He turned away shuddering, and, for the first time since he came to

the fairy's kingdom, he directed his steps to the coral gate which

parted the Gulf Stream from the darker billows of the ocean. He passed

out, and walked in gloomy silence over the sand, which to-day seemed

to have lost its golden glitter. Soon he stood at the spot where the

crystal steps ended, and he looked up longingly through the heaving

flood.

"Oh that I could return just once to the free fresh air," he

sighed--"to my old forsaken home!" And his wish was fulfilled, for he

still wore the starry girdle which made the elements obedient to his

will. The waves parted like the petals of a lily, and formed

themselves into glassy steps. With a shout of joy Antonio placed his

foot on the lowest one, and he scarcely knew whether he moved himself

or whether the water lifted him from step to step. He saw the blue

waters become clearer and clearer, until he stood on the last step,

his head rose above the waves, and he drew deep breaths of his native

air.

With flashing eye and heaving breast Antonio looked westwards, where

the sun's radiant ball rested on a bed of purple clouds, while the

reflection fell in roseate and amber shadows over the whole heaven,

and the distant billows flowed like a mantle of royal purple.

But the waves which bore Antonio to the strand dashed up golden spray

just as on that summer evening when he descended to the fairy-land

below the sea. There lay also the red rock at which he had first seen

the fairy, and with a sigh he bent his steps in that direction. Was

there not some one sitting there now? Antonio shaded his eyes with his

hand, for he was still dazzled by the unaccustomed light. It was no

illusion. There, where the fairy once sat, was to-day a bent and aged

figure, and instead of the golden locks flowed silvery hair about the

temples.

"A human being!" was Antonio's first ecstatic thought as he ran across

the strand.

"Good evening, sir," he cried joyfully.

The old man raised his weary head, and his sad eyes rested with

indifference upon the youth. But the last few hours had changed

Antonio. The veil had fallen from his eyes and heart, and he saw now

with the keen true eye of childhood. The hair on the old man's head

had indeed grown whiter since he saw it last, and sorrow had graven

its deep lines on the high forehead; but it was the same clear-cut

mouth to whose words Antonio had once listened with burning eagerness,

and in the dark eyes still flashed something of the old fire. It was

his aged teacher, the father of the pale, beautiful maiden among the

dead in the ocean depths.

"Do you not know me, revered sir?" asked Antonio, with faltering

voice, as he bowed in courteous greeting.

The old man looked at him again.

"No," he said slowly, "I did not notice you among the crew; but though

you are a stranger, I am glad that you are saved. I thought I was the

only survivor from the shipwreck."

"Look at me once more, sir," said Antonio, trying to steady his

faltering voice, "and turn back a few pages in your life's history.

Think of a little garden, and of an old lime-tree beneath whose leafy

roof you often sat, while the sweet tones of an organ thrilled through

the summer air."

The old man's eyes shone more brightly, and his lips trembled.

"Antonio!" he stammered out, "Antonio!" and his white head sank on the

shoulder of his favourite pupil, who knelt before him with his arm

wound in filial tenderness round the childless man.

"Oh, Antonio! I have lost my child to-day, only to-day. She would not

let me go alone to the distant north, to which some luckless impulse

drove me in my old age, and so she came with me on my toilsome

journey. Today we struck on a hidden reef, and the same wave which

dashed her against the dark rock drove me, despite my struggling, on

this barren strand, though I would fain lie with my darling child

below the waves."

The old man covered his face with his hands, and Antonio did not

venture on any words of consolation.

"If I could even find her corpse," said the poor old man at last, "I

could bury her at home; but even the sad consolation of visiting her

grave is denied me."

"She has found a better resting-place than you could give her," said

Antonio--"she sleeps on a golden bed; a coral grove surrounds the

spot; corruption has no power over her fair features, and no worm can

touch her. Amid noble companions she slumbers, while the sunbeams kiss

her snowy eyelids, and the warm waters of the Gulf Stream flow gently

over her."

"How do you know all this, Antonio?" asked the old man in

astonishment.

And Antonio told him about that evening when he met the beautiful

sea-fairy at this very rock, and descended with her into her ocean

kingdom, there to live in forgetfulness of home and friends, until,

awakened by what he had seen and felt to-day, the old memories

acquired new power over him, and throbbed more strongly than ever in

his soul.

"What will you do now, my son?" asked the old man.

"I will go home with you," Antonio answered promptly. "I will be to

you a devoted and obedient son, if you will but let me."

The old man gazed at him with beaming eyes.

"Then let us go," he said, rising, "for I long to leave this place of

horror. In a few hours we shall reach the little harbour in which we

cast anchor yesterday evening, and there we can embark in a

homeward-bound ship."

"Let it be as you will, my father," replied Antonio. "But one duty

remains yet unfulfilled. If the sea-fairy had led me by deceit or

violence into her kingdom, flight would be but right; but I went of my

own free will, bound myself to obedience and unchanging fidelity, and

enjoyed her kindness and hospitality. It seems to me cowardly and

ungrateful to go away secretly, without a word of thanks or of

farewell, and the thought of this would destroy my happiness at home.

To-day she is to return. I will go to meet her, tell her what broke

the spell of her kingdom, and beg her to let me go in peace, and with

her blessing. Wait for me here. The air of this zone is soft, and its

night skies clear. Before the bright night changes to the brighter

day, I will come back to leave you no more."

He kissed the old man's hand, and went towards the sea. Meantime the

fairy had returned. The open coral gate and the empty halls of her

palace told her that Antonio was gone. Her soul was filled with grief

and rage. He was one, indeed, of that faithless race whom she already

knew and hated; but his eye and heart had still that divine image

which she sought in vain among the cold, dumb creatures of the ocean,

and in comparison with which the beauty and harmony of her fairy realm

seemed poor and unsatisfying. He had become very dear to her. She had

begun to believe in his fidelity only to find herself once more

deceived. But, as she had told him, the weak pity of mortals found no

room in her heart. She did not complain, and no word of anger escaped

her firm-set lips. She would go up to punish the faithless one, if he

was still within her reach, according to her former threatenings.

She passed through the coral gate to the place where the heaving steps

led to the world above. She beckoned, and the rocking staircase grew

firm beneath her tread. Just as she set her foot on the first step,

Antonio began to descend. They met half-way in the midst of the sea.

Antonio trembled, as she stood before him in the full splendour of her

magic beauty and her overwhelming majesty and might, and his soul

shrank from her, and turned with ardent longing to his own loved home.

"Whence comest thou?" she asked sternly, although her keen ear heard

the story of the last few hours in the louder beating of his heart.

"Whence comest thou?" Then he gathered courage to tell her all, and

begged her to let him go in peace.

"Rememberest thou not that summer evening when thou insistedst on

coming with me, notwithstanding my warning?" she asked in the same

severe tone.

"Yes," Antonio faltered.

"And dost thou not remember my threat, and thy demand that I should

punish thee if thou shouldst break thy faith?"

"I remember it all," Antonio said, with trembling lips.

"And in the face of all this dread and certain future dost thou still

dream of leaving me?"

"I cannot do otherwise," he cried passionately; "the ocean kingdom has

lost its charm since I have seen the gulf of irreconcilable enmity

which divides it from my race--since it has robbed me of what was once

my heart's dearest treasure. No, proud lady, let me go; I should be

henceforth but a dismal guest."

Her eyes grew dark and fathomless as the deep sea beneath them.

"Go," she said slowly, "but first loose thy girdle."

He drew a deep breath of hope and delight, took the starry girdle from

his waist, and gave it to the fairy. She took it, looked once more

into his face, and glided down over the breaking steps.

Antonio turned to seek the upper world, but the stair above him had

vanished, the step on which his foot rested melted from beneath him,

and he found himself floating through the dark, deep waters. But the

waves flowed no longer soft and free as spring breezes over his head

and breast. With his girdle he had given up his power over them, and

now he was but a weak mortal struggling with the raging elements. The

waves roared round him, and tossed him hither and thither like a

ball, while he strove in vain to breathe. He looked up to measure the

distance, then he struggled with all the strength of despair against

the waves. His young strong arm bore him upwards; once more he raised

his head above the flood and breathed the air of heaven. His eye

sought the red rock on which his old teacher sat, with his arms

stretched out helplessly towards his adopted son, whose desperate

struggles he had no power to help.

"I am coming, I am coming, my father," he cried confidently, but a

giant billow swept over the youth and hurled him down into the boiling

deep.

The evening hues were fading from the ocean, and the old man still

stood beside the rock, his hands clasped, and his eyes gazing fixedly

on the now tranquil deep. A dark object came floating from the west,

and the waves left it on the beach almost at the old man's feet. He

raised his dark eyes and looked at the motionless form, then he rose

and walked with tottering footsteps to the spot. There lay Antonio,

pale, cold, and dead. He had kept his word; before the bright night

had passed into the brighter morning he had come back, but not as he

had dreamed and hoped. The old man's trembling hands dug his grave at

the foot of the red rock where Antonio had first seen the fairy. Then

he turned his footsteps towards his distant, lonely home.

As soon as evening came again to visit earth and ocean, the sea-fairy

rose through the waves, went up to the rock, and sat down beside the

rock beneath which Antonio lay. There she sat, silent and motionless,

her white hands lying idly in her lap, and her dreamy eyes looking

out on the heaving billows; but down her beautiful face ran great

tears, that shone in the light of the setting sun, and told the pain

that throbbed in her proud and lonely heart.

Not till the hues of evening gave place to the rosy tints of dawn did

the sea-fairy go back to her ocean kingdom, never to return to earth.

No mortal eye has since beheld her, and the old saga of the sea-fairy

is no longer heard along the coast of Norway.

Antonio's resting-place is desolate, as of old. It is known only to

the Norwegian sky, which looks down brightily and sunnily upon it, and

the little waves sometimes dash over it, sparkling like the

sea-fairy's tears.

