sad spectacle to Lady Von Allenstein's

newly-restored sight. It is true, Eckbert had been an undutiful son,

but still it was her child, her own flesh and blood, that now lay

before her a mangled corpse. The place where he had been found with

his sword unsheathed made Kuno suspect whose hand had caused his

death; but he was silent on this as on all that concerned his dwarf

friends.

Eckbert was buried with great pomp, but no eyes shed tears at the

ceremony save those of his mother and of the good forgiving Kuno. From

this time Lady Von Allenstein turned the whole affection of her

ennobled heart towards Kuno, who repaid her love with the most

heartfelt gratitude; and no one who did not know their relationship

would have thought, to see them together, that they were anything but

mother and son.

Winter and spring were past, and the warm summer weather had come.

On a bright summer evening the horn of the watchman on the tower

announced a troop of horsemen, and as they drew near with the sound of

trumpets Kuno's sharp eye recognised in their floating banner his

father's colours.

He had long since recovered, but instead of returning to his castle he

had once more offered his strong arm and brave heart in service to his

imperial lord. The war was now ended, and the Earl, whom they had long

counted dead, had returned, covered with scars and with honours, to

clasp his beloved son in his arms.

Lady Von Allenstein still lived in the castle, and presided over it as

before, but she was served now from love and not from fear. When she

died in a good old age, Kuno knelt at her side; her cold hand rested

on his head, and her dying lips spoke words of love and blessing over

her adopted son.

The Flower of Iceland.

[Illustration: HELGA AT HER MOTHER'S FEET.]

A substantial farm-house stood many, many years ago on the slope of a

hill in bleak and frozen Iceland. The owner, who had spent his youth

as a sailor in distant climes, had at last obeyed his dying father's

summons, and exchanged the palms and orange groves of southern lands

for the feeble sunlight and cold lava-fields of his native island. But

as a living souvenir of those happy regions he brought home a young

and beautiful wife, whose dark and eloquent eyes still shone in the

memory of all who had beheld them, long after they had been closed in

the last sleep.

"Marietta," her husband had said before the priest had joined their

hands in marriage, "have you considered well what you are renouncing

when you promise to follow me as my wife? Here in your country an

eternal spring reigns, sweet with the fragrance of flowers and musical

with the warbling of birds, while the Italian sky shines in

never-fading blue. On my island you will find none of these things. A

pale sun, a grey sky overhead, and all around barren heaths and

ice--ice and snow wherever you look; none but the Icelander can think

this island beautiful."

"But you will be there," answered Marietta; "and could I wish for any

home but yours?"

So she had gone with him to the far north.

They had one child, a lovely little girl, who bore the name of Helga;

she must be a true daughter of Iceland, and to this even her name must

witness. But her foreign descent was not to be hid; true, she had the

fair skin and beautiful flaxen hair of a northern girl, but her eyes

were as dark and mysterious as her mother's.

The Icelanders have no flowers; they know of their beauty only by the

tales of their countrymen who have seen them on their travels; but

every one who looked into little Helga's beautiful face thought that

flowers must look like that, and thus she was called "the Flower of

Iceland."

Fair Helga loved her grave father, but she loved still more her

beautiful and gentle mother, by whose side she spent most of her time.

Every spring the father set out for the coast with a few servants to

get fish for the year's household provisions; for though he dearly

loved Marietta and his home, the sea still exercised the old spell on

his heart. In summer and autumn he was accustomed to go to the distant

trading places along the coast, there to exchange the wool of his

large and well-conditioned flocks for the valuable products of foreign

lands, with which he loved to please and adorn his dear ones.

At such times Helga would sit at her mother's feet, listening as she

told in the soft, sweet sounds of her native tongue about the blue sky

and the warm golden sunlight of Italy, of the beautiful flowers and

evergreen woods, and of the fine mild nights when the young girls

would dance in the moonlight to the sound of the mandoline, and

pleasure and melody reigned over land and sea.

Ah! how beautiful that country must be; and here everything was so

different. No dance, no song, either from human lips or from the

throat of a bird. Helga had never even heard the sheep give a cheerful

bleat; everything was stupid and grave; the silence of death was

Nature's language here.

Then Helga's dark eye would wander away over Iceland's wide and desert

heaths, over the lava-fields that stretched for miles, and which had

buried the freshness of nature under their stiff mantle of mourning.

She gazed on those giant ice-mountains, untrod by human foot, which

rise like monuments of death, with thick mist-veils about their brow.

Even when a sunbeam happens to pierce the cloudy covering, the

colossal piles of ice shine in the pale light like sarcophagi in a

vault. Then Helga would shudder and think with ardent longing on her

dear mother's native land.

And she? Ah, her husband had been right. In spite of her love for him,

she pined for the sunny valleys of her childhood, all the more as she

never told her husband of the grief that gnawed at her heart, for he

placed his Iceland before all the paradises of the world. Ten years

had scarcely gone by till Marietta's warm heart lay still beneath the

sod.

Helga thought her heart would break when they carried her loved mother

out towards the hill, whence she had so often looked longingly out

over the sea, watching the blue waves as they hastened towards the

beautiful but distant south.

"When you bury me," said the dying woman to her husband, "lay me so

that my face may look towards Italy." And they did as she wished.

Helga often sat now on the grave, herself the only flower that

brightened it; and along with her dear mother's image those distant

countries came vividly before her mind, as she had heard them

described as long as she could remember.

A distant relation now came to take charge of the housekeeping. She

had willingly left her home, bringing with her her only son, in

compliance with her rich cousin's request. The stern old woman had no

sympathy with Helga's longings, and counted her descriptions of

distant lands as fairy tales; nothing, she thought, could be more

beautiful than Iceland. But Olaffson, her boy, who was only a few

years older than the little orphan, became Helga's eager listener.

With equal delight he looked on her beautiful face and listened to her

stories; the grave blue eyes, which were usually as cold as the

glaciers of his native island, would kindle as she went on, and when

Helga stopped he would say, "I will be a sailor, and travel to those

countries to see if they are really so beautiful!"

"But you will take me with you?"

"Oh yes, of course."

Thus the years went by, and the time drew quickly on when the tree,

the seed of which had been sown by Helga's hand, bore fruit. Olaffson

was no longer a boy, and he decided on going to sea. The head of the

house willingly gave his consent, and the time of parting came.

Fair Helga's cheek was pale. Olaffson fancied that it was the

separation that troubled her so deeply, and that thought sweetened the

bitter hour to him. But ah! it was only her grief at having to stay at

home on the cold and barren island, and at not being allowed to see

the countries to which, as she thought, she had a much better right

than Olaffson.

* * * * *

Another year had gone. Olaffson had come home and given an account of

all that he had seen. The hour of parting again drew near. Early next

morning he was to set out on a second and longer journey, and in

spite of Helga's tears and entreaties to be allowed to go, her father

and Olaffson had only shaken their heads and laughed at her

childishness.

It was evening. She went with Olaffson to the grave on the hill, there

to hear once more about the wonders of foreign lands. Hour after hour

flew by; she could not tire of the delightful theme.

"Well, Helga," Olaffson at last concluded, "it is indeed as beautiful

in those countries as your mother used to tell you; almost more

beautiful--yes, much more beautiful; still, it is not Iceland. There

is no place so beautiful as our native land--no place."

Helga looked at him incredulously.

"You may believe me, Helga," he said. "Look; it is now midnight. In

those countries there has been night, deep night for hours; the sun

has long ago forsaken them, but it loves our island better, for it

lingers longer with us. Just look over yonder. It has just sunk into

the sea, and on the rosy western sky it paints in silvery outline the

beautiful leafy forests which are denied to our soil. Only look how

they nod their gleaming heads; does it not seem as if you could hear a

mysterious rustling among their branches? And are not the white clouds

above like eagles circling over their summits? And now look at the

clear light around you! The nights there are as dark as the

consciences of criminals; our nights are like the heart of a pious

child--light, clear, and still."

