d your arm," said she; "it still hangs heavy. May I not bind it for
you, Humphrey?"

I wished I was the heathen Briareus then, with an hundred arms. There
was magic in her touch; and no charm of witch or fairy could have mended
my bruised limb as did she.

After that, we sat silent awhile, looking out to sea. The soft light
was spreading on the east, heralding the coming day. The slack breeze
flapped lazily in the sails overhead and scarce ruffled the drowsy
ocean. The stars one by one put out their little lights and vanished
into the blue. There was no sound but the creaking of the yards and the
gentle plash of the water on the hull; only these and the music of a
maiden's song. It went hard with me, that night. For a while, as I sat
there, gazing into her face and listening to her music and feeling the
touch of her hand on my arm, I was fool enough to think all this--all
this peace, all this beauty of the ocean dawn, all this lulling of the
breeze, all this music, this gentle smile, this tender touch, spelt
love; and there came a voice from the tempter that I should tell her as
much then and there. What hindered me, I know not. 'Twas not alone the
thought of Ludar, or the remembrance of my own honour, or the fear of
her contempt. Be it what it may, I was helped by Heaven that night to
be a man, and with a mighty effort to shake off the spell that was on
me. So I rose to my feet and walked abaft. Many a time I paced to and
fro cooling my fevered brow ere I ventured to return. But when at last
I did, I was safe. She stood there motionless, radiant with the first
beams of the royal sun as he leapt up from the sea.

"Look, Humphrey," she cried. "Is not that worth keeping watch for?"
Then she broke again into song.

"Is that an Irish song you sing?" I asked.

"It is. How knew you that?"

"I guessed it. What does it mean?"

She blushed.

"'Tis a song the maidens sing at home--an old, old song," said she,
"that I learned from my nurse."

"I pray you, sing it again," said I.

She turned her face to the rising sun, and sang, in English words, as
follows:

Who cometh from the mountain like the sun for brightness?
Whose voice ringeth like the wave on the shingle?
Who runneth from the east like the roe?
Who cometh?

Is it the wind that kisses my tresses?
Or is it the harp of Innis thrilling my ear?
Or is it the dawn on Ramore that dims my eyes?
Who cometh?

Is he far? Is he