The Faithful Goblin.

[Illustration: FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH PUCK.]

A Castle stood long years ago on a lofty hill in the old land of

Hesse. Not a stone of its proud walls is now standing, and even its

site is well-nigh forgotten by tradition; but in those days its high

pinnacles were seen for miles over the country, and a haughty and

noble race ruled in its halls.

The beams of the setting sun were falling through the little

lead-framed window-panes into a round turret chamber, and rested on

the fair hair of a lovely little girl. She was kneeling on an

arm-chair beside the window, leaning her head on her little rounded

arms, and weeping silent but bitter tears.

"Oh, Margaret, Margaret, why are you so long?" she cried at length,

sobbing aloud, as she slipped down from her seat and ran to the door;

but the massive door of the castle chamber was too high for the little

hand to reach to open it, and the thick oaken panels kept any sound of

her crying from reaching friendly ears.

Everybody was far away--everybody, even Margaret her nurse, who,

forgetful of her duty, had left the child alone while she was watching

what was going on at the splendid banquet which was being given to

celebrate the betrothal of the eldest daughter of the noble house.

"Oh, Margaret, dear Margaret, come to your little Maude!" cried the

child again, as she rose on tiptoe and tried to open the lofty door.

But her efforts were in vain, her entreaties all unheard; and at last

she went back to the window, for it was beginning to grow gradually

dusk in the high-ceiled turret chamber. She climbed up again to the

arm-chair, leaned her arm against the window-sill, and looked with

silent weeping into the glowing red of the evening sky, where little

white clouds were swimming like swans in a sea of crimson.

"Maude, Maude!" said a clear voice suddenly at the other side of the

room.

The child turned her head in astonishment; at the fireplace there

stood a little boy, not any bigger than herself, and with just the

same lovely golden hair and rosy face. His coat was of red velvet, and

his feet were encased in little buckskin boots, richly embroidered

with costly pearls.

Maude's tears forgot to flow. Half terrified, half delighted, she kept

her eyes fixed on the form of the beautiful little stranger, and at

last she asked shyly, "Who are you, little boy, and how did you get

in? The door is still shut!"

The little fellow laughed merrily, and came towards Maude's chair.

"Ah, Maude! you have known me this long time. Just think now; doesn't

Margaret always threaten to call me when you won't go to sleep at once

at night?"

"You don't mean to say you are Puck, our castle goblin, who has played

so many tricks on people that everybody is afraid of him?" asked the

little girl quite fearlessly; "but they always speak of him as old and

wrinkled."

"Yes, I am he," nodded the little boy; "but I only tease wicked people

who tease me, and I am old and ugly only in their eyes. But I will not

tease you, but serve you whenever I can, and play with you when

Margaret leaves you alone, so that you need not be afraid of me. Would

you like that, Maude?"

"Indeed I should," said the child, with beaming eyes, "I am so often

alone, now that dear mother is dead. Father is always out hunting. I

am too little for my sisters, and Margaret so often goes to gossip

with the other servants, and shuts me up here. She has been so long

away now that I am hungry, and it is getting dark, and she is not

coming with candles and supper."

"You shall have both immediately, Maude; just wait a minute!" cried

the little boy eagerly, as he hastened back to the fire, swung himself

up by the iron bars, and climbed nimbly and easily up the chimney.

Maude had got down from her chair, and was standing in astonishment

looking up after him.

"Oh! you will spoil your lovely coat, dear Puck!" she cried anxiously;

but the only answer was a merry laugh from the goblin. Then all was

still, and the little fellow had vanished.

She stood with clasped hands, looking expectantly up the dark, strange

road which little Puck had chosen. She felt that it was all so

mysterious, and yet so delightful; it was just like waiting on

Christmas Eve for the presents. Then there was a rustling and

clattering away high up, and quick as a squirrel the little fellow

clambered down the sooty wall, and in a twinkling he laid his burden

down before the astonished child.

"Just wait a minute," he cried merrily, "and you will see how light it

will be!"

As he spoke he climbed up the wall, and in a moment the silver sconces

were radiant with lighted wax candles.

The little girl clapped her hands in delight.

"That is not all," said the goblin with an air of importance; "just

look here."

He opened the basket which he had brought with him. With magic

quickness, the table was covered and set with the daintiest dishes.

Maude needed no pressing to taste them.

"Oh you good Puck," she said gratefully, "how kind you are to me! Did

Margaret give you all that?"

"Margaret, indeed!" answered the goblin, growling; "she has no time to

think of you. She is too busy staring at what's going on, and tasting

stolen bits."

"But who gave you all this--this delicious cake and this splendid pie?

This must surely be the dish that Margaret says cook is so proud of!"

"Yes, that it is!" said the little fellow, nodding; "and the guests

made such faces when it suddenly vanished from before their eyes that

I nearly died with laughing at them--ha, ha, ha!"

"Vanished?" asked the child in astonishment.

"Yes, vanished!" laughed Puck; "do you think they would have given it

of their own accord; I put on my cap, so that they did not see me, and

then I packed up everything that I thought you would like."

Maude dropped the bit that she was just putting to her mouth, and

gazed incredulously at her little friend.

"What do you mean?" she asked anxiously.

The little fellow laughed heartily.

"Look," said he, as soon as he was able to control himself; "do you

see this little red cap? I have had it under my arm all the time I

have been talking to you; now I am going to put it on!"

In a moment he had vanished from the child's sight--though she peered

anxiously about the room, she could see nothing. Not a gleam of his

red coat nor of his golden hair was to be seen at all, yet his clear

laugh close beside her told her that he was there and as near as ever.

"Oh, Puck, dear Puck, don't play such tricks, please," she begged; "I

am afraid when you do that."

That instant he stood again before her, handsome and merry, shaking

his golden locks and smiling.

"You must not be frightened," he said soothingly; "I will always be

visible for you, and my cap will only be used in your service. Now

give me something to eat. No, not that cake! Break me some white bread

into this dish, and pour some nice white milk over it; that's what I

have been accustomed to for generations. In your great-grandfather's

time the good maid used to leave me some every evening, and in return

I used to help with all sorts of work about the house. Now, men are

not so good-natured, and won't give me my dues, and so I don't care to

be friendly with them."

"My good Puck," said the little girl, handing him his bowl, "you shall

want for nothing now! I get white bread and milk every evening for

supper, and I will always go shares with you."

Then the friends ate their supper with keen appetites, chatting all

the while like old acquaintances. At last sleep overcame the tired

child. Then Puck sat at the foot of her couch, and sang a strange,

soft, sweet lullaby. As soon as Maude was asleep, the goblin busied

himself in removing all the traces of their feast; and when Margaret

returned late at night, with many misgivings about her neglected duty,

she found the child in a quiet sleep, instead of being, as she feared,

ready to receive her with bitter reproaches.

Margaret breathed more freely, and resolved to be more mindful of her

charge in future. For a few days she kept her resolution faithfully,

but she soon began to slip out in the twilight to chat with a friend,

only for a few minutes, as she assured Maude. It was not long till the

minutes became a half-hour, and in a week or two she had forgotten all

her repentance and good resolutions, and poor little Maude would have

had cause again for bitter tears if it had not been for her little

friend.

Scarcely had the door closed after Margaret, when the goblin popped

his fair head out of the chimney, and sprang into the room with a

merry greeting. Then Maude would clap her hands with delight, for now

began the pleasantest hour of the day. There was no end to the stories

that Puck could tell for her entertainment. For hours together, while

her nurse was away, the child sat motionless, with clasped hands,

listening with bated breath to tales about days long gone by. For

hundreds of years the little goblin had lived in the castle as an

honoured member of the household, and his memory preserved more

faithfully than the family chronicle the history of every individual

of the long ancestral line. And before the astonished child the grave

seemed opened, and the forefathers who had long since mingled with the

dust all passed in the bloom of youth before her eyes. Then she would

go to the ancestral hall, and standing before the pictures gaze at

them, now in love, now in horror, for she knew the story connected

with each one of the old portraits.

No one in the whole castle knew of the child's friendship with Puck.

She was afraid that the servants might tease him if they knew of his

presence, or perhaps drive him away, so she kept her secret

carefully.

It was winter. The snow lay deep, the storm howled at night and

whistled in the wide chimney, and the windows were covered with thick

frost.

"Poor Puck," said Maude one evening, as the goblin came down the

chimney, his teeth chattering with cold, "I cannot allow you to stay

any longer up there. See, your hair is white with frost and snow, and

you are trembling all over."

"Yes, yes," said the little fellow; "it is very cold."

"Look here, then," said the child, going to her dolls' corner, and

drawing aside the curtain; "I have turned out the dollies. You shall

have the big four-post bed, and in the day-time you can stay here too.

I have set a little table and chair for you, so that you may have

something like a little room till the summer comes."

So all winter long Puck crept at night into the warm, soft little bed,

instead of springing back at Margaret's return up the cold dark

chimney.

Spring came with its primroses and fleecy clouds, and then followed

summer with its splendour of flowers in field and grove.

And now Maude and her nurse used to go out into the woods, to the

child's intense delight. But one day Margaret found the sun too warm

and the way too long for her lazy mood, and was easily persuaded to

sit down and rest while Maude ran to gather wild strawberries.

Scarcely was she out of sight of her nurse when Puck, who had

invisibly accompanied her, took off his cap, threw it into the air

with a shout, and stood before his little friend laughing his own

merry laugh. What delightful hours those were! What rich beds of

strawberries Puck knew--what choice flowers he could find! Then, when

the child was tired, she threw herself down on the moss, with Puck at

her side, and they both gazed up into the green tree-tops.

