left the mistletoe wreath upon these Houses of Death
for their adored warriors.

Even the words sung by Shoreham on the rock carried on the ancient
story, the sacred legend that he who wore in his breast this mistletoe
got from the Druids' altar, bearing his bride forth by sea or land,
should suffer no mischance; and for the bride herself, the morgen-gifn
should fail not, but should attest richly the perfect bliss of the
nuptial hours.

The light was almost gone from the day, though the last crimson petals
had scarce dropped from the rose of sunset. Upon the sea beneath there
was not a ripple; it was a lake of molten silver, shading into a leaden
silence far away. The tide was high, and the ragged rocks of the Banc
des Violets in the south and the Corbiore in the west were all but
hidden.

Below the mound where the tuneful youth loitered was a path, leading
down through the fields and into the highway. In this path walked
lingeringly a man and a maid. Despite the peaceful, almost dormant life
about them, the great event of their lives had just occurred, that which
is at once a vast adventure and a simple testament of nature: they had
been joined in marriage privately in the parish church of St. Michael's
near by. As Shoreham's voice came down the cotil, the two looked up,
then passed on out of view.

But still the voice followed them, and the man looked down at the maid,
repeating the refrain of the song:

"Oh, give to me my gui-l'annee,
Monseigneur, je vous prie!"

The maid looked up at the man tenderly, almost devoutly.

"I have no Druid's mistletoe from the Chapel of St. George, but I will
give you--stoop down, Philip," she added softly, "I will give you the
first kiss I have ever given to any man."

He stooped. She kissed him on the forehead, then upon the lips.

"Guida, my wife," Philip said, and drew her to his breast.

"My Philip," she answered softly. "Won't you say, 'Philip, my husband'?"

She shyly did as he asked in a voice no louder than a bee's. She was
only seventeen.

Presently she looked up at him with a look a little abashed, a little
anxious, yet tender withal.

"Philip," she said, "I wonder what we will think of this day a year
from now--no, don't frown, Philip," she added. "You look at things so
differently from me. To-day is everything to you; to-morrow is very much
to me. It isn't that I am afraid, it is that thoughts of possibilities
will come whether or no. I