"But it is so cold here--so cold that my very heart freezes within

me," said Helga complainingly.

"But the cold is bracing," said Olaffson. "There, I found men weak,

cowardly, and effeminate. I could tell you many a sad story to show

this. Now look at your own land, Flower of Iceland, for you belong to

us; we are honest, brave, and strong as our fathers were, and our sons

will be after us, and that we owe to Iceland and its glaciers, its

cold but strengthening climate. I tell you, fair Helga, there is but

one Iceland, as there is but one flower in it."

Early next morning Olaffson was to set out. Helga's father said he

would go down to the coast also with his servants, for it was the time

of the yearly fishing, so that they might as well travel together so

far.

The farewell was short and silent. Helga struggled to keep back her

tears when she saw how merrily they all sprang into the saddle, and

when she thought of Olaffson's words about Iceland's brave people; for

she must show herself worthy of her race. But her dark eyes rested so

longingly on her father's face that he knew what was passing in her

heart.

"Come, Helga," said he, stooping down from his horse, "you may go with

us as far as the hill where the lava-fields begin." Then he took her

up before him on the saddle, and soon the horses were off at a canter.

Soon they reached the hill at the foot of which the lava-fields began,

whose dark lines stretched for miles along the horizon.

Helga could no longer restrain her tears. She threw her arms sobbing

round her father's neck and said, "Don't stay long away, dear father;

it is so dreary at home when you are both away."

"I will come back in a few weeks, my Helga," said her father,

soothingly; "meantime be a good girl, and help your cousin with the

housekeeping."

He kissed her snow-white brow silently, but tenderly, lifted her down

from the horse, and after one more pressure of the hand the little

band set out again.

Helga watched them till a sinking of the road hid them from view; then

she went back towards the hill, leant against the side of a rock, and

looked into the distance, shading her eyes with her hand. Then they

came into sight again, but so far away that Helga's farewell could not

reach their ear. A fleeting sunbeam rested on them a moment, making

horses and riders shine out clearly from the desert plain over which

they were moving. Then a mist, such as only Iceland's mountains could

send forth, fell around them, and Helga saw them no more.

She leaned her head sobbing against the rock, closed her eyes, and

wept hot tears of grief and loneliness. Then a voice of wondrous

sweetness sounded suddenly in her ear, "Why does fair Helga weep?"

Helga opened her eyes in astonishment. No one was there; she could see

nothing but the mist in the distance and the bare lava-fields at her

feet. She closed her eyes again.

"Helga, fair Helga, why are you so sad?" said the voice again; it

seemed as if it came from the sky.

A slight shudder passed through Helga's frame; she did not venture to

stir, but she timidly opened her eyes and looked up. But what did she

see? Was the azure Italian sky, of which she had so often dreamt,

coming here to meet her? Right before her, on the summit of the hill,

stood a form of majestic beauty, which must surely belong to some

happier clime. Eyes of deep and mysterious blue shone down on Helga

from the kingly countenance, and hair lovelier than her own, golden as

the stars of the summer night, flowed down over the robe of purple

velvet in which the stranger was clad.

"Why does fair Helga weep?" he asked tenderly.

Helga tried to regain her composure. "How do you know me, O stranger?"

she asked shyly.

"Who does not know the Flower of Iceland?" answered he with a smile.

"Shall I tell you some things about yourself that will prove to you

how long I have known you, and how well I am acquainted with your

history? Shall I tell you how often I have seen you sitting on your

mother's grave, and what images there passed before your mind? Shall I

say what longing a moment ago stirred your soul--how you wished to be

permitted to travel with Olaffson, that you might see those rich and

wondrously beautiful lands? But no such journey is necessary to the

fulfilment of your wish. Your mother's paradise is here--here close

beside you."

Helga's eyes shone, half in doubt, half in delight.

"Here, here?" she asked, incredulously. "How can that be?"

"Just come a few steps with me to the other side of the hill, and then

you will see that I speak the truth."

Helga took his proffered hand. The stranger who had known her so long

and so well was no longer a stranger to her, and he could not be an

enemy who was about to fulfil her heart's dearest wish. So she went

fearlessly with him to the other side of the hill.

The stranger placed his hand against the rock, which immediately

opened, and allowed Helga and her guide to enter. She stood

spell-bound with astonishment. Then she passed her hand over her brow,

and tried to think if this could be a dream. But no, it was reality.

There lay before her a wondrous region, more beautiful than her

mother's native land or than all her childish dreams.

Through the crystal dome that stretched above this paradise the sun

sent beams bright and warm such as the children of Iceland never see

or feel. Their golden light trembled among the green foliage of the

majestic trees, played with the flashing fountain jet, and flamed in

the cups of the transparent flowers.

In the distance the ocean rolled its deep blue waves round wooded

islands, and amid the fragrance of the flowers and the brilliant

colours of the lovely scene hovered sweet and magic music, which

floated to the shore of the sea, whose waves bore it in soft echo to

the happy isles.

Helga looked round with delight such as she had never felt before. Had

earth really such beauties, and was she permitted to gaze on them?

She stooped to examine the wonderful flowers, gently stroked the

velvet of their leaves with her white hand, and pressed her lips into

their fragrant cups. Then her delighted eye watched the fountain, as

its waters rose in a line of light almost to the crystal dome, then

fell in a graceful curve far beyond its basin, so that the shrubs and

flowers bent beneath its shining dew.

Then she turned towards the lofty trees, pressed her face gently

against their smooth stems, and looked up at their shining foliage,

which rustled softly in the breeze. Snow-white birds hopped from

branch to branch, and threw friendly glances at Helga as at an old

acquaintance. Was it these feathered songsters that made the sweet

music which floated with the sunbeams and the soft spring air all

through this lovely place? Or did the tall trees or the distant sea

give forth the sweet sounds that soothed with soft caress Helga's

heart and mind, bearing away on their melodious waves the past and its

memories?

Hours had flown by in this fairy kingdom, and to Helga they seemed but

as one moment. At last she turned to the stranger, who had followed

her every movement with loving eyes, and had noticed her delight.

"Oh, how shall I thank you," she said, grasping his hand, "for

bringing me here and satisfying the longing of years? But tell me

where I am; for Iceland's cold hills hide no such paradise."

"You are in my kingdom, fair Helga," answered the stranger in a gentle

voice; "and I am the fairy king of Iceland."

Helga looked at him in astonishment. No lips save her mother's had

ever told her of such things, and _she_ knew nothing of Iceland's

spirit kingdom. Therefore Helga felt neither terror nor anxiety.

"Ah! if I could only stay here always," she cried earnestly.

"I wish for nothing better," said the king; "and why should you not?"

"Ah! my dear, good father--he has no one but me," said Helga, thinking

for a moment of her home.

"But he is now far away," said the fairy king persuasively; "and you

can stay at least till he comes back."

"So I can," cried Helga in delight. So she stayed with the fairy king.

One day in this paradise was just like the next, as it will perhaps be

in heaven, where there is nothing to remind the blessed of the flight

of time, where it is all one gloriously happy present, because they

have no past to look back on with sad memory, and the future has

nothing more beautiful to excite their longings.

Helga moved with happy heart by the side of the fairy king through

this paradise. The white birds flitted around her, now and then

settling on her hand or shoulder. The sea with the blue waves gave a

sound of pleasant greeting when Helga and the fairy king drew near its

shores. Then when he seized her hand and they stepped together on one

of the little waves, this fairy boat carried them gently and swiftly

over to the happy islands.

