w, I paused to look upon a great and goodly house; and as I
stood there viewing it over from terrace-walk to gabled roof, I heard a
distant clock chime ten.

The great house lay very silent and dark, not a light showed save in
one lower chamber. So I waited patiently, my gaze on this light,
while, ever and anon, the leaves about me stirred in the soft
night-wind with a sound like one that sighed mournfully.

Thus stayed I some while; howbeit, the light yet aglow and my patience
waning, I stole forward, keeping ever in the shadows, and, ascending
the terrace, came where grew ivy, very thick and gnarled, overspreading
this wing of the house. Groping amid the leaves I found that I
sought--a stout staple deep-driven between the bricks with above this
another and yet other again, the which formed a sort of ladder whereby,
as a boy, I had been wont to come and go by night or day as I listed.

Forthwith I began to climb by means of these staples and the ivy, until
at last my fingers grasped the stone sill of a window; and now, the
lattice being open, I contrived (albeit it with much ado) to clamber
into the room. It was a fair-sized chamber, and the moonlight, falling
athwart the floor, lit upon a great carven bed brave with tapestried
hangings. Just now the silken curtains were up-drawn and upon the bed
I saw a bundle of garments all ribands, laces and the like, the which,
of themselves, gave me sudden pause. From these my gaze wandered to
where, against the panelling, hung a goodly rapier complete with girdle
and slings, its silver hilt, its guards and curling quillons bright in
the moonbeams. So came I and, reaching it down, drew it from the
scabbard and saw the blade very bright as it had been well cared for.
And graven on the forte of the blade was the Conisby blazon and the
legend:

ROUSE ME NOT.

Now as I stood watching the moonbeams play up and down the long blade,
I heard the light, quick tread of feet ascending the stairs without and
a voice (very rich and sweetly melodious) that brake out a-singing, and
the words it sang these:

"A poor soul sat sighing by a green willow tree
With hand on his bosom, his head on his knee,
Sighing Willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
And O the green willow my garland shall be!"

Nearer came the singing while I stood, sword in hand, waiting; the song
ended suddenly and the sweet voice called:

"O Marjorie, wake me betimes, I must be abroad with