e and found
you; for so much of the story you had told me, when the beggar-child
came and took you away."

"As soon as I saw him," rejoined the knight, "I knew that earthly arms
availed not against such as he; and that my soul must meet him in its
naked strength. So I unclasped my helm, and flung it on the ground; and,
holding my good axe yet in my hand, gazed at him with steady eyes. On
he came, a horror indeed, but I did not flinch. Endurance must conquer,
where force could not reach. He came nearer and nearer, till the ghastly
face was close to mine. A shudder as of death ran through me; but I
think I did not move, for he seemed to quail, and retreated. As soon
as he gave back, I struck one more sturdy blow on the stem of his tree,
that the forest rang; and then looked at him again. He writhed and
grinned with rage and apparent pain, and again approached me, but
retreated sooner than before. I heeded him no more, but hewed with a
will at the tree, till the trunk creaked, and the head bowed, and with a
crash it fell to the earth. Then I looked up from my labour, and lo! the
spectre had vanished, and I saw him no more; nor ever in my wanderings
have I heard of him again."

"Well struck! well withstood! my hero," said the lady.

"But," said the knight, somewhat troubled, "dost thou love the youth
still?"

"Ah!" she replied, "how can I help it? He woke me from worse than death;
he loved me. I had never been for thee, if he had not sought me first.
But I love him not as I love thee. He was but the moon of my night; thou
art the sun of my clay, O beloved."

"Thou art right," returned the noble man. "It were hard, indeed, not to
have some love in return for such a gift as he hath given thee. I, too,
owe him more than words can speak."

Humbled before them, with an aching and desolate heart, I yet could not
restrain my words:

"Let me, then, be the moon of thy night still, O woman! And when thy day
is beclouded, as the fairest days will be, let some song of mine comfort
thee, as an old, withered, half-forgotten thing, that belongs to an
ancient mournful hour of uncompleted birth, which yet was beautiful in
its time."

They sat silent, and I almost thought they were listening. The colour of
the lady's eyes grew deeper and deeper; the slow tears grew, and filled
them, and overflowed. They rose, and passed, hand in hand, close
to where I stood; and each looked towards me in passing. Then they
disappeared through a do