At midnight, when Iceland's sun spread its crimson mantle along the

horizon, its reflection streamed through the crystal dome, glowed like

roses in the fountain and on the birds' white feathers, while the sea

rolled to the shore in violet waves.

Then Helga knew that she must close her eyes, in order to strengthen

herself for a new day of happiness. She lay down on the soft moss,

while the fairy king sat near her and took his harp. From its strings

streamed forth magic music which banished memory from Helga's soul.

The sweet sounds lulled her to sleep, and carefully guarded the gates

of her heart, permitting no dream to knock there which could remind

her of the past and its claims. But, once, the chord which nature has

placed between the hearts of parent and child, and which never breaks

even though seas lie between, sounded with a startling thrill.

Helga's father had come home, and his grief and lamentation at the

loss of his beloved child were so violent that Helga's slumbering

heart awoke.

"My father!" she said suddenly one day as she stood beside the sea,

and drew back the foot which she was just on the point of placing on

the wave that stood bowing its blue head before her. "My father! I

think I hear you lamenting my loss. Is it not my duty to leave all

these beautiful things here and return to him?"

A shadow fell on the fairy king's face. He silently seized his harp

and drew from it strains more beautiful, more heart-enthralling than

Helga had ever heard before. They floated away over the sea till the

waves sank into silence, unwilling to disturb the sweet melodies. And

in Helga's heart memory ceased to thrill, and the visions of the past

faded from her mind.

Then the fairy king told her how he had chosen her years ago as the

queen of this kingdom, and had watched over her since her childhood;

that he had prepared all these beautiful things only for her, with the

hope that she would some day be his wife, and thus gain for him

that for which his soul had yearned during long centuries--an immortal

soul, a boon which is denied to the poor fairies in every land.

[Illustration: HELGA IN THE FAIRY KING'S PALACE. F. C., p. 154.]

"Will you be my wife now, fair Helga?" he asked in conclusion. "I will

love you with a faithful love such as you would seek in vain among

your degenerate race. You shall never regret having given to the poor

fairy king the desire of his heart."

"I will, I will!" said she, seizing his hands with childish frankness.

"I will always stay with you."

The king's eyes shone with joy.

"But, fair Helga, the laws of our kingdom are strict; we hold the vows

of faithfulness more sacred than you do, although we look for no

eternal reward. If you become my wife, and by uniting your soul to

mine impart to me your immortality, then you belong henceforth to me,

and to me alone. Your father and your home have no longer any claim on

you, and if you ever return to them, then I must hold you guilty of

robbing me of my soul, and our kingdom will demand your life as the

penalty. Canst thou keep such faith as this with me, O Flower of

Iceland?"

Fair Helga leaned forward. "Look into my eyes," she said; "do you

think me so ungrateful? I will be your wife, and you shall gain

through me a never-dying soul. Do you think I could disappoint your

hopes of immortality?"

So fair Helga, the Flower of Iceland, was married to the fairy king.

A year had gone by. The sun shone once more through the crystal dome,

and fair Helga's fairy kingdom still bloomed in unfaded beauty; but

the Flower of Iceland was pale and sorrowful, and a tear trembled on

her lowered eyelashes.

Was the fairy king's wife not happy? Oh yes, she was happy, almost too

happy. Beauty and love surrounded her on every side; but undisturbed

blessedness never lasts long on earth.

Her husband was far away. The laws of the fairy kingdom compelled him

to go every year across the sea to give account of his government to

the supreme lord of the fairy race, whose throne stood in the rocky

mountains of Norway. He had promised to return in a week, and now

three weeks had gone by, and he had not come home. This thought gnawed

at fair Helga's heart, and made her blind to all the beauty around

her. In vain did the white birds flit around her head, stroking her

cheeks with their soft wings. Helga's soul was sunk in sorrow, and the

magic music with its soothing power lay asleep in the harp. At last

she rose.

"Ah! I must be disobedient, my husband; forgive me, forgive me! But

anxiety will kill me, if I do not go out to look if I can see you in

the distance."

She sprang up and went to the door in the rock. The birds fluttered

anxiously around her, but she frightened them away with her hand, and

touched the wall through which she had entered a year ago. The rock,

not daring to refuse obedience to its mistress, opened, and fair Helga

stepped out on the barren soil of Iceland. But after being so long

accustomed to the warm summer air, she shuddered as she felt the icy

breath of her old home, and with hurried steps she went to the point

of the rock. Here she stopped, turned her beautiful face, and looked

over her left shoulder towards the south-east.

Before the power of this magic glance the veil of the distance

vanished. Her look pierced through Iceland's fogs, flew over the

eastern mountains, and swam on the Atlantic waves to the steep

rock-bound coast of Norway. She saw the mysterious inhabitants of the

mountains, and the mighty fairy king seated on his diamond throne,

over which thousands of years had passed, leaving it still unshaken.

Around him stood his people in their unfading youth and beauty, bowing

in lowly reverence. But her husband's noble form was not among them;

she could not meet the glance of his deep blue eye, though she

anxiously examined every countenance. At last she looked sadly away,

and turned to go back to her lonely kingdom.

But when she went round the corner of the rock she saw a tall, manly

form standing in the very place whence she had once watched her father

and Olaffson as they rode away over the lava-fields. With a cry of joy

she ran to the spot. Could it be that her husband had been so near,

while she believed him far away? But the man, hearing her light

footstep, turned his head, and she looked not on her husband's

youthful beauty, but on the careworn face of her long-forgotten

father.

"Helga, Helga!" The words fell on her ear with a strange thrill. "My

child, you are still alive, you are still on earth?" and he stretched

out his arms towards her, and pressed her to his breast, while the hot

tears fell on her brow.

The long-silenced chords now sounded loudly in Helga's heart, memory

awoke, and the fairy king's harp was not near to lull it to sleep

again.

"My dear, good father," she said, thinking now of none but him, "weep

not. Your Helga lives and is happy; but how old you have grown, and

how white your hair is!"

"Yes, Helga, I had lost you, my only child; but now that I have found

you my youthful vigour will return. Come home quickly, my daughter.

How glad Olaffson will be."

At these words Helga's heart trembled. "My dear, dear father," she

said, gently stroking the furrowed cheeks, "I cannot go with you; I

belong now to another world." Then she told her astonished father all

that had happened to her since the hour when she said good-bye to him

at the edge of the lava-field.

"I have given my word," she concluded, "and, hard as it seems not to

go with you, I dare not, I dare not."

"Alas, my child, my poor unhappy child!" said the father sorrowfully;

"into what hands have you fallen?"

"Into the best and tenderest, my father," said Helga, soothingly.

"Would that my husband were at home, that you might see him; but I

will show you my kingdom, that your mind may be set at rest."

She took her father's hand and led him towards the side of the rock

which concealed the entrance into the fairy land. She touched it, but

the door remained closed; again and again she passed her hand over the

hard stone, but there was no movement.

Helga's heart throbbed as though it would break, and she sank down on

the hard ground, begging with bitter tears for admission to her

kingdom; but all was still, dead, and motionless.

Poor Helga! Without knowing it, she had transgressed the laws of the

fairies by speaking to a mortal of the mysteries of the spirit-world,

and now its gates were barred against her. With bitter regret she now

remembered her husband's parting command--not to return to the outer

world, to which she had no longer any right. Soon, she thought, will

the other awful threat be fulfilled, and she sank unconscious into her

father's arms.

He was rejoiced to see the fairy kingdom closed against his daughter,

and with a lightened heart he bore the precious burden back to her

childhood's home.

* * * * *

After long hours and days of darkness, Helga's youthful strength

triumphed, and she opened her eyes in full consciousness. Her first

glance fell on her father, who sat at her bedside.

"You here, my dear father? Then my meeting with you was not a dream?

