north wind. Where have you lived all your life that you know
nothing of these things?"

She laughed softly.

"Come and sit with me on the sand-hill there," she said, "and I will
tell you about the sea."

He followed her. Almost to their feet the long waves made harsh music
upon the shingle.

"Poor man," she said softly. "Listen, have you never heard this when the
north wind blows?"

And again she sang that wonderful song. When her voice died away he
shook his head.

"No, I have never heard that," he said. "It is very beautiful. I have
never heard the music, and I do not know what language it is."

She smiled.

"It is the song of Ulric, the Dane," she told him. "Many a time he has
sung it to me as we stood on the prow of his ship, and the spray broke
over our heads and leaped high into the sunshine. He sang it to me when
the cold sleet stung our cheeks, and the wind came rushing about us, and
we heard no longer the swirl of the oars. He sang it to me in the
darkness, while we stole into the harbor, and below his men sharpened
their swords and fitted their spear-heads."

"Who was Ulric?" he asked tentatively.

"Ulric was my lover," she answered. "Every night, when the tide comes
in, he calls to me, but I do not know where he is. I do not think that I
shall ever see him any more."

"Tell me about him," he begged.

Her eyes shone.

"He was tall and strong like a god," she answered, "with yellow hair and
beard, and wonderful blue eyes. No man save he could wield his sword,
and in battle men gave way before him as the corn falls before the
scythe. And because he loved me he brought me here with him from over
the seas. I sat in the ship, while he and his men fought on the land.
And at night, when the villages were burning, back came my lover with
skins and ornaments, corn and wine, and we were all happy together."

He watched her still with fascinated eyes.

"Do you mean that you remember these things?" he asked. "You have read
about them in a book."

"A book!" she exclaimed scornfully. "What need have I of books to tell
me of these things?--I, to whom their happening was but as yesterday.
Only then my name was Hildegarde, and now they call me Eleanor."

"But this all happened very long ago," he protested. "You are only
twenty-five, you know. It isn't possible for you to remember."

She eyed him with tolerant scorn.

"You foolish man!" she exclaimed. "You do not understand. The days when
I was Hildeg