The goblin understood the language of Nature. He heard what the trees

whispered to each other about the trees of Paradise, with the golden

stems and the flowers of precious stones; he understood the song of

the nightingale as he sang to his mate about the beauty of the bird

Phoenix and its undying youth; he saw the beetles gleaming in the

grass, and heard even their soft sounds as they talked about their

brothers in the distant Indies, whose wings gleam so like emeralds

that the dark-eyed Hindoo women use them to deck their raven hair; and

even the silent, lifeless stone had an intelligible language for

Puck--it told him of the diamonds far away beyond the seas, which the

poor slave seeks with eager eyes, trying to find one large enough to

purchase his freedom. All this he understood, and told the child about

it as she listened in silent rapture, and gazed up into the whispering

trees.

Thus, in pleasant alternation, the seasons rolled by, and Maude

blossomed into maidenly grace and loveliness. She had become her

father's darling. Many an hour that he had formerly spent at the chase

or at the wine-cup he now passed with his daughter, amused with her

astonishing tales out of the family history. But she never would tell

him how she got all her knowledge, for she shrank from bringing

trouble on the faithful goblin, who still continued to be her friend,

and the companion of her hours of solitude.

Maude's only unmarried sister, Gertrude, was about to be united to a

brave young knight, whom she had chosen in preference to a powerful

but universally dreaded Earl, whose castle stood at no great distance.

At the marriage, Maude appeared for the first time among the grown-up

people, and, as befitted the occasion, she received as attendant page

the son of a neighbouring nobleman, who, being an old friend of her

father's, had allowed his son to come and learn knightly service in

the household of Maude's father, preparatory to his filling an office

in the Imperial Court. He was a handsome youth, a little older than

his young mistress, with brown hair and dark, dreamy eyes, and Maude

took an innocent pleasure in the beauty of her future attendant; but

Puck looked not well pleased when she told him about her new page.

"I will send him away if I don't like him," said he angrily.

"Oh no, dear, dear Puck, you must not do that!" said Maude coaxingly.

"If you love me, be kind to him; he is motherless, as I am."

But the little goblin was offended for the first time since the

beginning of their friendship, and when Maude went to rest he refused

the soft little doll's bed that had grown so dear to him, and sprang

instead up the chimney to the top of the tower. There he sat looking

gloomily up at the stars, and many were the sad thoughts that chased

each other through his ancient breast.

Next morning, when Gero came to the turret chamber with a bouquet of

flowers for his young mistress, he found Puck seated beside her in the

window-sill watching her at her spinning. The goblin had put on his

invisible cap at Gero's entrance, but it was of no avail, for the page

had been born during the ember weeks, and could see the little fellow

in spite of the charm.

"Why, Lady Maude," he cried in angry astonishment, "who is this that

you have in your company? It cannot surely be one of the goblins who

do so much mischief."

"Puck has been my friend and companion from my childhood up," said

Maude, a little hotly; "and I have to thank him for many a pleasant

hour."

"That may be," answered Gero, "but he must not take my place with my

mistress. And now your palfrey is ready, and I will escort you on your

ride."

Then the goblin's wrath broke loose. He called Gero a proud fool, and

said he would not let him interfere with him. Then he followed Maude,

who descended the winding turret stair, her mind full of distress at

the discord between her companions. When she sprang to her saddle at

the castle gate, Puck jumped up behind her, as was his wont, and went

trotting merrily off with her down the mountain. But his pleasure was

not to last long, for scarcely had they reached the broad, even road,

when Gero rode up to the side of his lady's horse, caught little Puck

suddenly, and set him before himself on his saddle.

The goblin would have been able easily to free himself from the hand

of the youth, if it had not been that Gero had wisely taken possession

of the invisible cap, and all the little fellow's efforts to release

himself only increased his tormentor's mockery. At last, when Gero set

him down again at the castle gate, Puck clenched his little fist, and

growled, "I will pay you back for this."

[Illustration: "GERO CAUGHT PUCK SUDDENLY AND SET HIM BEFORE HIM ON

HIS SADDLE."]

From this time on the page had little peace. At night Puck would slip

into his room, and disturb his sleep with all sorts of malicious

tricks; and once he even lifted Gero from his bed, and laid him down

close to the edge of the great well, hoping that, waking with a start,

he might fall into the cold, deep water. Gero escaped the danger, but

the adventure taught him to keep on terms of at least outward peace

with his little foe.

Maude did her part towards preserving this show of harmony by

allowing Gero alone to accompany her when she went to walk or ride,

and by granting the little goblin the old cosy morning and twilight

hours.

Puck accepted this arrangement with some grumbling. When the hour came

for the ride, he would mount to the top of the tower, and look after

the riders, as they trotted along so cheerfully, with a sad look in

his eyes.

"But he can't tell her stories like mine," he said exultingly; "no, he

can't take my place there."

No indeed; the young page had never listened to the language of

Nature, but he had delightful things to tell about tournaments and

noble deeds, and the soft voice of the forest trees began to die

gradually from the girl's soul, overpowered by the noise and bustle of

life.

Very pleasantly the maiden's days went by. The morning hours in the

turret chamber grew more and more dear to her; the rides in the green

wood and the tales of the unknown world had every day new charms; and

in the warm evenings her wise goblin friend used to tell her wonderful

things about the stars, as the two stood on the top of the old tower

watching the far-off lights peep out one by one.

One night, as she lay dreaming sweet dreams, woven out of memories of

the day's delights, she was awakened by Puck's sudden call.

"Quick, quick! do you not hear anything?" cried the little fellow

anxiously; "rise and flee for your freedom and your life."

Maude started up in terror.

"What is wrong?" she cried.

"The powerful Earl, whom your sister refused, has heard that your

father is absent, and has come to take a mean revenge by robbing your

father of his wealth and of his child."

"What am I to do, good Puck?" cried Maude in bitter anguish, clasping

her trembling hands.

"Dress quickly, and let us go."

"Through the midst of the enemy?" asked the maiden, trembling, for she

heard the oaken stairs creaking with the tramp of many feet.

"Yes, right through the midst of the enemy," said Puck, "but not

without my cap. Cover me with your cloak, and put this on your head.

Now, no one can see us."

So they passed unseen through the midst of the rough soldiers. Once

Maude nearly betrayed herself when she saw Gero fighting single-handed

against a multitude of foes. The winding stair that led to his lady's

turret chamber was narrow enough to be defended by one, and with the

courage of a lion he guarded the way to the place where he believed

his precious charge to be.

How hard it was for Maude to keep from telling him that his efforts

were needless! But Puck laid his little hand against her lips, and

forced her to silence.

"Puck, dear Puck, can you not save him?" cried the maiden, in

distress, when they were once outside the castle walls.

"Not till your safety is beyond a doubt," said the little goblin

resolutely; "not till you are away in the depth of the forest, where

they will never be able to find you."

With trembling haste Maude ran towards the wood, but the way was long,

and her eager feet tottered under her. Turning to look towards the

castle, she saw flames bursting from door and window. Still more

anxiously she pressed on till the tall forest trees hid the castle

from her sight. Even then Puck refused to leave her.

"Would Gero, who has, I confess, done his duty by you--would he, since

he seems to love you, wish me to go back to save him a little trouble,

and leave you unsheltered?"

Further and further they went through the very scenes where Puck had

spent so many pleasant hours with his child-friend. But now, the trees

that used to whisper so softly looked down like grim giants, and the

night-wind in the branches howled "Flee!"

Suddenly a gleam of light broke on their path with a mild silvery

radiance. A gentle murmur of water fell on the wanderer's ear, and in

a few minutes they stood by the side of a valley, which here,

forgotten by the world, lay like a home of peace in the heart of the

forest.

There, in the shelter of a mossy rock, stood the cosy cottage of the

old forest-warden. The moonbeams flashed back from the single window,

and trembled on the stone bench before the door. The cottage was

uninhabited, for the good old man whose home it had once been had

years since passed away, and his office had never been filled. Yet

nothing bore traces of decay. There was even a bright fire on the

hearth, and a boiling kettle hung upon the hook above it. For the old

forest-warden had been a good friend to Puck, and the little fellow

loved to keep the little cottage as neat and homelike as it used to

be.

Maude smiled gratefully as she looked around. "Thanks, dear Puck," she

said; "now hasten back to Gero. I will lie down on this nice bed of

fragrant moss, and I will not be afraid, I promise you."

When Puck returned, he found that the maiden's weariness had overcome

her anxiety, but he knew by the tears that trembled on her eyelashes

that she was thinking, even in dreams, of her brave page, and he

dreaded to tell her when she awoke that he had not been able to find

any trace of the faithful Gero. A great portion of the turret stair

had fallen in, and among the bodies that lay piled beneath its ruins

it was impossible to distinguish any one.

When the maiden woke, she almost for a moment fancied herself in her

own turret chamber, for there, at the open window, stood the

richly-carved arm-chair, the one carefully-preserved souvenir of her

sainted mother, where Maude had so often sat and chatted with her

little friend, and there in the corner stood her harp and the silver

spindle, with its snowy thread.

But alas! she soon remembered the terrors of the night, and when, in

answer to her questioning look, Puck told her, with faltering voice,

his fears for Gero, the maiden's grief found vent in bitter weeping.

But Puck would not allow her to dwell on these sad thoughts. Drawing

aside a curtain that hung against the wall, he disclosed to her

astonished eyes the portraits of her dear parents, which had hung

just so in her own room at home. And while she stood gazing on the

beloved faces, her hands clasped in silent emotion, the flame was

crackling on the hearth beneath the bubbling kettle, and Puck was

rummaging in cupboards and chests, rattling with plates and cups, and

preparing a meal for himself and his dear charge.

Maude, with the happy buoyancy of youth, half forgot her trouble of

the night, while her colour came back with the needed food, and her

heart was cheered by Puck's pleasant chatter, so willing was she to

believe his prophecies of better days.