But now let me get up and go to my husband; he must have come home

long before this, and he will believe me when I tell him that I did

not intend to leave him."

"My child, look round you," said the father, soothingly. "Let those

feverish fancies die. See, you are where you have always been, at

home with your old father. All through your long illness you have

raved about a fairy king and his paradise, of your marriage and your

promises. But these were only fancies, my Helga, such as fever often

causes."

Helga looked at him in trembling astonishment.

"That is impossible," she said at last in a faltering voice. "Bring

out my clothes, and see whether Iceland has such splendid garments as

those."

"Splendid garments?" repeated her father as if in surprise. Then he

rose and brought Helga's dress, a garment such as she had always been

accustomed to wear.

Helga examined it doubtfully, then she passed her hand over her brow,

looked up at her father, and said in a low voice, "I cannot understand

it. Can one then dream such things as those?"

"Certainly, my child; it is always so in fever. When I went to the

coast a few weeks ago, taking you with me as far as the lava-field,

you must have climbed the rock to watch us and fallen asleep there.

Then the cold mountain mist crept round you, and almost prevented you

from ever awaking. When your cousin thought you were staying too long,

she set out with the servants to look for you; there they found you

lying on the rock in a state of unconsciousness, and brought you home.

A messenger was sent after us, and we returned as quickly as possible.

I left my fishing, and Olaffson gave up thoughts of his voyage, that

we might be near at hand to watch and care for you."

Helga sighed. Her father had never told her an untruth, so she felt

compelled to believe him, though her heart rebelled against his words

with bitter grief.

Ah! she little suspected that her father, in the hope of keeping his

dear child beside him and hindering her return to fairyland, had

invented this story, and carefully taught it to every one about the

house.

Helga's bodily strength increased day by day, but over her spirit

rested a cloud of melancholy, and she pined in secret for the paradise

of her "feverish dreams."

She was at last almost convinced that such they had indeed been, for

when she spoke to any of the servants about her lost fairy kingdom,

they always smiled and said, "Those were mere fancies; we were about

you all the time and heard you rave about them."

As for the voyage round the world which Olaffson had completed since

she went away, of that she heard nothing, nor was she aware that the

world's history had advanced a year while she tarried in fairyland.

The farm-houses in Iceland are separated from each other by long

distances, so that it was but seldom that Helga came in contact with

any of the neighbours; and if a chance stranger came to claim the

rights of hospitality, the father or Olaffson took care to warn him

beforehand not to disturb Helga's delusion.

But the precaution was almost unnecessary; for the Flower of Iceland,

once so cheerful and talkative, who used to greet the arrival of a

stranger as a joyous event, and was never tired of asking questions

about the wonders of foreign lands, the same Helga sat silent and

listless, and left the room as soon as the conversation turned on

beautiful scenery. For the visions of her lost paradise came back to

her mind, and it needed a conflict of hours to still her restless

heart. "Ah! it was only a dream."

Olaffson had given up his seafaring life, and now busied himself about

the farm. Helga's father loved him as a son, and intended making him

the heir of his valuable property. But he had hopes of giving him

something better still. He was only waiting till Helga should be once

more the joyous Helga, till the Flower of Iceland should raise its

drooping head. But this time seemed far distant.

"Perhaps she will be better when she is married," said the father to

himself, as he looked anxiously at Helga. She was leaning against the

grassy ditch that enclosed the farm, and gazing into the glow of the

evening sky. He stepped softly up to her.

"What is my Helga thinking of?" he asked tenderly.

"Of the evening rays that are now falling through the crystal dome, of

the little waves crowned with the roses of the sunset sky, and of the

sweet music of the harp," she answered dreamily.

"Helga," said the old man reproachfully, "will you never shake off

these delusions. You have heard from every tongue that they were fever

fancies; but you want to vex my heart."

"Oh, no, no, dear father. Do not think so ill of your Helga," she said

quickly, as she turned and stroked his cheeks caressingly. "I know

very well that they were only dreams, but you cannot believe how

deeply they are burnt into my heart. It seems like faithlessness to

tear them away."

"That is a remnant of the fever," said the old man. "Ah, Helga, how

happy should I be if you were yourself again!"

"And I too, dear father," said Helga, with a gentle sigh.

"I know one way of curing you, and if you love me you will try it."

"That I will, father."

"Do you promise it, my Helga?"

"Yes, dear father," she answered unhesitatingly.

"Then listen: Olaffson is good and brave, is he not?" Helga nodded.

"He loves you dearly, and my most cherished wish is that you should

become his wife, and that you should live under my roof, brightening

my old age with the sight of your happiness."

Helga grew deadly pale.

"Ah, father, dear father, I cannot."

"Why not, Helga? Have you anything against him? Is he not young,

handsome, and strong? Is he not brave and good? Could you find me a

better son, or yourself a more loving husband? Tell me, are you

influenced in this matter by those foolish dreams, the wild images of

your brain? Tell the truth, Helga."

She looked at him in trembling entreaty.

"Ah, my father, forgive me."

"If you want to make your old father happy, say Yes, and become

Olaffson's wife; if you wish to poison my last days with sorrow, then

leave my wish unfulfilled."

With these words the old man turned away in anxious grief, and moved

towards the house.

Helga hastened after him.

"Do not be angry, my father," she begged; "I will fulfil your wish,

come what will."

"I thank you, my good child; but what do you fear? What could come of

it but a father's blessing, with its fruits of happiness and peace?"

So Helga became Olaffson's wife.

Did the Flower of Iceland now regain its freshness and bloom? Alas!

no. In spite of her father's tenderness and her husband's love, she

still remained sorrowful and pale; deeper, if anything, was the shadow

that oppressed her soul. To longing was now added remorse, the

bitterest feeling that can disturb a human heart, for it is the only

one for which time has no balm.

"How could I ever rob you of your claim to immortality?" she had once

said to the poor fairy king; and even though the words had been only

spoken in a dream, yet they burned into her soul, and when she

consented to be Olaffson's wife, it seemed to her as if she had really

shut out that poor spirit from the heavenly paradise.

The short summer passed, and Helga shuddered more than ever under the

icy breath of the northern winter; but it too went by, and spring came

at last across the ocean to Iceland's snowy plains. The roads were

once more passable, and the first sacrament of the year was to be

solemnised in the church of the parish to which the farm held by

Helga's father belonged. Olaffson asked his wife to partake with him

of the sacred symbols, and she gladly consented. Perhaps she thought

this feast of reconciliation might bring back her long-lost peace.

She went about her work with more energy than she had shown for many

months, so anxious was she to have everything in readiness for the

morrow, for they would have to set out early in order to reach the

distant church in time for the service. She was just laying the table

for supper when she saw her husband passing the window, and by his

side a stranger of tall and manly form.

"See, Helga," said Olaffson as they entered, "I bring an honoured

guest; set out your best provisions, for he has travelled far, and is

in need of refreshment."

Helga looked at the stranger. His face was handsome, but over his

youthful features sorrow had passed with heavy hand. But when he

raised his deep blue eyes to Helga, and asked in soft and melodious

tones--"Will the Flower of Iceland permit a stranger to rest beneath

her roof?" a shudder passed through her frame, and the old conflict

began in her soul more wildly and perplexingly than ever.

These eyes, this voice, could they have spoken to her only in a

feverish dream? And if she had been deceived--what then? The thought

threatened to rob her of reason; but Olaffson stepped up to her and

said--

"Our guest must be tired and hungry, my Helga; will you not grant him

the welcome which the stranger has always met beneath this roof?"

Helga recovered herself by a great effort, and went out to prepare a

room for the mysterious guest, while the latter sat down at table with

the others. Then she slipped softly back, took a seat in a dark

corner, and gazed with mingled anxiety and longing on the stranger's

face.

