ved a king in Argos,--
A merchantman in Tyre
Would sell the King his cargoes,
But took his heart's desire:
Sing Io, Io, Io!--_"

Graul looked toward his wife. "That will be the boy Laian," said
Motte; "he sits on the rock below and sings at his fishing."

"The song is a strange one," said Graul; "and never had Laian voice
like that."

The singer mounted the cliff--

"_The father of that merry may
A thousand towns he made to pay,
And lapp'd the world in fire!_"

He stood before them--a handsome, smiling youth, with a crust of brine
on his blue sea-cloak, and the light of the morning in his hair.
"Salutation, O Graul!" said he, and looked so cordial and well-willing
that the King turned to him from the dead lamp and the hooded women as
one turns to daylight from an evil dream.

"Salutation, O Stranger!" he answered. "You come to a poor man, but
are welcome--you and your shipmates."

"I travel alone," said the youth; "and my business--"

But the King put up his hand. "We ask no man his business until he has
feasted."

"I feast not in a house of mourning; and my business is better spoken
soon than late, seeing that I heal griefs."

"If that be so," answered Graul, "you come to those who are fain
of you." And then and there he told of Gwennolar. "The blessing of
blessings rest on him who can still my child's voice and deliver her
from my people's curse!"

The Stranger listened, and threw back his head. "I said I could heal
griefs. But I cannot cure fate; nor will a wise man ask it. Pain
you must suffer, but I can soothe it; sorrow, but I can help you to
forget; death, but I can brace you for it."

"Can death be welcomed," asked Graul, "save by those who find life
worse?"

"You shall see." He stepped to the mourning women, and took the eldest
by the hand. At first he whispered to her--in a voice so low that
Graul heard nothing, but saw her brow relax, and that she listened
while the blood came slowly back to her cheeks.

"Of what are you telling her?" the King demanded.

"Hush!" said the Stranger, "Go, fetch me a harp."

Graul brought a harp. It was mute and dusty, with a tangle of strings;
but the Stranger set it against his knee, and began to mend it deftly,
talking the while in murmurs as a brook talks in a covert of cresses.
By and by as he fitted a string he would touch and make it hum on a
word--softly at first, and with long intervals--as though all its
music lay