"You must stay here, Maude," he said, "until your father returns, and

till he has punished the wicked Earl for his malice. For you would not

be as safe, even in your father's protection, as here in this forest

retreat. So be patient, and I will give you back in time to your

friends, even to Gero, if he still lives, though that will be the

hardest thing of all. But I know now that he was worthy of you, or he

could not have fought as he did last night. It was nobly done!"

And the little fellow rubbed his hands with delight, which he felt, in

spite of himself, in thinking of that valiant defence.

"You would have been friends yet if he had lived," said Maude

tearfully. "Two such dear, good people could not have been enemies all

their lives."

Days and weeks passed by, and still Maude was kept in her place of

concealment. From time to time Puck went out to see what was going on

between the hostile noblemen. The report brought back was always the

same--"The Earl is sending out spies--I see them lurking in all

directions--to find out your retreat, for they seem to know that you

escaped the fire, or to suspect it from not finding your body among

the dead. He wants to take you now as a hostage against your father's

vengeance." Then, when Maude's cheek would pale at the words, he would

add, "But they cannot find you in the midst of this thicket."

So the maiden still stayed in the forest cottage, and if her grief

about Gero and her longing for her beloved father had not gnawed at

her heart, she could have been nearly as happy in the lovely valley as

she was once in her old home.

Puck was at work every morning by break of day, as if he wanted to

make up for a century of idleness, nor would he ever allow Maude to

share his household toil. But she sat spinning on the stone bench at

the door, while he bustled cheerily about the little cottage. Then,

when all the work was done, they would go into the wood, and it seemed

as if the old days had come back again. For they still lay on the soft

moss gazing into the shady trees while Puck told his marvellous

stories.

Autumn and winter came, and the leisure hours were spent now by the

cheery fire that burned on the clean-swept hearth. Never was there

such a servant or such a merry companion as the little faithful

goblin.

At last spring came. And now Puck went away every day to see what was

going on at the wicked Earl's castle, for Maude's father had laid

siege to his enemy's stronghold, hoping to force him to give up the

dear one whom he believed to be imprisoned within those walls. Puck

never let the sorrowing father know of his child's safety, for he did

not wish her to be removed from his protection till her powerful enemy

had been reduced by war, or even slain.

As the wood grew greener, the hopes of the besiegers waxed daily

brighter. The fall of the castle was sure, and its defence could last

but a few days longer.

This was the news which Puck brought home one day as he came to the

noonday meal, and when he again went out to get further information,

or, if possible, lend, unseen, a helping hand to the besiegers, Maude

sat on the stone bench before the cottage, and tried to busy her

trembling fingers with her spinning. But Puck was longer absent than

usual, and she asked herself anxiously should she regard it as a good

sign or the contrary.

At last she could stand it no longer. She rose and went along the

narrow path by which she had come to her place of refuge. She had

never before ventured alone through those forest shades; but the birds

sang sweetly as she passed along, and she thought their cheerful

voices bid her hope.

Soon she came to the scenes familiar to her from her childhood. Here

was the place where Margaret used to sit and rest, and there--what

memories filled her soul with sad emotion!--there was the old

oak-stump on which she had sat by Gero's side, as he told her of the

great world of which she knew so little. And now the eloquent mouth

was silent, and her faithful page had fallen in her defence, for

Puck, in all his journeys to the castle, had never seen Gero among the

besiegers.

She leant her head against a tree-stem, and wept long and bitterly.

Then she raised her head to take one more look at the sacred spot. But

were her tear-filled eyes deceiving her? There sat, as if lost in

painful memories, a tall, manly form in gleaming armour, with a

well-remembered sash of silver and blue across his breast.

Maude uttered a cry. The knight raised his head, and she looked into a

familiar, but now pale and grief-marked face.

"Gero, Gero!" she cried, forgetting every other feeling in her wild

delight, and rushing with outstretched arms to where he stood.

The young knight's brain swam. At first he thought the sweet

apparition must be his dear one's spirit; but no, he clasped in his

arms the trembling form of the lost maiden.

For one moment she lay sobbing on his breast; then, recollecting

herself, she tore herself blushing from his arms.

"Forgive me, Gero, my surprise overcame me. So you are alive, and I

had mourned for you as dead."

"Did you mourn for me, lady?" asked the young knight. "Thanks for the

sweet assurance. I too sorrowed--oh! how deeply--for your loss; and

to-day I rose from what I thought would be my death-bed, and came to

visit the spot where we had spent so many happy hours together, here

to indulge my grief undisturbed. The wicked Earl who caused our

trouble fell to-day in the storming of his own castle, but great was

our disappointment not to find you anywhere within its walls. And now

you are here, and I am not deceived by a blessed dream!"

"No, it is no dream," said Maude joyfully; "but now let us hasten to

relieve my father's grief."

As they went together through the wood, Maude told the knight how Puck

had saved her, and how he had cared for her in the lonely valley.

"The brave little goblin!" cried Gero, as she finished. "Let bygones

be bygones; we will be friends henceforth."

They had now reached the blackened ruins of Maude's former home, but,

in the joy of dispelling the grief from the dear face of her father,

who stood gazing, in deep sadness, on the scene of desolation, the

maiden forgot to mourn at the wreck before her.

Ere the sun set, Gero and Maude were formally betrothed, and the work

was at once begun of repairing the ruined castle. Meantime, Maude

found a home with her future father-in-law, who was delighted to

welcome as a daughter the child of his trusted friend; and Puck found

no lack of employment among the busy builders, who wondered sometimes

what made the work progress so quickly.

Before another spring the castle stood in more than its old strength

and greatness, and no part had received such careful attention as the

turret where Puck had made the lonely child his friend.

No guest at Gero's wedding received such marked deference and

attention from the bridegroom as his former enemy, and the servants

of the new household, catching their tone from their master, treated

little Puck with kindness such as he had experienced at the hands of

former generations.

The turret chamber was his home henceforth, and all through the long

winter Maude's children loved to gather there at twilight, and coax

the merry goblin to join them in their games, or tell them tales of

the old days of the castle. But perhaps their mother's story was the

one that they loved best--the story about the old enmity that changed

to such firm friendship between the Lady Maude's page and her faithful

goblin.

THE FALLEN BELL.

[Illustration: THE STORM HURLS THE BELL INTO THE STREAM.]

Ere the light of the Gospel had shone on the benighted land of Saxony,

there stood on the green banks of the Saale a stately temple, within

whose walls a throng of ignorant worshippers presented the offering of

praise and of sacrifice to the gods who had been honoured, as they

believed, by their remotest ancestors. Then came Charlemagne, who cast

out the heathen gods of Saxony, threw down their altars, and

introduced Christianity. Among the rest fell the temple on the banks

of the Saale. The Christian priest with pious zeal seized the idol

which had there been worshipped, and hurled it into the river. From

that time on, the rejected god lived as a water-sprite down in the

waters of the Saale, cherishing a deadly hatred against the new

religion, which had robbed him of his old-established rights. On the

site of his former shrine rose now a cloister, and the bell, whose

deep rich voice reached even the dwelling of the water-elf, stirring

up afresh his bitter wrath and jealousy, called the inhabitants of the

surrounding district to the new God and His sanctuary.

But the old honoured faith did not so easily die out from the hearts

of the Saxons, and though they were obliged to join in the

newly-enforced worship, they clung long to their ancient divinities,

and secretly brought them the usual sacrifices.

At last the power of the Gospel triumphed, and the innocent child who

had yearly been offered to the water-spirit on St. John's day was now

withheld.

Wild was the rage of the mortified elf. All day long he watched among

the willows on the bank, whence he could look unseen far over the

fields, to see if they had really forgotten him. No sacrifice was

brought. He felt that the last vestige of his power was gone. In

gloomy anger against the thankless race, he resolved to take by force

the victim of which he had been cheated.

A lovely child approached the bank, heedless of danger, holding in its

tiny hand a bunch of forget-me-nots. Close by the water's edge were

more of the blue flowers, and he ran forward to pluck the tempting

blossoms. Then the waters of the Saale suddenly rose, swept over the

place where the child was standing, and carried him down in their cold

embrace. From that time people were careful to avoid the river on St.

John's day, fearing a similar fate.

As Christianity became more powerful, the cloister, formerly a centre

of holy influence, became the seat of arrogance and idle luxury, and

the water-elf, who knew that the God whom he hated was a righteous

judge, who would punish evil, often sat on moonlight nights among the

willows gazing at the cloister, from whose lighted windows came the

noise of clinking glasses and wild revelry. Then he murmured between

his teeth--

"I shall live to see you brought to shame! Your God cannot suffer such

doings, and I shall have my revenge."

And he did live to see it.

One night, when, instead of pious hymns, drinking-songs were ascending

from the cloister cells, a dark storm-cloud spread across the sky.

Thunder growled and lightning flashed, making all nature tremble. Men

fell on their knees; the monks alone heeded not the voice of the

Almighty. At every peal of thunder they raised their voices in the

vain attempt to drown with their wild chorus the tumult without.

Then came an awful flash, which gleamed like a coronet of fire on the

summit of the tower, and darted through the roof to the refectory,

where in one moment its deadly shaft sent all the profane and godless

scoffers before the throne of the eternal. The flame next seized the

furniture of the hall, and it was not long till the fire burst from

the shattered windows, for every hand was still that might have been

raised to check its progress.

The water-sprite sat on a stone at the river's edge, contentedly

watching the awful spectacle.

Every moment the flames gained greater force. Their fiery tooth gnawed

beam and pillar till they burst asunder with a crash, and at last the

devouring element rose from the ruined pile below to the belfry tower.

Then the bell, swayed by the heat, began to stir. Faster and faster

came the strokes, like a cry of anguish or a mournful knell sounding

in wild and awful tones through the uproar of the storm. The beams

from which it hung gave way, and with a great swing it fell into the

Saale, making the water foam and hiss as it felt the glowing metal.

