"Beautiful river rushing on, Touched with light by the silver moon, Grant me now this simple boon. Let thy merry spirits come, And elfin dancers with beating drum, Here with me for the wild night long, To dance and whirl with eldrich song Till the moon shall faint and her light be gone." Then running merrily to the other side nearer my window, she sung in the same wild key, as she turned her face to the forest, "Spirits of the black larch-wood Come to-night to dance and sing, Come and all thy flowers bring, Come and gaily join our ring, Come upon thy fleetest wing, Come, oh come, ere the moon be fading." The low chanting of the Monks ceased, and as I opened my window wider I could hear, like the higher notes of an organ, voices rising from the river and mingling in heavenly harmony; I could not at first catch the words, but the sweet, divinely sweet strains came nearer and nearer, and then with the same inexpressible gentleness, softly as if wafted from the angelic chorus came the rich, low notes from the forest, like the humming of bees, the sighing of hemlocks, or that sweet, strange sound we ever hear in the ocean shell. The voices came nearer and I could hear the wild, free words long before the singers were in the court. "We are coming from the forest, All laden with flowers, With bright, crimson flowers All sparkling with dew." Then from the river rose the song: "We come from the water With bright, polished pebbles, With white, glittering pebbles, Our love-gift to you." The singing now was in the very garden, but I could not see the singers, though I knew that they were there, for the strange creature-image whirled about the court, laughing and nodding on every side, while the music grew each moment louder and wilder, when suddenly all was still, and the image pausing in the middle of the court began with many odd gestures this weird song: "What am I? Who am I? Where did I come from? What, who and where--well, no human knows; