thus engaged, he heard a summons sounded from the castle, and
scrambled back to Farina.

'The Thier leads now,' said he, 'and who leads is captain. It seems
easier to get out of that than in. There's a square tower, and a round.
I guess the maiden to be in the round. Now, lad, no crying out--You
don't come in with us; but back you go for the horses, and have them
ready and fresh in yon watered meadow under the castle. The path down
winds easy.'

'Man!' cried Farina, 'what do you take me for?--go you for the horses.'

'Not for a fool,' Guy rejoined, tightening his lip; 'but now is your
time to prove yourself one.'

'With you, or without you, I enter that castle!'

'Oh! if you want to be served up hot for the Baron's supper-mess, by all
means.'

'Thunder!' growled Schwartz Thier, 'aren't ye moving?'

The Goshawk beckoned Farina aside.

'Act as I tell you, or I'm for Cologne.'

'Traitor!' muttered the youth.

'Swearing this, that if we fail, the Baron shall need a leech sooner
than a bride.'

'That stroke must be mine!'

The Goshawk griped the muscle of Farina's arm till the youth was
compelled to slacken it with pain.

'Could you drive a knife through a six-inch wood-wall? I doubt this wild
boar wants a harder hit than many a best man could give. 'Sblood! obey,
sirrah. How shall we keep yon fellow true, if he sees we're at points?'

'I yield,' exclaimed Farina with a fall of the chest; 'but hear I
nothing of you by midnight--Oh! then think not I shall leave another
minute to chance. Farewell! haste! Heaven prosper you! You will see her,
and die under her eyes. That may be denied to me. What have I done to be
refused that last boon?'

'Gone without breakfast and dinner,' said Guy in abhorrent tones.

A whistle from the wain, following a noise of the castlegates being
flung open, called the Goshawk away, and he slouched his shoulders and
strode to do his part, without another word. Farina gazed after him, and
dropped into the covert.

THE WATER-LADY

'Bird of lovers! Voice of the passion of love! Sweet, deep,
disaster-toning nightingale!' sings the old minnesinger; 'who that has
not loved, hearing thee is touched with the wand of love's mysteries,
and yearneth to he knoweth not whom, humbled by overfulness of heart;
but who, listening, already loveth, heareth the language he would speak,
yet faileth in; feeleth the great tongueless sea of his infinite desires
stirred beyond his narrow bosom; is