The tower fell in, and the stately building was changed into a mass of

smoking ruins.

Gradually the rage of the elements was stilled, and nature sank again

to peaceful repose. The clouds were parted, and from the once more

azure sky the moon looked down on the heaps of rubbish with the same

mild and gentle glance as it used formerly to cast on the proud

cloister.

And what of the water-fairy. The downfall of his foes almost

reconciled him with his lot. The hated chimes no longer reached his

ear, reminding him of what he so wished to forget, his lost dominion.

The bell had found a resting-place on a beautiful green meadow which

lay at the bottom of the Saale. The sprite planted water-lilies all

round it, just as human beings adorn graves with the fairest of

flowers. Then he built a crystal castle right in front of it, and

brought home as his bride a beautiful water-fairy from the

neighbouring river, Elbe.

After a time children played in the shell-adorned halls of the crystal

castle, two beautiful boys with bright eyes and little red caps, and

their sister, a gentle little water-elf, as sweet and beautiful as her

relations of the land, the fairies of mountains and trees.

The sons were like their father; they hated the human race, of whom

the old fairy had told them nothing but evil, and they helped him

every St. John's day to entice some heedless mortal down into the

stream.

Their lovely little sister was of a very different stamp. A secret

longing drew her heart towards the land and its inhabitants, and it

was only by the sternest prohibition that her father could induce her

to remain at home. But at night, when sleep reigned in the crystal

castle, she would rise to the surface of the water, take her stand on

the great white water-lilies, which willingly joined to do her

service, and thus on this slender raft she would float up and down the

stream. Her long fair hair flowed down till it touched the water; in

her white arms she held a golden harp; and when she touched the

strings and sang her sweet songs that told of her longing after the

beautiful sunlight, after the blue sky and the unknown human race, the

trees bowed their tall heads to the water's edge, the birds hushed

their song, and even the night-wind held his breath while he listened

to the music of the little water-sprite.

It was once more St. John's day, and the old water-elf was in one of

his tempers.

The sun was shining on the river, and its rays flashed back in rainbow

hues from the crystal pillars of the water-castle. The meadows in the

cool bed of the Saale showed their freshest green, and the long grass

waved to and fro among the water, while fishes and water-beetles

darted between its stalks like golden stars.

The two boys sharpened their scythes and began to mow the grass, for

it was haymaking time. Their sister stood among the lilies beside the

great bell, holding one of the white flowers in her hand, and striking

the metal with its slender stem, so that it answered her in strange

and mellow tones. But she did it softly, very softly, for she knew how

hateful the sound of the old bell was to her father, especially on

this day. The sound was deep and musical, reminding the little fairy

of the chimes which she sometimes heard on quiet nights, as she

floated up and down the river on her raft of water-lilies.

Pleased with the dear, familiar tones, she forgot that her father was

near, and she struck the bell so loudly that the sound, borne on the

waves, thrilled through the castle, where the old fairy was leaning,

lost in thought, against a pillar, passing his fingers through his

grey-green beard, and dreamily watching his sons at their work.

When the hated sound struck on his ear, he started up with a cry of

anger, and looked fiercely at his trembling daughter. But before he

had time to give vent to his wrath a shadow fell over the palace and

meadow, followed by a crash, as if something had been broken in the

castle.

And such was indeed the case.

A boat was passing slowly through the waves above; the steersman had

happened to let the rudder fall, and its iron point struck with such

force against one of the crystal panes of the water-sprite's palace

that it fell, shattered into a thousand pieces.

This was too much for the enraged fairy. He rose foaming through the

water, and stood with flaming eyes before the boatman. "Insolent man,"

he growled, "what hast thou done? Repair the injury at once. If the

pane is not replaced within half-an-hour, thou shalt pay for it with

thy life."

The boatman laughed. "I don't understand glazier's work," said he,

"and I shall hardly be able to find any one who could work down there

in the water; so I cannot satisfy your demand. But as for your

threats, my good fellow, the time of your authority is long gone by.

There is not even a child now who fears you; and, besides, I have a

cargo of steel bars, and you know, my dear waterman, that they would

prevent you from coming into my boat to do me any harm."

At the mention of steel, a metal very hurtful to water-elves, the

fairy unwillingly retired. He cast one more look of anger on the bold

boatman, and on the little girl, who, on seeing the wrathful

apparition, had clung terrified to her father's arm; then he slowly

sank into the water. He sat down in his crystal hall, leaned his head

on his hand, and tried to devise some plan by which he could entice

the little girl from the boat into his kingdom, and, by choosing her

as the victim of the day, avenge himself on the boatman.

"I have it!" he cried at length; "the trick with the green ribbon that

I learned the other day from my cousin the water-prince in Bohemia

will be of use to me now. To-day there is some great ceremony in the

next village, and I am sure the father will send his child there to

have her out of my way, and then I may find an opportunity of trying

my skill."

So saying, he put on his hat of plaited rushes, drew on his green

coat, and rose to the surface to place himself not far from the boat

among the willows by the river's brink.

He had guessed rightly. Though the boatman had seemed courageous when

speaking to the water-sprite, a secret uneasiness rankled in his

heart. It was not for himself he feared, but for his only child; for

he had seen the wicked glance that the waterman had cast on the girl

as he disappeared beneath the stream. He consulted his wife about what

they ought to do for their child's safety; for they knew well the

dangers of St. John's day, which the mischance with the rudder had

unhappily doubled.

In the next village lived a distant relation, and the fair gave an

excellent excuse for paying her a visit. The little girl dressed

herself in her best, said good-bye to her parents, and received

injunctions to stay all night with her friends, and not return to the

boat before morning. Joyfully she hastened along the high-road, which

lay for some distance by the river-side, till she came to the place

where the water-sprite sat so quietly in his summer clothes, that no

one would have recognised in him the angry and revengeful spirit of

the morning.

"Where are you going so briskly, fair maiden?" he asked pleasantly.

"To the village, to the dance!" answered the little one merrily;

"don't you hear the music?"

"My dear child," said the water-sprite artfully, "the girls there are

all so finely dressed that you in your plain clothes will look very

shabby among them, and perhaps you will not even be able to get a

partner. But look at this lovely ribbon, of which I have such a

quantity. If you had that twined in among your golden hair, or wound

as a sash round your slender waist, you would outshine all the girls

at the fair."

The little one, who had thought until the old man spoke to her that

she would never get soon enough to the dance, now stopped, and looked

with a critical eye, first on herself, and then on the bright green

ribbon, which the water-sprite was pulling in endless lengths from the

river which flowed on the other side of the willows.

"Look how pretty it is!" said he, and she let him wind it, as if to

try the effect, around her slender form.

But immediately she was in the old fairy's power. With a mocking

laugh, he said--

"Now, my little one, thou art mine! We shall see whether thy father

will say to-morrow that my authority is overthrown, and that I have no

longer power to frighten a child. Come!"

As he spoke he seized the ribbon, and walked towards the river.

The terrified child began to scream, but father and mother were far

away. She tried to escape, but the ribbon forced her to follow the

water-sprite. Her feet would bear her in no other direction, no matter

how she tried. Nearer and nearer to the rushing stream was she drawn

by the dreadful ribbon. Soon the water touched her feet.

"Father, mother, farewell!" she cried in a voice of anguish. Then the

old water-elf caught her in his arms, and, with a horrid laugh,

plunged with her into the stream. The waters did their deadly work on

the poor child's body, but the water-sprite kept the soul of the

drowned girl prisoner at the bottom of the Saale. She could not mount

to heaven; she could not even rejoice in the sunlight which pressed in

softened radiance through the water to the meadow on the river's bed,

nor might she play like the little water-elf with the silvery fishes.

Heedless of her entreaties, the water-man put her under the heavy bell

among the lilies, and said, as he went back to his castle, "Here thou

shalt stay in punishment for thy father's insolence; and my watchful

eye and the weight of the bell will prevent any one from setting thee

free."

He went away, and left the soul of the poor little girl alone in her

prison. Her sighs and lamentations could not pierce through the thick

metal walls, but they were only sent back to her in dismal echo.

Meantime the little water-elf stood outside the bell in sympathetic

grief. She wound a garland of the fairest lilies round the little

girl's corpse, carried it gently up through the water, and left it

near the boat. The parents would never again see their dear child

alive, but she had laid the little body in a soft bed of flowers, to

make the sad sight less startling to their loving hearts.

Next morning, when the sun began to gild the waters of the Saale, the

boatman left his cabin to make preparations for departure, while the

mother, shading her eyes with her hand, stood looking along the

high-road, where she expected every moment to see the child appear.

"Look there, wife!" said the boatman, pointing to an object in the

water, which slowly approached the boat. "Look there! What is that?"

The woman turned to see. The waters of the Saale were gently bringing

a great garland of blooming lilies, and in their midst lay, with

closed eyes and folded hands, their loved and only child.

* * * * *

The little girl's soul sat beneath the bell. She could not leave her

prison. Not a chink was visible, and the heavy bell would not move one

hairsbreadth, notwithstanding all her efforts.

"What will my father and mother say if I do not come home?" sighed the

child's soul. "Oh, my poor dear parents! Never to see the pleasant

sunlight or the blue sky! To stay down here for ever in this narrow,

dark coffin--oh, how dreadful!" And if a soul could have died with

terror, grief, and longing, that would certainly have been the fate of

the little girl's spirit The hours passed silently over her and her

prison. The hours became days. How many had gone by? The little soul

did not know. At last she sank into a kind of stupor, and almost

ceased to feel.

But one day something approached her prison, the edge of the bell was

raised, and the water-sprite's rough voice said, "Come out."

The opening through which the light was peeping was small, but souls,

with their light transparent forms, do not need much space, and in a

moment the little spirit slipped out, and now stood trembling before

the wicked water-man.

