lace of Skulls, at the mouth of Hell."

At this the wretched bride wept bitterly. "Take back your wedding-ring!"
she cried. "Take back your dowry and your bridal gifts!"

But he answered not. Down they descended into horrid darkness, and as
the unhappy maiden fell there rang in her ears the cries of the
damned.

[Illustration: THE BRIDE OF SATAN]

This tale is common to many countries. The fickle maiden is everywhere
regarded among primitive peoples with dislike and distrust. But
perhaps the folk-ballad which most nearly resembles that just related
is the Scottish ballad of _The Demon Lover_, which inspired the late
Hamish MacCunn, the gifted Scottish composer, in the composition of
his weird and striking orchestral piece, _The Ship o' the Fiend_.

_The Baron of Jauioz_

Another tradition which tells of the fate of an unhappy maiden is
enshrined in the ballad of _The Baron of Jauioz_. Louis, Baron of
Jauioz, in Languedoc, was a French warrior of considerable renown who
flourished in the fourteenth century, and who took part in many of the
principal events of that stirring epoch, fighting against the English
in France and Flanders under the Duke of Berry, his overlord. Some
years later he embarked for the Holy Land, but, if we may believe
Breton tradition, he returned, and while passing through the duchy
fell in love with and actually bought for a sum of money a young
Breton girl, whom he carried away with him to France. The unfortunate
maiden, so far from being attracted by the more splendid environment
of his castle, languished and died.

"I hear the note of the death-bird," the ballad begins sadly; "is it
true, my mother, that I am sold to the Baron of Jauioz?"

"Ask your father, little Tina, ask your father," is the callous reply,
and the question is then put to her father, who requests the
unfortunate damsel to ask her brother, a harsh rustic who does not
scruple to tell her the brutal truth, and adds that she must depart
immediately. The girl asks what dress she must wear, her red gown, or
her gown of white delaine.

"It matters little, my daughter," says the heartless mother. "Your
lover waits at the door mounted on a great black horse. Go to him on
the instant."

As she leaves her native village the clocks are striking, and she
weeps bitterly.

"Adieu, Saint Anne!" she says. "Adieu, bells of my native land!"

Passing the Lake of Anguish she sees a band of the dead, white and
shadowy, crossing th