"Look here, sir," said Helga's father, pointing to the sky, "do you

ever see anything like that in your native land? Do you not

acknowledge Iceland to be the most beautiful country in the world?"

"Yes," said the stranger, "your land is indeed beautiful; but your

home and mine are not so very far distant from one another."

He glanced at Helga--of whose presence the others were not aware--then

he described the land in which he lived, the same land that Helga was

said to have seen only in the delirium of fever.

She listened with breathless attention. It seemed to her as if the

splendour of fairyland once more surrounded her. She saw the blue

waves rolling at her feet, and felt herself, as in days gone by,

rocking on their gleaming crests. She ran merrily to the side of the

fountain and caught at the water, that she might sprinkle it in sport

on the birds; and she saw the transparent flowers bending their

fragrant cups in friendly greeting. Every moment she expected to see

the stranger throw aside his disguise, and, standing before her in

royal purple, touch the long-disused strings of his golden harp.

Alas! her father had then deceived her that he might keep her at home;

her heart had told her the truth, and she, instead of listening to its

entreaties, had weakly yielded to persuasion, and broken her sacred

promise. And now? Too late, too late--all was over. Full of grief and

despair, she hastened out of the house to pour out her heart in bitter

weeping amid the stillness of the night.

Next morning, when all was ready for the journey, when the horses were

stamping impatiently before the door, the family all assembled to

conform to an old Icelandic custom. In that island, before any family

partake of the sacrament, each member asks forgiveness of all the rest

for wrongs consciously or unconsciously committed. Helga took her

father's hand and her husband's. "Forgive me for all the anxiety I

have caused you," she begged in a low voice; then she added the

mysterious words, "and also for the sorrow that I am about to bring

upon you."

"You must also ask forgiveness of our guest, Helga, in case you have

offended him," said Olaffson. "You were not to be found yesterday when

he wanted to bid you good-night."

She shuddered, cast a farewell glance on her father's face, and moved

towards the stranger's room.

Yes, it was as she felt and knew. The dark garment of yesterday had

disappeared; before her stood the fairy king in radiant beauty, with

his golden hair flowing down over his purple robe.

She clasped her hands in silent entreaty, and her beautiful eyes

looked up with love and humility to the face of her beloved but

deeply-wronged husband.

"Helga, Helga," said he gravely, "is this how you have been faithful

to your love and your promise?"

"Oh, do not be angry with me," begged Helga; "to your spirit-eye

nothing has been hidden; you know how it all came about--how my

anxiety for you drove me to seek you--how my father found me, and how

I was going to show him our kingdom in order to set his mind at rest.

You know that the gates were closed against me, and that I was borne

back unconscious to my old home--that they kept me there by

cleverly-invented stories, and that at last my father's entreaties

forced me to the last and hardest step. But you know also that I have

loved only you, that my heart is yours alone."

"Be judged by thine own words, O Flower of Iceland!" replied the fairy

king quietly. "Why didst thou not listen to the voice of thy heart? We

fairies know nothing of human weakness, therefore we cannot forgive

it. Dost thou know the fate that now awaits thee, Helga?"

"I know it well," answered Helga firmly, "and if my mouth has been

unfaithful, my heart has been true. I welcome death, for it will

reunite me to you!"

Then a happy smile passed over the fairy king's noble countenance; he

stretched out his arms, and pressed Helga dying to his heart.

Finding that his wife did not come back, Olaffson hastened with his

father-in-law to the stranger's room. They found fair Helga in the

fairy king's arms. Both were cold and dead; in the same moment both

hearts had broken. Olaffson tried to take Helga away from the

stranger's arms, but in vain. What life had robbed him of, he held in

death with a grasp that could not be loosed.

"Leave them, my son," said the old grief-stricken father; "she is his

by right. What has all our prudence done for us? Worse than nothing!

The fairy king has reclaimed his own in spite of us."

They laid them in the same coffin, and next morning the soil of

Iceland was to receive them into its cold lap. But in the night that

followed this eventful day, sleep fell more heavily than usual on the

eyes of the mourners. They did not hear the whispering of gentle

voices or the hasty tread of many feet. They did not see the multitude

of fairies who had assembled from all parts of the island to show the

last honour to their beloved king. Noiselessly the spirits lifted the

coffin, carried it out of the house, and away to the rock where fair

Helga had begged in vain for admission.

To-day it was not denied her. The magic gates sprang open as the

coffin approached. With drooping wings the white birds hovered round,

and mourned the royal pair in notes of soft lamentation.

At the shore of the beautiful blue sea the faithful spirits lowered

their burden. There Helga and her fairy husband rest beneath the

flowers of this paradise, and beside the gentle murmur of the waves.

On the branches of the cypress that grows on their grave hangs the

fairy king's harp. The hand is cold that once touched its chords; but

when the morning breeze sweeps through them, they sound as of old in

magic melody. The sweet notes float on the sunbeams through the

evergreen paradise, pierce the hard rock, and hover as beautiful and

undying legends over Iceland's heaths and snow-clad hills.

THE SEA-FAIRY.

[Illustration: THE OLD MAN BESIDE THE CORPSE OF ANTONIO.]

The evening sun was sinking in a glow of colour on the waters of the

North Atlantic and on the rocky coast of Norway as a youth wandered

alone by the edge of one of its numerous fiords.

He was alone in the world; father and mother, brothers and sisters,

were all dead, and he strove to still the longings of his heart by the

wonders of foreign lands.

He had seen the midnight sun from the cliffs of the North Cape, and

his eye now rested in astonished admiration on the firmament and the

ocean, which shone in a splendour unknown to other zones. He stepped

close up to the edge of the sea, and looked down at the waves, which

here broke in gold-sparkling foam. But from yon rock but a few yards

distant he would be better able to enjoy the ever-changing play of the

waves; so he went up to it, and laid his hand on one of its jagged

projections to aid him in climbing. Then he saw something white and

golden gleaming at his feet, and when he leant forward to observe it

more closely he saw that it was the form of a young woman who was

sitting in solitude on this uninhabited strand. Over her garment,

white as spring blossoms, down to the purple hem, fell hair golden as

the waves at her feet, and her tender hands lay clasped upon her knee,

while she, dreamy and motionless, looked out upon the sea.

The young man scarcely ventured to breathe lest he should frighten

her; but a stone loosened beneath his hand and rolled rattling to the

ground. She looked up and turned her head, and now his glance met a

face of unimagined beauty.

"Who art thou?" she asked, in gentle astonishment; "and what seekest

thou here on this world-forsaken shore?"

"I wished to see the beauties of Norway," he gathered courage to

answer, "and I found them greater than I expected. But who art thou,

wondrous being, who venturest to stay alone in this solitude, with

none save the ocean and yon stern rocks to bear thee company?"

"I am the sea-fairy," she answered gravely. "The golden evening

sunshine, which streamed down into my castle, enticed me to the

strand, as it has done many a time before. But thou art the first

mortal that I have seen here for thousands of years."

He did not answer, but gazed dreamily on her lovely form. In his soul

the fairy tales of childhood shone dimly forth--tales of the crystal

castle under the sea, and of the fascinating beauty of the sea-fairy;

and now, could these have been no fables, but reality--sweet tangible

reality?

For a moment he covered his eyes with his hand, and looked again. No,

she had not vanished. The rosy light of the evening sun lay now on her

white garment, and her beautiful form seemed still more lovely in this

radiance. She rose slowly, and apparently with the intention of going

away to the waves, when such burning pain came in the young man's soul

that he took his hand from the point of the rock and stepped

respectfully, but with firm tread, up to the beautiful lady.

"No, do not go," he begged, raising his hand in earnest entreaty; "do

not go, thou vision of my childhood. But if thou canst not tarry

longer here, then take me down into thy ocean kingdom. There is no one

on earth to miss me; and now that I know that thou really dwellest

beneath these waves, I shall feel an unappeasable longing after thee,

as in the days of my childhood, when I lay for hours on the shore of

my native land hoping to catch a glimpse of the pinnacles of thy

castle."

The fairy stood still, and her eye, blue and fathomless as the ocean

at the horizon, looked in the young man's face as if to read his soul.

"Knowest thou what thou askest?" she said earnestly. "If I grant thy

petition and take thee with me, it is for no short amusement, which

thou canst leave when tired, and wander further at thy will. No; if

thou go with me it is to stay in my kingdom, and only with thy life

wilt thou be permitted to release thyself from thy vow. Consider it

well. In thy veins flows the blood of a faithless race; but we are of

a different nature. Ingratitude and faithlessness we punish severely,

and our heart knows no weak pity for those who incur our wrath."

"Try me, lady," said the youth, with firm determination. "Take me with

thee, and let me serve thee and surround thee with love and obedience;

and if thou find me faithless, spare not thine anger."

"Come then," said the sea-fairy, "and forget not that it is thine own

choice." And Antonio, for that was the young man's name, walked

joyfully beside the wondrous woman towards the waves. She loosed the

star-set girdle from her dress, and gave it to the youth. "Put it on,"

she said, "that those beneath the waves may recognise thee as one of

mine;" and he did as she bade him. Then she gave him her hand, and

stepped out upon the sea, which grew smooth beneath her foot as a path

of crystal. Antonio followed joyfully; the magic girdle prevented him

from sinking, and when the shore lay a few steps behind them, the

glittering plain opened and disclosed a glassy stair that led down

into the depths of the ocean kingdom. Did he step down on them, or

did they, rising upwards, offer themselves to his foot? He could not

make out how it was, for, now that he was led by the fairy's hand and

girt with her girdle, earthly laws had no longer power over him. He

only knew that they were descending into the water with marvellous

swiftness, and that the waves of the Gulf Stream, which flows with the

warmth of spring around these coasts, played softly round his head and

shoulders, while he breathed among them as freely as on the air above.

And when he looked upwards he saw the crystal steps break and form

again into waves as soon as the foot left them, and above his head the

sea heaved as was its wont, the great waves following one after the

other with a glorious play of ever-changing colours.

Soon he stood at the bottom of the sea; and here there was nothing

dark or gloomy, as we are apt to think, but all around the reflection

of the evening sky lit the clear depths with golden light.

"Now thou art in my kingdom," said the sea-fairy; "forget not that it

is the home of thine own choice."

His eyes shone as he gave a joyful assent. "His home!" And he would

never long for another; of that he was quite sure.

They walked together over the soft, shining, golden sand. Not far off

purple trees rose on their slender stems, and sent their wide branches

out on every side.

"That is my coral park," said the sea-fairy; "it stands in wide

circles round the ocean castle, and keeps the wild waves far from this

retreat."

Soon they stood at the gate of the magic hedge, and the fairy laid

her hand upon the rock. Suddenly an electric current seemed to stir

the whole line of trees. Thousands of little slumbering creatures

awoke, and stretched their tiny heads out of the openings between the

branches to greet their lady. She, meantime, walked with Antonio

through the intricate paths of the coral grove, till they reached the

shining plain where the castle of the sea-fairy stood. Its lofty walls

were crowned by a glittering roof, over which the waves glided to and

fro with softest music.

Antonio gazed in happy astonishment on the radiant edifice, which

excelled in beauty all the childish dreams of which it reminded him.

"And may I stay here? and shall I never be obliged to leave this

splendour?" he asked in a gentle whisper; but before the fairy could

answer there was a trembling in the waves around. Over the transparent

roof, and out of the shadows of the coral grove, came myriads of

little star-fishes of violet and rosy hues, and played round the head

of Antonio and among the sea-fairy's locks like butterflies on a

summer day. Then they fluttered away again, and lost themselves in the

trembling dance of the waves.

The beautiful lady, still carefully keeping hold of Antonio's hand,

walked now over the watery meadow which surrounded the castle with its

gentle waves; and when she reached the high-arched portal the

transparent gates opened of themselves, and the empress of the ocean

entered her enchanted palace.

Antonio's eye was dazzled by the splendour all around. Hall after

hall followed in brilliant succession, and over all stretched the high

arches of the crystal roof, through which the evening sky shed its

undiminished splendour. Warm and soft as the breath of spring, the

little waves glided through these enchanted rooms and fell back with

gentle splashing from the crystal walls--now shining like a flood of

crimson, now azure blue, and now like liquid amber; thus they mirrored

the changing play of colours in the fleeting clouds overhead.

The sea-fairy looked into Antonio's joyous face. "Thinkest thou that

thou canst forget thine earthly home here in my kingdom?" she asked

graciously.

"Forget it?" he replied. "If home is the fairest spot on earth, then I

have only found mine now. Henceforth all other places lie eternally

forgotten. But what is that yonder?" he asked, pointing to tall green

pillars whose tops reached nearly to the crystal roof.

"See for thyself," said the sea-fairy, and he moved by her side

towards the last hall in which the graceful columns stood. And now he

glides between their slender shafts, and utters a joyous cry as he

looks up at the transparent dome, beneath which leafy tree-crowns

waved, while little star-fishes gleamed brightly as they glided among

the leaves.

"Palm trees!" cried Antonio, breathless with astonishment--"palm

trees, such as I have heard rustling by the banks of the Ganges! This

must be some delusion, some golden dream, out of which I must sooner

or later wake. No, no, there are the tender lianas winding round the

kingly stems, and there in the shadow lurks my lotos flower, the

most beautiful of all the gorgeous blossoms of India!"

[Illustration: ANTONIO IN THE CRYSTAL CASTLE. F. C., p. 178.]

He dropped the fairy's hand, hastened forward, and looked into the

shining cup, whose purple streamers trembled in the waves.

"Yes, indeed, it is the lotos, gleaming in snowy purity like its

sisters in the holy stream, in whose cup the goddess slumbers. But oh!

how camest thou hither, beloved flower? But what do I ask? The holy

river of thy favoured home has caught thy falling seed and borne it

onwards to the sea, and there on its protecting wave thou hast been

rolled on and on, further and further, towards the south-west, till

the warm Gulf Stream received thee. Carried northwards by this current

of blessing which careful Nature sends to these icy realms, thou

camest with broken palm branches and liana sprays into this northern

fairyland, where the hand of the beauteous sea-fairy gave thee a

second home--one beautiful enough to make thee forget even the sunny

plains of India."

Did the lotos flower think so? Its trembling cup gave no reply, but

Antonio thought it did. Henceforth the kingdom of the sea-fairy should

be his home, and she herself be dear to him as his father and mother

used to be in the old half-forgotten days. His happiness seemed full

as he moved by her side through the wide watery realm from one wonder

to another, while her grave but beautiful mouth explained to him with

easy eloquence the mysteries of the deep, problems in the solution of

which curious men spend their lives in vain. Round them played the

gay star-fishes; beside them, on the gleaming sand, thorny ray-fishes

rolled like silver balls; behind them followed, in many-coloured

throng, the fishes large and small, their fins and scales sparkling in

the sunlight like silver and precious stones. They glided fearlessly

around Antonio, let him catch and stroke them, and looked up at him

with intelligent eyes when he spoke to them in human words. They did

not indeed comprehend what he said, but they all understood the star

pattern on the girdle, which still surrounded his waist with its

radiant circle, and made him known as the friend of their beloved

mistress.

Yes, it was pleasant to glide through the waves, with beauty, peace,

and harmony all around; but Antonio thought it more delightful still

to wander with the majestic fairy through the halls of the crystal

castle, to be lifted by gentle waves up to the lofty dome, and to look

up through its clear vault to the bright sky far overhead.

