ars gliding past each other in a wondrous
motion, and from the other movements so peculiar. The stars floated
round, now slowly, now quickly, in continually changing lines, and
curiously imitated, to the swell of the music, the figures on the
leaves. The music changed incessantly with the images upon the table;
and though the transitions were often strange and intricate, yet a
simple theme seemed to unite the whole. With incredible adroitness the
stars flew together according to the images. Now in great confusion,
but now again beautifully arranged in single clusters, and now the long
train was suddenly scattered, like a ray, into innumerable sparks, but
soon came together, through smaller circles and patterns ever
increasing, into one great figure of surprising beauty. The varied
shapes in the windows remained all this time at rest. The bird
unceasingly ruffled its costly plumage in every variety of form.
Hitherto the old hero had also pursued an unseen occupation, when
suddenly the king full of joy exclaimed, "all is well. Iron, throw thy
sword into the world, that it may know where peace rests."

The hero snatched the sword from his thigh, raised it with the point to
heaven, and hurled it from the window over the city and the icy sea. It
flew through the air like a comet, and seemed to penetrate the mountain
chain with a clear report, as it fell downward in brilliant flakes of
fire.

At this time the beautiful child Eros lay in his cradle and slumbered
gently, whilst Ginnistan his nurse rocked him, and held out her breast
to his foster-sister Fable. She had spread her variegated wimple over
the cradle, so that the bright lamp which stood before the scribe might
not trouble the child. Busily he wrote, at times looking morosely at
the children, and gloomily towards the nurse, who smiled upon him
kindly and kept silence.

The father of the children walked in and out continually, at each turn
gazing upon them, and greeting Ginnistan kindly. He always had
something to dictate to the scribe. The latter observed his words
exactly, and when he had written, handed them to an aged and venerable
woman, who was leaning on an altar, where stood a dark bowl of clear
water, into which she looked with serene smiles. When she dipped the
leaves in the water, and found on withdrawing them, that some of the
writing remained still glittering, she gave them to the scribe, who
fastened them in a great book, and seemed much out of humor