h and still as a tomb of polished marble, the next morning a
foaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse,
exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake toward Toomies
mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior fully armed,
mounted upon a milk-white steed; his snowy plume waved gracefully from a
helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue scarf.
The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burden, sprung after the
wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth, while showers
of spray that glittered brightly in the morning sun were dashed up at
every bound.

The warrior was O'Donoghue; he was followed by numberless youths and
maidens, who moved lightly and unconstrained over the watery plain, as
the moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air; they were linked
together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they timed their
movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O'Donoghue had nearly
reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned his steed, and
directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of Glenaa, preceded by
the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as the horse's neck,
whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long train of attendants
followed with playful deviations the track of their leader, and moved on
with unabated fleetness to their celestial music, till gradually, as
they entered the narrow strait between Glenaa and Dinis, they became
involved in the mists which still partially floated over the lake, and
faded from the view of the wondering beholders: but the sound of their
music still fell upon the ear, and echo, catching up the harmonious
strains, fondly repeated and prolonged them in soft and softer tones,
till the last faint repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from
a dream of bliss.

LVI

SARAH POLGRAIN

By WILLIAM HUNT

A woman, who had lived in Ludgvan, was executed at Bodmin for the murder
of her husband. There was but little doubt that she had been urged on to
the diabolical deed by a horse-dealer, known as Yorkshire Jack, with
whom, for a long period, she was generally supposed to have been
criminally acquainted.

Now, it will be remembered that this really happened within the present
century. One morning, during my residence in Penzance, an old woman from
Ludgvan called on me with some trifling message. While she was waiting
for my answer, I made some ordinary remar