But Antonio's happiest moments were spent in the hall of palms, as he

rested in the shady corner where the lotos bloomed. The flower would

bend its white cup over his dreamy eyes, and the waves moved the

purple stamens over his brow as gently as his mother's hand. The water

flowed about him soft and warm, high overhead the palm trees waved

their leafy tufts, and the sea-fairy glided through the brilliant

halls, singing to her golden harp songs sweeter and more enthralling

than anything Antonio had ever heard on earth. Is it any wonder then

that he forgot his bleak, unmusical home--that he never gave it one

longing thought?

The summer sun had often sent its golden light, unbroken by night's

darkness, into the sea-fairy's kingdom; the stars of the winter sky

had often twinkled through the crystal roof of the ocean palace; but

Antonio had taken no heed to the flight of time. The years passed over

him in pleasant but monotonous repose; the little waves rippled and

sang with unchanging cheerfulness; and Antonio hastened from pleasure

to pleasure, without remembrance, without longing, feeling only the

present delight.

The sunlight of a new summer was making its way into the ocean realm

when Antonio came out of the palace and walked through the gleaming

water-meadows. The fairy had been called to a distance by some

business in a remote part of her extensive kingdom, and Antonio had

thus been left alone in the castle. But the splendid halls seemed to

him only half as beautiful without their lovely queen, and he

determined to seek the society of the merry fishes without. They came

swimming to meet him, slipped through his fingers, splashed the water

merrily with their fins and tails, and formed themselves into a wide

and brilliant procession behind him as he walked.

Soon the oddly-jagged branches of the coral grove arched above his

head. He intended to-day to explore every corner of this lovely park,

of which he had hitherto seen but one spot. He went further and

further into the maze of trees, and the fishes followed him at every

step and glided like silver stars through the deep red branches.

Antonio looked back; the bright sunny plain and the gleaming palace

had disappeared, hidden by the dense grove of coral; but to the side

at the outer edge of the forest he heard a sullen, ceaseless roaring,

for the ocean billows rolled high and dark beyond the magic circle.

He went further; everything became strange and awful. There was not a

glimpse of the bright familiar regions he knew so well. Purple

twilight lay around him, and to the side the darkly rolling ocean; but

there before him was a faint glimmering of light which became

gradually brighter. Could it be the crystal castle which he thought he

had left far behind?

At last he reached the light, and looked down on the scene at his

feet. Before him lay an open space, over which the sunlight streamed,

unhindered, in golden radiance, and under this flood of sunshine

rested rows of pale, silent sleepers, heart to heart and arm in arm,

as the rage of the ocean or the anger of the sea-fairy had torn them

away from their full, warm, joyous life. They had sailed fearlessly in

their trusty ships over the sea, perhaps even rejoicing in their

nearness to the haven, and in the prospect of happy meetings, when

they were suddenly shattered by a hidden reef, or dragged downward by

the treacherous whirlpool.

Antonio walked with loudly-beating heart among the sleepers. Here lay

an old man with long and silvery hair, and his withered hand rested

tenderly on the head of a beautiful boy; beside him lay a man, whose

youthful wife, even in the death-struggle, had not loosed her hold on

her tender infant; there slept two stalwart youths, their hands

clasped as in strong affection--they were brothers, as the likeness

of the features showed. And there--and there--and there, wherever

Antonio's glance fell, lay forms once beautiful in their youthful

strength, now cold and stiff in death. And yet they only seemed to be

asleep, for, however long they might have rested there, time had made

no ravages among them. Their features were unchanged, save for a

deeper peace; and when the coral branches overhead rocked in the

waves, sending their purple shadows over the lonely ocean graveyard,

there fell on the faces of the dead something like the reflection of

their former life.

Antonio bent over them, as if to read the last sad thought of the pale

lips--to learn the last unspoken wish, that he might take it with him

as a solemn vow, and fulfil it as soon as he could reach the upper

world. For the spell of the ocean kingdom was broken at the sight of

these white faces, and he longed now for his home, bleak and unmusical

though it was. With a deep sigh he took his eyes from this sad scene,

and advanced to the outer edge of the coral grove, where the lofty

branches bent and formed a low network, which divided the

resting-place of the dead from the raging ocean. He leant with folded

arms against the fence, and looked out on the billowy sea. The huge

waves rose black as thunder-clouds, hurled their white froth toward

heaven, and sank with sullen roar back into the deep. It was a scene

of fascinating horror, and Antonio could not tear his eyes away.

Then suddenly northwards through the surging waves came something

strange, dreadful, horrible. Its long outstretched serpent neck was

of changing green, and its wide gaping throat was full of sharp

destructive teeth; its gigantic body wound dark through the flood--now

drawn together, now stretched out in its immeasurable length, so that

even the lifeless waves shrank back, and Antonio's heart almost ceased

to beat with dread amazement. Thus the monster of the deep rose in

slow but ceaseless movements, and its threatening head was raised

above the foaming heaps of water beside the coral fence just as

Antonio caught the first glimpse of its poisonous tail.

"It is the sea serpent," he faltered at last, as soon as he recovered

his power of speech--"the monster of which the fairy told me that

death and destruction follow in its wake. The poor sailors up above on

the surface of the water, who have perhaps laughed and mocked at it as

an exploded fable, will now see and feel it in the last terror of the

death-struggle." And he clasped his hands tightly as he gazed upwards

in an agony of fear.

Suddenly a wide shadow darkened the waters, covering with its gloomy

wing the purple fence and the golden waves that flowed above the dead.

Antonio sought for the cause of this phenomenon, and saw far above in

the surging sea a low rock which he had not noticed before. Whether

the wild waves had torn it from the coast and driven it hither, or

whether the storm had forced it up from the bed of the ocean, he knew

not; but there it stood, dark and immovable, with the waves dashing

over it, and the sea serpent gliding round it in foaming coils.

Now he knew for what end the ocean was preparing all its horrors.

There, from the south, came a ship with well-filled sails, of firm,

substantial build, and guided by a skilful hand; it seemed to mock at

the terrors of the deep, for the deadly rock and the lurking serpent

were hidden beneath the water; the huge waves surged above both, and

covered them with their foam.

The captain of the stately vessel saw the heaving waves, but he knew

the powers of his noble ship. With flashing eye he stood on the deck,

calming the passengers with cheerful words, and shouting his orders to

the nimble sailors. He steered his ship confidently right over the

familiar track, in the midst of which the treacherous rock lay waiting

his approach.

Antonio watched the ship's advance. His terror-sharpened eye

distinguished every mast, every plank. It seemed to him as if he saw

smiling, happy, unsuspecting faces bending over the side and nodding

friendly greetings to him in his calm, safe depths below. He wrung his

hands in despair, and cried in his loudest voice, "Steer to the left;

oh! steer to the left, for to the right lurks double death." But the

next wave drowned the cry, and granted him not even the faintest echo.

Now, now must the end come--unavoidable and dread. Antonio covered his

eyes in trembling anguish. A sudden crash, one single piercing scream,

which with awful clearness rose above the roar of the ocean and the

hissing of the serpent, trembled through the waves, and thrilled

through Antonio's loudly-beating heart. His hands fell from his

blanched face, and he looked up through the sea.

The waves still rolled, the rock still stood in dreadful gloom, the

serpent still wound its frightful coils, but the scattered planks of

the broken vessel were driven round and round by the mad whirlpool,

and those who a moment before had smiled in the fulness of life and

happiness now wrestled with the waves. Strong men among them, who

would not part from life without a struggle, grasped after floating

planks, raised themselves above the waves, and looked round for their

dear ones. But the sea serpent came darting over the white-crested

billows, struck with its tail the floating timbers, and sent their

trembling burden down to the hungry depths.