"Thou mayest play here for a little," he said; "but in an hour thou

must return to the bell."

The soul looked up. She had been so long in that dismal tomb, and now

she found herself all at once in God's gloriously beautiful creation,

though only for a short time, and as a prisoner! She forgot her past

sorrow, and thought not of the future; she rejoiced in the delightful

present, and looked up at the sun, which in noontide splendour stood

in the blue canopy of heaven, sending its rays down on the green

meadow, their brilliance softened by the crystal flood.

Then she looked around. Before her stood the splendid palace, with its

glittering walls and transparent pillars, and round her swam the

prettiest little fishes as fearlessly as if the little soul had been

an acquaintance for years.

A lovely young girl came out of the shining building, and asked her to

play with her.

The old water-sprite frowned in displeasure at his daughter's

friendliness, but the little elf did not look at him, and the child's

soul thought, "I must go back to prison at any rate, and he cannot do

anything worse to me!" So she took the friendly fairy's hand, and rose

with her through the silvery flood, chasing the fishes and trying to

grasp the sunbeams with her little transparent hand. Then she wound

garlands of reeds, and let them rise to the top of the water, after

she had pressed sweet kisses on them, and laden them with loving

messages for her dear ones up above.

As she stood watching them with tearful longing as they rose nearer

and nearer to her home, she heard herself called once more. The

water-sprite stood behind her, seized her hand, and led her back to

the bell. She turned for a last look at the clear blue sky; the next

moment she was back in her dark and narrow prison.

Hours and days passed slowly by. The time seemed endless to the poor

little soul. Her only amusement and her only pleasure was to go over

again and again that one hour of freedom and happiness.

One day, just as she was doing this, there was a noise outside the

bell; the ray of light pierced her prison again, and before the old

water-sprite had time to give her permission the little prisoner

slipped through, spread out her delicate transparent arms towards the

light of heaven, and with a cry of joy greeted the fair, free world.

Her playfellow was standing waiting for her, and together they left

the bell with joyous haste, slipped through the waving grass, and

danced on the sunbeams with the dragon-flies and fishes.

"Oh!" said the little soul sadly, "why does this delightful hour come

so seldom. Why may I not get out every day?"

"I do not know," answered the water-fairy; "but it is only on

Saturday, between twelve and one o'clock, that the spirits are allowed

to leave their prison down here and play in the sunlight."

"But it is so lonely and dark in the bell," said the child's soul

dolefully.

The little nymph looked at her compassionately. Both had lost all

pleasure in their joyous play, and arm-in-arm they looked up through

the water at the clouds which were slowly sailing past.

"There comes your father to fetch me," said the little girl's soul,

shuddering. "Oh! do come once, just once, every day to my prison;

knock against the bell, and when the sound pierces through my metal

walls I shall know that I am not quite alone in the world. Will you?"

A thought struck the young water-sprite; she opened her mouth to tell

it to her playmate, but just then her father came up, and she had to

be silent. She could only nod kindly at the poor little prisoner, whom

the old water-sprite led roughly away to the dismal prison, whose

narrow walls soon shut her out from the cheerful daylight.

It was night. Souls cannot sleep, but they may have waking dreams.

Thus the child's spirit was led back in imagination to her home. She

saw herself once more in the ship on which she had been born, and

fancied herself sitting beside her mother, listening to pleasant

stories told by the dear gentle voice, and as she dreamed she forgot

the impassable gulf which separated her from the living ones above the

stream.

Then the sound of a bell fell gently on her ear. She had been so

absorbed in her dreams that she started in alarm at the unexpected

sound, and it was a moment or two before she could collect her

thoughts to think. Then she remembered her request, of which this was

evidently the fulfilment, so she struck softly against the inside of

the bell as a sign that she had heard her friend's greeting.

Then the edge of her prison was gently lifted, and with a cry of joy

she slipped out into the water. There stood the little water-sprite.

"Will you go up with me to the surface of the stream?" asked she.

"Would you like to float up and down on my lily-raft?"

"Indeed I should," answered the little soul. "What do I want but

freedom, air, and light? Oh yes, take me with you!"

The lovely nymph took the child's hand, and a little shining wave bore

them upwards as on the wings of a swan.

Now they are standing on the surface of the water. The little

water-sprite beckoned, and from far and near swam the water-lilies and

anemones to make a boat of flowers for their young mistress and her

dear little pale companion.

They glided down the stream. Oh, how beautiful it was!

[Illustration: THE WATER-ELF AND THE LITTLE SOUL ON THE RAFT OF

WATER-LILIES.]

On they moved past lofty mountains crowned by stately castles--past

villages lying in peaceful slumber, whose churches mirrored their

graceful spires in the clear flood below--past the willows on the

banks, that nodded their drowsy heads as the night-wind played

through their branches. And over all these lovely scenes the moon

shed her magic light, and the waves sang softly their everlasting

song.

Then the little water-elf took her golden harp, and sent her clear

voice floating through the stillness of the night. She sang of what

was stirring her own heart and filling the child's soul with

sorrow--of their longing for happiness on earth or in heaven, which

was so far, so far from them both. The sweet sounds floated through

the silent night, till the waves checked their song, and the

slumbering trees awoke to listen to the enthralling strains.

"Oh!" said the child's soul at length, "why cannot I rise into the

kingdom of light? why must I linger far away from my heavenly home,

and pine down below in that dark dungeon?"

"Because," answered the lovely water-elf kindly, "my father has

sentenced you to the bell, and this spell holds you bound, and always

forces you to return to darkness and captivity."

"Can this sentence, this spell never be broken?" asked the little

soul.

"Yes, if a human being descends and overthrows the bell the charm will

be broken, and you may rise to heaven."

"Ah! would that that time would come!" said the little one

sorrowfully. "The only ones whose love would be strong enough to make

them take the risk are far away." And she looked sadly into the

distance.

When the moonlight began to pale, and the stars were dying out one by

one, the friends left their lily-raft, plunged into the flood, and the

little soul went back reluctantly to her dark prison.

So the days went by. Alone, alone in the dark bell, and once a-week

one short hour of freedom and sunlight--that was the lot of the little

soul, with now and then a sail on the lily-raft by the side of the

water-elf. Unspeakably delightful were these hours, but the longing

for their return made the dark days seem all the longer to the poor

little prisoner.

And this pleasure was but rare. The little water-sprite had to be very

prudent, for her cruel father might have made her pay for her nightly

journeys with her life, so displeasing to him was her hankering after

the human world, and her mild and friendly disposition.

Many a night the old water-fairy rose himself to the surface, many a

time did his sons sit among the willows; and often the water-man could

not sleep, and went restlessly through the rooms of his palace to see

that everything was right.

It was only on nights when all in the crystal castle were fast asleep,

and no discovery was to be feared, that the young nymph hastened to

the little soul, opened her prison, by raising the edge of the bell,

and rose with her for a sail in the lily-boat.

Years passed by, and with them hope died out from the little girl's

soul; nothing remained to her but memory and longing. In the world

above the water, what she had last seen young and fresh had grown

gradually old. The playmates of her childhood had been married long

ago, and some of them had entered on their eternal rest. Her father

had never recovered the shock of that unhappy day, and the secret

thought that he had excited the water-fairy's wrath by his defiant

words, and had thus caused his dear child's death, gnawed at his life,

and brought him to an untimely grave. Her mother alone was left. Her

hair had grown white, not so much through age as through sorrow. Once,

when in her solitude a deep longing seized her to see once more the

place where her child had died, she entrusted the guidance of the boat

to her brother's son, who was one day to fall heir to all her little

possessions, and told him to take her to her darling's grave.

The boat reached its destination the night before Easter. Here,

opposite the clump of willows, which had grown even denser than when

she saw them last, and above which the spire of the village church

raised its graceful form, the boat had stopped on that unhappy day so

many years ago. Here, therefore, was the anchor lowered, and the

boatman went to rest. But the mother, when she found herself so near

the fatal spot, could not sleep. The most dreadful hour of her life,

when she stood watching for the coming of her merry child, and saw

instead but her pale, cold corpse, came again before her soul, and she

passed the night in bitter weeping.

When the first gleam of daylight played on the stream, she rose and

went on deck. All the stars had gone to rest except the morning star,

and even its radiance grew gradually fainter; for the young day began

to don his golden festive robe. The poor mother leaned over the edge

of the boat, and looked down into the water. The sky was one glow of

purple, and on the stream lay the roses of the dawn. The Easter sun

rose slowly above the horizon, and as its first beam struck the river

a sound of solemn melancholy came upwards from its depths.

"What was that?" said the woman, leaning forward to listen.

A second chime broke the stillness of the morning, and soon the bell

began to ring in tones of wondrous richness from the bed of the river.

With the chimes, and borne on the sunbeams, which cheerfully plunged

into the stream, and rose again radiant from the crystal flood, came a

sweet, familiar voice to thrill the heart of the listening mother.

"Jesus lives, and I in Him:

Where is thy victory, O grave?

Jesus lives to set me free,

My captive soul His love will save;

Jesus will lead me to the light,

This the sure hope that cheers my night."

So sang her child's clear voice in the words of the hymn which she

herself had once taught her, and which the little one used to sing on

Easter morning. The child's soul was still imprisoned, but now, on the

day of Christ's resurrection, when the bell began to ring as the first

sunbeam touched it, she felt a strange, sweet joy, that made her feel

inclined to join her voice with its mellow chimes.

On the great Christian festivals all bells that have sunk in rivers

or lakes awake to join in the hymn of all creation, and when, among

the rest, the little girl's bell began to sound, her grief and longing

generally awoke afresh. But to-day with the first note her sadness

suddenly vanished, and a strange joy sprang up in her heart. She

folded her delicate hands, and sang the verse of her childhood. But

the metal did not send the sound back to her as on other days; it

pierced through the walls, and floated through the waves up to the ear

and heart of her sorrowing mother.

