cloud;
The storm and the billow
Are weaving a shroud:

"There's a wail on the wind;
Ere its track on the main,
A light shall be quenched,
Ne'er to kindle again!"

"Surely I have heard that voice aforetime," thought De Poininges. It was
too peculiar for him to mistake. The woman had loitered in his path a
few hours before. It seemed her brain was somewhat disturbed: a wanderer
and an outcast in consequence, she had here taken shelter ofttimes for
the night. He determined to accost her; a feeling of deference prompted
him, a superstitious notion, arising from an idea then prevalent, that a
superior light was granted to those individuals in whom the light of
reason was extinct. He approached with caution, much to the terror and
distress of his companion.

"It is crazy Isabel," said he, "and the dark spirit is upon her!" But De
Poininges was not in a mood to feel scared with this intimation. The way
was intricate, and he stumbled over a heap of dried fuel. The noise
seemed to arrest her attention for a moment; but she again commenced her
song, paying little heed to this interruption. On recovering his
position, he was about to speak, when, to his great surprise, she thus
accosted him:--

"I have tarried long for thee. Haste--equip for the battle,--and then,

"'My merry men all,
Round the greenwood tree,
How gallant to ride
With a gay ladye.'

"I am crazed, belike. Good wot; but I can ride o'er the neck of a proud
prior.

"'And the moon shone clear
In the blue heavens, where
The stars twinkle through her veil of light:--
There they gave me a merry shooting star,
And I rolled round the wain with my golden car,
But I leapt on the lightning's flash, beside
The queen of this murky night!'"

"Crazed, indeed!" thought De Poininges.

"Hush," said she: "I'll tell thee a secret." She drew a light from some
concealed recess, and flashing it full in the face of the intruder,
seemed to enjoy the effect wonderfully. On a sudden her brow wrinkled,
and the dark billows came over her spirit as she exclaimed--

"But,

"'Thou hast work to do,
Or we may rue
The thieving trade.'

"Go to--I must be calm. The spirit goeth forth, and I may not wander
again. But my poor head: it burns here--here!" And she put her hand
tenderly on that of De Poininges, raising it to her brow, which throbbed
violently. She started back, as from