Happy were those who, already choked by the water, had sunk down

unconscious to the bed of the ocean, there to slumber undisturbed. The

survivors were the prey of the monster. With its tail curled in horrid

rage, its green eyes flashing, and its vast jaws gaping wide, it

darted on every man whose powerful arm and stout heart would not give

up the struggle with the waves, and in a moment his death-cry was lost

in the sea serpent's horrid throat. With insatiable rage it glided

from one to another till all had perished, and not one was left to

carry home the dreadful tale. None would ever know the fate of the

goodly vessel and its precious freight.

Antonio had sunk on his knees, and his eyes had followed every motion

of the sea serpent till the dreadful work was done.

When all was over, the sea serpent rocked itself in horrid

satisfaction on the waves, and let them drive it at their will. But

the dark rock retained the power of motion, and sank slowly down into

the deep, making the waves foam and toss as they parted right and left

to let it pass. Then Antonio perceived that what at a distance he had

taken for a rock was a gigantic kraken, one of those sea monsters

which often lie quietly for years at the bottom of the ocean, then

rise to the surface and lurk with deadly purpose in the path of

unsuspecting men. He saw the supple, far-reaching polypus-arms, which,

grasping at the masts, had cracked them like reeds, and torn the

planks asunder with swifter and more complete destruction than the

mere force of the waves could have accomplished. The snaky limbs were

feeling aimlessly about the flood, groping down towards the soft

sea-bed where the monster would now fasten itself for a long period of

repose.

Antonio involuntarily shrank back, although the ocean, with its

billows and its still more dreadful monsters, could not break through

the coral fence or disturb the sparkling waters of the Gulf Stream. He

watched the kraken reach the bottom, settle down in its soft bed, and

draw in its long arms as for sleep. Then all became peaceful as

before.

The wild waves sank to rest, and the ocean flowed still and clear; a

deep blue sky arched overhead, the sun shot golden glances through the

billows, piercing to the lowest depths, and dyeing with amber light

the waves that flowed above the kraken, which lay like a long dark

hill not far from the coral fence, and parted from it by a narrow

current.

Antonio stepped back hesitatingly to the fence, and looked through. On

the sea-monster's back waved a forest of tall grass wrack, which had

taken root there during its long years of inaction. Through the waving

blades little fishes and sea-urchins glided fearlessly, and lazy

turtles crept along in the shade. But in the midst, as in a nest of

brown moss, lay something like a swan of dazzling whiteness, with

lifeless outstretched wings. Antonio was gazing fixedly on this

object, when a gleaming wave swept through the grass wrack, and raised

the dead swan's limbs. The next loosed it from its dreadful

resting-place, and bore it into the current which flowed towards the

place of the dead.

Nearer and nearer floated the bird, till it struck against the coral

network, and Antonio stretched out his arms to grasp it. Then he saw

that it was no swan, but a lovely maiden in a wide flowing garment,

whom the waves had hurled down from the ship to the sea monster's

back, and who had thus been borne to her grave. With a sorrowful heart

he caught her in his arms, lifted her through the coral fence, and

carried her to where the dead lay in their peaceful resting-place.

There he laid her by the old man's side, knelt beside the dead maiden,

and arranged the long fair hair, tossed by the waves, around the pale

but lovely face, and folded her marble hands as if in prayer.

The last duty was fulfilled, and he would now have been free to return

to the crystal castle, there to revel in new joy and splendour, but he

still knelt beside the maiden's corpse, looking dreamily into the

still, white face as one looks into a dim, far distance. He knew that

from her sleep there was no awaking; for in these deep waters no

living thing could breathe save one that wore, like him, the

sea-fairy's girdle; she was dead, and must slumber on till the

resurrection morn. The eyes remained closed, and the mouth could never

smile again, yet Antonio gazed at it as if it were about to tell him

some dear familiar tale--perhaps the story of his own life. Antonio

knew the sweet, innocent, tender face, but the flood of fear and

horror which had raged for hours in his soul had confused his

memories, and he only felt that the eyes and mouth now so firmly

closed in death had once smiled at him in love and friendship.

[Illustration: ANTONIO LAYS THE DEAD MAIDEN IN HER LAST

RESTING-PLACE.]

At last he rose, cast a last look on the lines of sleepers, stepped

back into the coral grove, and made his way through the shadowy paths

back to the sea-fairy's castle.

His ocean vision had lost its charm, the paradise of his childish

dreams was laid in ruins; the sunny waves, which so short a time

before had played around him with the soft warmth of summer breezes,

felt now so cold that he shuddered, and his breathing became laboured

and painful.

Again he rested in the hall of palms, and the stamens of the

lotos-blossom floated caressingly over his temples, in which the blood

now flowed more quickly, for the death-cry of the sinking crew still

rang in his ears, and before his eyes hovered the pale, beautiful

image of the dead maiden.

Where, ah! where had he seen those features? He looked up into the

waving summits of the palms. Could it have been on the banks of the

Ganges that such a mouth had smiled at him, from the band of Hindu

girls who passed him every evening with pitchers on their heads on

their way to fetch water from the sacred stream? No, no, it was not

there, nor in any of the favoured countries of the new world, that he

had seen that face, for there the maidens' hair was of a darker hue.

No; no foreign land had ever shown him those sweet features, and his

thoughts turned to his old, half-forgotten home.

The palm-trees beneath the crystal dome changed as he gazed into the

old wide-spreading lime-tree in his father's garden, and the song of

the waves in the fairy halls sounded in his ear like the tones of the

little organ which his father played at evening when the day's work

was done.

Antonio closed his eyes. Was it to call up more easily the old

long-forgotten scenes, or to hide the hot tears which started to his

eyes? It seemed to him as if he lay once more on the round bench below

the lime-tree, with his head on his tender mother's lap, and her soft

hand upon his brow; above him rustled the lime leaves, and through the

open windows floated the soft notes of his father's evening song.

Antonio lay there listening in silence. His mother sat with a happy

smile on her loved face, and by her side Antonio's old teacher, on

whose lips he and his wild companions hung in rapt attention, as he

told them of the strange lands which he had visited in his youth.

Oh, what a flood of memories rushed over Antonio's heart!--music and

fragrance, his mother's gentle hand, and the old man's wonderful

descriptions; and in the midst of all a tender, fairy-like child, in a

soft white dress and golden hair, who flitted like a sunbeam through

the garden paths! When she had gathered enough flowers, she came

softly up, sat down at her father's feet, and wove a garland; Antonio

kept his eyes closed, not to sleep, but to listen undisturbed. The

little one, thinking him asleep, rose softly and placed the garland on

his brow. Then he caught her hands, and playfully held her fast; but

she bent over him till her fair locks touched his cheeks and

whispered, "Be quiet, Tony; thy father is telling a story, and does

not like to be interrupted;" and she looked down at him and smiled.

The riddle was solved at last. It was she. It was the sweet child to

whom his wild boyish heart had gone out in tender love, and whose

image had gone with him into distant lands till it faded before the

brilliant, ever-changing scenes through which he passed. But now it

stood before him in its old beauty, and he loved her as though they

had parted yesterday--now, when she lay cold and stiff among the dead.

He rose, clasped his hands in anguish, and looked up at the crystal

roof, through which the evening sky sent all the bright hues of a

northern sunset. But all that he had loved to look on here had no

beauty for him now. Within was melody and song and unearthly

splendour; without, death, horror, and unutterable grief. He sprang

up, ran as if hunted through the glittering halls, and out to the

plain before the castle; but the floods which were wont to send

fragrance and song and radiance to hail his coming seemed to him now

filled with deadly darkness, and the sound of their waves was like

suppressed sobbing.