sat ravished by her beauty
and that of her nine attendant maidens a fatal passion for her entered
his heart, so that whatever he cherished most on earth--honour, wife,
demoiselle, or affianced bride--became as naught to him, and he cast
himself at the feet of this forest Circe in a frenzy of ardour. But
with the first ray of daylight the charm was dissolved and the
Korrigan became a hideous hag, as repulsive as before she had been
lovely; the walls of her palace and the magnificence which had
furnished it became once more tree and thicket, its carpets moss, its
tapestries leaves, its silver cups wild roses, and its dazzling
mirrors pools of stagnant water.

_The Unbroken Vow_[23]

Sir Roland of Brittany rides through gloomy Broceliande a league ahead
of his troop, unattended by squire or by page. The red cross upon his
shoulder is witness that he is vowed to service in Palestine, and as
he passes through the leafy avenues on his way to the rendezvous he
fears that he will be late, most tardy of all the knights of Brittany
who have sworn to drive the paynim from the Holy Land. Fearful of such
disgrace, he spurs his jaded charger on through the haunted forest,
and with anxious eye watches the sun sink and the gay white moon sail
high above the tree-tops, pouring light through their branches upon
the mossy ways below.

A high vow has Roland taken ere setting out upon the crusade--a vow
that he will eschew the company of fair ladies, in which none had
delighted more than he. No more must he mingle in the dance, no more
must he press a maiden's lips with his. He has become a soldier of the
Cross. He may not touch a lady's hand save with his mailed glove, he
must not sit by her side. Also must he fast from dusk till dawn upon
that night of his setting forth. "Small risk," he laughs a little
sadly, as he spurs his charger onward, "small risk that I be mansworn
ere morning light."

But the setting of the moon tells him that he must rest in the forest
until dawn, as without her beams he can no longer pursue his way. So
he dismounts from his steed, tethers it to a tree, and looks about for
a bed of moss on which to repose. As he does so his wandering gaze
fixes upon a beam of light piercing the gloom of the forest. Well
aware of the traditions of his country, he thinks at first that it is
only the glimmer of a will-o'-the-wisp or a light carried by a
wandering elf. But no, on moving nearer the gleam he is surprised to
be