ttom. Back, back, ye jigging dreams! 'Tis Puckling nods. Ha'
done, ha' done--there's no sweet sanity in an asshead more if I quaff
their elvish ... Out now ... Ha' done, I say!"

Then indeed he slumbered truly, this engarlanded weaver, his lids
concealing all bright speculation, his jowl of vanity (foe of the
Philistine) at peace: and I might gaze unperceived. The moon filled
his mossy cubicle with her untrembling beams, streamed upon blossoms
sweet and heavy as Absalom's hair, while tiny plumes wafted into the
night the scent of thyme and meadow-sweet.

I know not how long they would have kept me prisoner with their
illusive music. I dared not move, scarce wink; for much as immortality
may mollify hairiness, I had no wish to live too frank.

How, also, would this weaver who slumbered so cacophonously welcome a
rival to his realms. I say I sat still, like Echo in the woods when
none is calling; like too, I grant, one who ached not a little after
jolts and jars and the phantasmal mists of this engendering air. But
none stirred, nor went, nor came. So resting my hands cautiously on a
little witch's guild of toadstools that squatted cold in shade, I
lifted myself softly and stood alert.

And in a while out of that numerous company stepped one whom by his
primrose face and mien I took to be Mounsieur Mustardseed, and I
followed after him.

VI

_Care-charming Sleep ...
... sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince!_

--JOHN FLETCHER.

Away with a blink of his queer green eye over his shoulder he
sauntered by a devious path out of the dell. Forgetful of thorn and
brier, trickery and wantonness, we clambered down after him, out of
the moonlight, into a dark, clear alley, soundless and solitary amid
these enchanted woods.

As I have said already, another air than that of night was abroad in
the green-grey shadows of the woods. Yet between the lofty and
heavy-hooded pines scarce a beam of dawn pierced downward.

Wider swept the avenue, but ever dusky and utterly silent. Deeper moss
couched here; unfallen moondrops glistened; mistletoe palely sprouted
from the gnarled boughs. Nor could I discern, though I searched close
enough, elder or ash tree or bitter rue. We journeyed softly on till I
lost all count of time, lost, too, all guidance; for as a flower falls
had vanished Mustardseed.

Far away and ever increasing in volume I heard the trembling crash of
some great water falling. Wha