Yes, it was her child's voice; every drop of blood, every pulse-beat

of her trembling body told her that. She had indeed found her little

daughter's corpse; but her soul must have remained in the power of the

cruel water-sprite, and had been pining all these years down in the

stream, shut out from light and liberty and love. All the stories that

she had heard of the imprisonment of souls, and which she had always

laughed at as childish tales, came into her mind, and filled her with

unspeakable anguish. Her captivity must be somehow connected with the

bells, or else the chimes would not have mingled as they did with the

hymn. She leaned over the edge of the boat, and looked down into the

water.

There was a sudden splashing and foaming in the river, and the old

water-sprite slowly rose, parted the waves, and stood before the

terrified woman. It was the same powerful form, the erect carriage,

the long grey-green beard, for the hand of time passes more gently

over spirits than over men. The woman recognised him at the first

glance, for she had seen him from her cabin window as he vented his

wrath on her husband, though she herself was out of sight. She knew

that the murderer of her child stood before her, but the water-sprite

did not suspect that this was the mother of his little prisoner.

"My wife is ill," he said gloomily. "The chimes in the water always

make her ill, but there must have been some special power in them

to-day, for she is writhing in agony, and she begged me to bring her a

woman of the human race, to lay her warm hand on her aching head, and

restore her to health. Come with me," he concluded sullenly; "it is

not for nothing that I ask this."

The woman could have shouted with joy. Her enemy himself was about to

lead her to the place where all her affections were centered; it

seemed to her a sign from heaven, and she went fearlessly to the edge

of the boat, and prepared to plunge into the stream.

"Not so," growled the water-sprite: "thou couldst not reach the bottom

alive--a thing which would have pleased me well enough at any other

time, but to-day it would not suit my purpose. Take this ring!"

She placed the glittering circle on her finger, and followed the

water-elf into the river. Thus protected, she could walk through the

water as on dry land, and breathe in the river as freely as in the

air.

They came to the beautiful green meadow, passed the clump of

water-lilies, in the midst of which the woman's quick eye had already

noted the bell, and entered the crystal castle. There, in a spacious

and glittering hall, lay, on a glass bed with shining pillows of

fish-scales, the wife of the water-elf. She was tossing in restless

pain, and as the woman entered she stretched out her hands

entreatingly. The little nymph knelt sobbing by her sick mother's

side, and even the rough sons looked on with grave faces.

The boatman's widow went up to the bed, and laid her warm hand on the

sick fairy's cold, white forehead. Almost instantaneously the pain

vanished, and she fell into a gentle sleep.

The little nymph grasped the woman's hand, and said, while her eyes

shone with grateful tears, "Come, I will get you some of our beautiful

lilies."

The old water-sprite, in his anxiety about his wife, had quite

forgotten the little prisoner below the bell, and, besides, he had no

reason to suspect that this strange woman knew anything about the

little soul. So, though he did not like to see his daughter so

friendly with the human race, he did not try to hinder her from

getting the flowers, but sat down quietly to watch his sick wife's

slumber.

How the mother's heart beat as she arrived at the lilies, pressed

through their intertwining stems, and stood at last close to the bell.

With trembling hand she knocked, and the sound thrilled through the

child's spirit.

The little water-elf stood in amazement as she watched her visitor

making her way so eagerly among the lilies, and great was her alarm

when she heard the bell sound, for she thought of her sick mother and

her father's wrath. But before she had time to remonstrate, the

little soul said, "Who knocks?" She knew it could not be her friend

the young nymph, for she came only at night, and this was early in the

morning. "Who knocks?" she asked again with trembling voice.

The mother thought her heart would break with joy; her breath left

her, and she could not answer just at once; yet the greatest haste was

needful, for the old water-sprite might be beside her every moment.

"It is your mother, my dear child," she said at last with trembling

lips; "tell me, oh! tell me quickly how I can set you free."

"Mother, mother!" cried the little prisoner; "mother, is it you?"

"It is indeed, my darling," said the mother anxiously; "but we must

not lose any time, for the water-sprite may come any moment, and then

I shall not be able to help you."

The words brought the little soul back to reality.

"Mother, dear mother, throw the bell down, and your child's soul will

thank you for ever in the heavenly world," begged the girlish voice.

The mother put forth all her strength, but the bell, which the spirits

moved so easily, would not yield an inch before the woman's efforts.

When the old water-sprite heard it sound, he went to one of the

high-arched windows, and saw the widow struggling to overturn her poor

child's prison. He beckoned to his sons, and quickly but noiselessly

the three left the palace. Once outside, they screamed with furious

rage.

The little captive heard the wild cry, and trembled. The mother heard

it, and the thought that on one moment hung her own life and her dear

child's future happiness gave her gigantic strength; one desperate

effort, and the heavy bell gave way, and lay on its side.

It was almost too late; for the angry water-sprites had reached the

spot, and stretched out their hands to seize the woman.

But the little soul had left her prison, snatched up her mother in her

arms, and darted quick as lightning up through the waves. When they

reached the land the mother felt her child's arms taken from around

her, while a light, cold kiss was pressed upon her cheek. Then the

slight, transparent form of her loved one soared like a cloud towards

heaven, till it was lost to her sight. With mingled joy and grief she

watched the vanishing soul.

"Oh! leave me not behind, my child; take me also up to heaven!" she

cried, amid streaming tears.

Night came once more, and with his starry mantle covered joy and

sorrow, life and death. The poor mother lay on a narrow couch in the

cabin of her boat. She was wearied out with the day's lamentations,

and a gentle sleep had kindly blotted from her mind her bitter sorrow.

It seemed to the sleeping one as if heavenly radiance filled the

little room, and an angel with shining wings approached her bed. But

when she looked on the face it was that of her dear child, whom she

had yesterday freed from the power of the water-sprite.

"Mother, dear mother, come!" said the loved voice; "I am sent to

fetch thee, that thou mayest keep the Easter feast in heaven with

father and me."

And she took her mother in her arms, soared out into the night, high

above land and sea, higher and higher, past the glittering stars, till

they arrived at last in the glorious heavenly temple, and met the

loved father and the beautiful angels.

Next morning, when the nephew found the woman was not rising, he went

into the cabin and stepped up to the bed. There she lay, cold and

dead, but her hands were folded in prayer, and round her mouth and her

closed eyes was a smile of peace and happiness.

The Last Home of the Giants.

[Illustration: ASLOG RETURNS TO HER FATHER.]

Vale and mountain alternated in beautiful succession beneath the blue

sky of Norway thousands of years ago just as they do to-day, and the

Gulf Stream flowed then as now past its rugged coasts; yet it was a

far different land. In the thick forests no axe had yet been heard

felling the strong timbers that the Norwegian rivers would bear down

to the sea, to float hereafter as noble ships upon the breast of the

ocean; in the sheltered bays no cosy houses nestled with their

neatly-kept surroundings of garden and field; no boat yet flew over

the sea with nets and fishing tackle. Man had not yet sought out as a

home this beautiful northern land.

A race of giants, of tall and powerful build, dwelt there. Their

lifetime was measured by centuries as ours by years. They tore rocks

asunder with their hands, and left the great streams a free channel.

They bore huge blocks on their shoulders to the shore, and built them

into castles whose turrets towered into the clouds. Their voice

drowned the roar of the ocean, and scared the eagle from its nest. But

this powerful race, beneath whose tread the ground trembled, were of

peaceful, harmless disposition. No quarrel divided, nor envy

embittered, their hearts. They lived together like the children of one

great family.

Their chief was Hrungnir. His companions voluntarily submitted to his

control; for he excelled them all in years, wisdom, and strength, as a

father his children.

Hrungnir lived in a splendid castle by the sea. The mountains of

Norway had had to yield their most precious metals to adorn the walls

of his giant dwelling within and without. The chief's numerous flocks

and herds roamed over miles of land, the bears of the thick forests

were slain in hundreds by his hands that their skins might cover

pillows for his guests, and the tables and drinking-horns gleamed with

precious stones. But Hrungnir's most cherished possession was Guru,

his only daughter. Her hair shone golden as the stars of the northern

night, her eyes were blue as the sky of her native land, and her skin

was of dazzling whiteness.

The most powerful giants of the whole country were suitors for Guru's

hand, and Hrungnir promised his daughter to him who should excel in

swiftness in the race, or whose arm should be strongest to hurl huge

boulders. Then the mighty men came down from their castles in the

mountains, where the snowstorm sweeps round the hoary peaks, and from

sea-side fortresses, till Hrungnir's roof could scarcely give shelter

to the host of powerful suitors. The tables smoked with countless

dishes, the horns of mead were filled and filled again, and from the

windows the songs of the giants sounded forth so loudly that the waves

fled back in terror towards the sea.

After the feast, the giants went out to the strand, broke huge masses

from the rocks, and hurled them out in the sea as children would throw

pebbles. Far out into the ocean flew the masses of stones, but none so

far as those thrown by the hand of Andfind, the valiant youth whose

castle stood amid the rocks of the storm-swept Doverfjeld, whose

wealth almost equalled Hrungnir's, whose beauty bore comparison with

that of Guru herself. Then when the suitors arranged themselves on the

strand for the race, and the shingle resounded with their golden

sandals, Andfind left all his rivals far behind, and his long fair

locks floated like golden pennons on the rock that was the goal of the

race, while his fellow-suitors were still toiling along the course.

Andfind was victor, and Guru's heart sang for joy, for she had long

loved him in secret, though she was prepared to submit to her father's

wish, even if he had chosen some other for his son-in-law.

Far from grudging envy, the giants loudly applauded the conqueror,

bore him on their shoulders to Hrungnir's castle, where the chief bade

him welcome, and called his daughter to meet her chosen bridegroom.

