hidden wells
Clinking and clanging!
(_Lada oy Lada!_)
Plough the flower under;
Tear it asunder!

"Young eyes
In swift surprise,
What terror veils you?
Clear eyes,
Who gallops here?
What wolf assails you?
What horseman hails you,
_Lada!_
What pleasure pales you?
_Lada oy Lada!_

"Knight who rides boldly,
May Erlik impale you,--
Your mother bewail you,
If you use her coldly!
Health to the wedding!
Joy to the bedding!
Set all the Christian bells
Swinging and ringing--
Monks in their stony cells
Chanting and singing
(_Lada oy Lada!_)
Bud of the rose,
Gently unclose!"

Marya, her gemmed fingers bracketed on her hips, the last sensuous
note still afloat on her lips, turned her head so that her rounded
chin rested on her bare shoulder; and looked at Shotwell. He rose,
applauding with the others, and found a chair for her.

But when she seated herself, she addressed Ilse on the other side of
him, leaning so near that he felt the warmth of her hair.

"Who was it wrestled with Loki? Was it Hel, goddess of death? Or was
it Thor who wrestled with that toothless hag, Thokk?"

Ilse explained.

The conversation became general, vaguely accompanied by Vanya's
drifting improvisations, where he still sat at the piano, his lost
gaze on Marya.

Bits of the chatter around him came vaguely to Shotwell--the
birth-control lady's placid inclination toward obstetrics; Wardner on
concentration, with Palla listening, bending forward, brown eyes wide
and curious and snowy hands framing her face; Ilse partly turned where
she was seated, alert, flushed, half smiling at what John Estridge,
behind her shoulder, was saying to her,--some improvised nonsense, of
which Jim caught a fragment:

"If he who dwells in Midgard
With cunning can not floor her,
What hope that Mistress Westgard
Will