eyes upon Yseult, skulked for a moment in
the shadow of the yews and thinking then of Harold's words, Yseult
plucked old Siegfried's spear from her girdle, raised it on high, and
with the strength of despair sent it hurtling through the air.

The werewolf saw the shining weapon, and a cry burst from his gaping
throat--a cry of human agony. And Yseult saw in the werewolf's eyes
the eyes of some one she had seen and known, but 't was for an instant
only, and then the eyes were no longer human, but wolfish in their
ferocity. A supernatural force seemed to speed the spear in its
flight. With fearful precision the weapon smote home and buried itself
by half its length in the werewolf's shaggy breast just above the
heart, and then, with a monstrous sigh--as if he yielded up his life
without regret--the werewolf fell dead in the shadow of the yews.

Then, ah, then in very truth there was great joy, and loud were the
acclaims, while, beautiful in her trembling pallor, Yseult was led unto
her home, where the people set about to give great feast to do her
homage, for the werewolf was dead, and she it was that had slain him.

But Yseult cried out: "Go, search for Harold--go, bring him to me. Nor
eat, nor sleep till he be found."

"Good my lady," quoth Alfred, "how can that be, since he hath betaken
himself to Normandy?"

"I care not where he be," she cried. "My heart stands still until I
look into his eyes again."

"Surely he hath not gone to Normandy," outspake Hubert. "This very
eventide I saw him enter his abode."

They hastened thither--a vast company. His chamber door was barred.

"Harold, Harold, come forth!" they cried, as they beat upon the door,
but no answer came to their calls and knockings. Afeared, they
battered down the door, and when it fell they saw that Harold lay upon
his bed.

"He sleeps," said one. "See, he holds a portrait in his hand--and it
is her portrait. How fair he is and how tranquilly he sleeps."

But no, Harold was not asleep. His face was calm and beautiful, as if
he dreamed of his beloved, but his raiment was red with the blood that
streamed from a wound in his breast--a gaping, ghastly spear wound just
above his heart.

From "Culture's Garland"

A MARVELLOUS INVENTION

It is narrated, that, once upon a time, there lived a youth who
required so much money for the gratification of his dissolute desires,
that he was compelled to sell his library in order to secure f