e, pining for that which idle fancy urged
upon her, begged him to bring her a dish of woodcock from the lake in
the dale, or of venison from the greenwood. The Seigneur of Nann
seized his lance and, vaulting on his jet-black steed, sought the
borders of the forest, where he halted to survey the ground for track
of roe or slot of the red deer. Of a sudden a white doe rose in front
of him, and was lost in the forest like a silver shadow.

At sight of this fair quarry the Seigneur followed into the greenwood.
Ever his prey rustled among the leaves ahead, and in the hot chase he
recked not of the forest depths into which he had plunged. But coming
upon a narrow glade where the interlacing leaves above let in the sun
to dapple the moss-ways below, he saw a strange lady sitting by the
broken border of a well, braiding her fair hair and binding it with
golden pins.

The Seigneur louted low, begged that he might drink, and bending down
set his lips to the water; but she, turning strange eyes upon
him--eyes not blue like those of his bride, nor grey, nor brown, nor
black, like those of other women, but red in their depths as the
heart's blood of a dove--spoke to him discourteously.

"Who are you who dare to trouble the waters of my fountain?" she
asked. "Do you not know that your conduct merits death? This well is
enchanted, and by drinking of it you are fated to die, unless you
fulfil a certain condition."

"And what is that?" asked the Seigneur.

"You must marry me within the hour," replied the lady.

"Demoiselle," replied the Seigneur, "it may not be as you desire, for
I am already espoused to a fair bride who has borne me this very day a
son and a daughter. Nor shall I die until it pleases the good God.
Nevertheless, I wot well who you are. Rather would I die on the
instant than wed with a Korrigan."

Leaping upon his horse, he turned and rode from the woodland as a man
possessed. As he drew homeward he was overshadowed by a sense of
coming ill. At the gate of his chateau stood his mother, anxious to
greet him with good news of his bride. But with averted eyes he
addresses her in the refrain so familiar to the folk-poetry of all
lands:

"My good mother, if you love me, make my bed. I am sick unto
death. Say not a word to my bride. For within three days I shall
be laid in the grave. A Korrigan has done me evil."

Three days later the young spouse asks of her mother-in-law:

"Tell me, mother, why do the bell