The lovely Guru came dressed in a sky-blue robe with a

silver-embroidered hem, which she and her maids had woven and wrought

in the retirement of the women's room. Round her white neck and

rounded arms lay gleaming jewels, and her locks were bound with a

golden fillet. Thus she came to meet the guests. Hrungnir took his

daughter's hand, laid it in Andfind's right, and then, as priest of

the household, the chief united them in the indissoluble ties of

marriage.

Night fell round the Castle of Hrungnir. The chief and his guests lay

wrapped in deep slumbers, preparing for the enjoyment of a new day.

But destruction approached them, as they slept, with stealthy steps;

for Odin, that crafty king, of whose origin no man could tell, came

with his trusty warriors down from the mountains. They had heard of

the beauty of Norway, and wished to win it for their home. They had

heard that the bravest in the land were feasting in Hrungnir's castle,

and they had waited till the hours of slumber that they might strike

unawares the foes with whom they could not have dared to cope on equal

terms.

The moonlight glided through the open windows and fell on the forms of

the defenceless sleepers: the deep breathing of the warriors and the

murmur of the waves were the only sounds that the ear could

distinguish. But dark shadows fell in the moonlit hall, tall forms

climbed in at the windows, and noiselessly, holding their weapons

carefully to prevent them from clashing, they stole into the rooms.

With sure aim they bathed their swords in the heart's blood of the

sleepers, so that, with one last groan, each warrior yielded up his

brave spirit. The pavement swam in blood, but Odin's band passed from

hall to hall and never slipped on their gory path.

The death-groan, though short, reached Guru's ear. She rose and

listened. No, it was no dream; there came that sound again with

dreadful distinctness. She threw on her garments and sprang to the

window, and when she drew aside the curtain she saw strange forms in

the courtyard, bearing with difficulty a heavy burden. She looked more

closely, and recognised in the clear moonlight the bloody corpse of

her noble father. She stole up to Andfind's couch, and whispered,

"Awake, awake, my husband, and let us fly, for treachery and death

have entered our house!"

The bloody work seemed finished in the other rooms, and now the

dreaded footsteps were drawing near.

Guru raised a stone from the pavement and disclosed a secret stair.

She bade Andfind descend, and then quickly following him, she

carefully closed the opening behind her.

By a narrow passage which led beneath the castle and the rocks to the

strand they reached the sea unseen. There a boat lay rocking, which

Guru and her maids had often used for pleasant sails. They stepped

in. Andfind spread the sail and seized the helm, and the boat flew out

into the open sea.

Odin had conquered. The noblest of the land were killed in the

inglorious victory of that night, and the weak remnant of the giant

race were obliged to leave their old home and seek a refuge in unknown

lands. Notwithstanding this ignoble beginning, Odin's reign was one of

wisdom, power, and beneficence.

Of Guru and her husband nothing more was ever heard. Whether the sea

had swallowed the boat in its hungry depths, or whether the waves had

borne them to happier coasts, none had ever brought back the tidings

to their old home. But in the winter evenings, when the maidens sat

around the blazing pine-log, and talked at their spinning about the

days of the Norwegian giants, some aged dame would tell her shuddering

listeners of that night of death, and of the mysterious fate of Guru

and her noble bridegroom.

* * * * *

Odin's reign was long since ended. His wisdom and his crimes were both

alike well-nigh forgotten. Olaf had many years ago brought in the

knowledge of the Christian religion, and reared churches on the sites

of the old altars; and to the ancient honesty and strength of the

nation was added the mild spirit of the religion of the cross.

On the spot where Hrungnir's castle once stood rose now a fortress as

proud, and well-nigh as strong, as that of the giant chief; the flocks

that grazed around it were as great as his; and the present

possessor, Saemund, like him, counted as his dearest treasure an only

daughter.

It seemed almost as if the days of Guru were come back again, for

Aslog's golden hair and snowy skin, Aslog's blue eyes and graceful

form, attracted the wealthiest and most powerful nobles of the land to

woo her.

As each noble suitor was rejected, the father's heart swelled high

with pride and hope. "She will only take the best and greatest," he

thought. But when the most powerful prince in the land came, and the

fair one's lips said "No" to him also, Saemund no longer praised his

daughter's prudence. With bitter words he reproached her for her

folly, and commanded her to choose before Christmas Eve some one on

whom he might bestow her hand.

Days came and went, and Aslog's cheek grew paler and her father's eye

more gloomy, for her heart was given to Orm, the poor but beautiful

youth whom her father had given her as page. Orm's strong arm had on

lovely summer evenings rowed the boat out into the gold-flooded sea;

Orm's hand had guided her over the vast snow-fields, as in snow-shoes,

with points thin and supple as a beech-leaf, they glided swiftly

through the bracing air; and in long winter evenings, while the guests

were drinking and singing in her father's halls, Orm used to sit and

tell her beautiful stories as she sat by the cheerful fire.

Saemund loved the brave youth, but had any one spoken of him as his

daughter's choice he would have challenged the informant to single

combat.

The lovers knew this, and it was with trembling that they awaited the

decisive day.

"If she has not chosen before the time I have named," said Saemund to

Orm, "I will choose her a bridegroom myself, and you shall have the

honour of bearing her bridal train."

Orm gave no answer, but with trembling hand he arranged the table for

the guests, and pressed his lips close together to restrain the eager

words that his love prompted.

It was the night before Christmas Eve--starry and cold. A secret door

opened in the side of the mountain, and two muffled figures slipped

out. They were Orm and Aslog. They had brought nothing with them but a

little bundle of necessary clothing, a warm skin rug, and a bow and

arrows which Orm had slung across his shoulder.

On they hurried over the icy plain, swiftly and terror-stricken, like

a pair of hunted doves. They reached the edge of the wide plain. Their

snow-shoes were no longer of use, for their road led now towards the

defiles and rocky heights of the highlands. It was bitterly cold, the

wind whistled through the clefts of the mountain, and its icy breath

made Aslog's frail form tremble. Long their path wound among the

snow-clad mountains; then they reached a thick fir wood, in the midst

of which stood a little hermit's cottage.

"It is I, Father Jerome," said Orm to the old man who came to greet

them at the door.

"Welcome, my son!" said the old man, as the youth stooped to press a

reverent kiss on his withered hand; "and the maiden at thy side is

welcome too to the poor hospitality of the hermit's cell."

The offered rest and refreshment were eagerly accepted by the weary

maiden. With pitying eyes the hermit gazed on her grief-marked

features, and when Orm begged him to unite them in marriage, the old

man, after short consideration, granted their request.

How different was this hour from Aslog's dreams! Not that she gave

many thoughts to the splendour and festivity that should have done

honour to her bridal, but she felt bitterly the want of her father's

blessing.

The ceremony over, there could be no further delay. On the wanderers

pressed on their weary way, till Aslog would have sunk exhausted but

for Orm's supporting arm. Through the thick fir woods, over rough

mountain paths, they hastened on till the first streak of dawn gleamed

in the eastern sky. Then Orm pointed to a cluster of dark rocks that

lay before them.

"There," said he cheerfully--"there, my Aslog, is rest and safety."

Aslog's courage rose; with renewed energy she pressed over the

intervening ground, till they reached a tall jagged rock and entered a

cleft in its side. They now found themselves in a cave, which, though

narrow at the entrance, became higher and wider as they went on, till

it formed a spacious chamber. Out of this gloomy abode Orm's care and

thoughtfulness made a home for his loved one that was not wholly

lacking in comfort or happiness, and here they lived in secure

retirement as long as the winter blocked the mountain roads. But when

spring came, and the ways became accessible, Saemund's spies were able

to explore more thoroughly, and Orm could no longer go out and in

freely among the mountains. But when provisions ran short, he was

obliged to tear himself from Aslog's weeping embrace, and sally forth

with his bow and arrows. At last, when, after weeks of mild weather,

no living soul had been seen near their retreat, their fears subsided,

and Orm began to lay aside caution and to venture further from the

cave. Perhaps Aslog's father had grown tired of the fruitless search,

or perhaps he was even cherishing thoughts of forgiveness. Aslog's

heart was quick to believe what she so ardently wished, and Orm began

to believe it too. One night, while his wife was sleeping, he took the

path towards the valley where the hermit's cell nestled amid the

woods. His breast beat high with hope that the old man might be able

to give him some good tidings to take back to his loved Aslog, who,

although she bore her privations even cheerfully, was yet paler and

feebler every day. He drew near a jutting rock, behind which lay the

path to the hermit's cottage. In his glad excitement he had forgotten

all fear. His bow hung with loose string behind him, and his hand

grasped his staff but carelessly. Suddenly he heard a rustling in the

thick bushes beside him, and two heavy hands were laid on his

shoulder. With a strong effort he shook himself free, stepped back a

few paces, and swung his stick menacingly.

"It is he whom we seek," cried his assailants; "remember the reward."

Then it seemed to Orm as if all the bushes and even the brown rock

behind him became alive, so great a rustling was heard on every side.

Quick as thought he brought his stick down on the heads of the two who

had first attacked him, and before the others could leave their

hiding-places he had turned and fled.

At first there was wild shouting and a sound of eager feet behind, but

he never stopped to look back, and he soon passed out of sight of his

pursuers. The way was long and rough, but Orm was strong and fleet of

foot, and before him lay his home and Aslog. At last he was at the

cave.

How different was this home-coming from his former hopes! Aslog lay in

sweet sleep, with a happy smile on her lips, as if she dreamt of love

and forgiveness; and Orm must soon waken her, and tell her that she

must go forth once more a homeless wanderer.

"Awake, awake, beloved one," he whispered, seizing her hand, "and let

us flee, for your father's men are on our track, and we must be far

from this before to-morrow dawns."