save you, my lord!"

The musical intonation of her voice, chiming in with the melodious
images that then filled the goldsmith's busy brain, impressed him so
pleasantly that he turned, and saw that the damsel was holding a cow by
a tether, while it was browsing the rank grass that grew upon the
borders of a ditch.

"My child," said he, "how is it that you are pasturing your cow on the
Sabbath? Know you not that it is forbidden, and that you are in danger
of imprisonment?"

"My lord," replied the girl, casting down her eyes, "I have nothing to
fear, because I belong to the abbey. My lord abbot has given us license
to feed our cow here after sunset."

"Then you love your cow better than the safety of your soul," said the
goldsmith.

"Of a truth, my lord, the animal furnishes half our subsistence."

"I marvel," said the good goldsmith, "to see you thus poorly clad and
barefoot on the Sabbath. Thou art fair to look upon, and thou must needs
have suitors from the city."

"Nay, my lord," replied the girl, showing a bracelet that clasped her
rounded left arm; "I belong to the abbey." And she cast so sad a look on
the good burgess that his heart sank within him.

"How is this?" he resumed,--and he touched the bracelet, whereon were
engraven the arms of the Abbey of St. Germain.

"My lord, I am the daughter of a serf. Thus, whoever should unite
himself to me in marriage would become a serf himself, were he a burgess
of Paris, and would belong, body and goods, to the abbey. For this
reason I am shunned by every one. But it is not this that saddens me--it
is the dread of being married to a serf by command of my lord abbot, to
perpetuate a race of slaves. Were I the fairest in the land, lovers
would avoid me like the plague."

"And how old are you, my dear?" asked the goldsmith.

"I know not, my lord," replied the girl; "but my lord abbot has it
written down."

This great misery touched the heart of the good man, who for a long time
had himself eaten the bread of misfortune. He conformed his pace to that
of the girl, and they moved in this way towards the river in perfect
silence. The burgess looked on her fair brow, her regal form, her dusty
but delicately-formed feet, and the sweet countenance which seemed the
true portrait of St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris.

"You have a fine cow," said the goldsmith.

"Would you like a little milk?" replied she. "These early days of May
are so warm, and you are so far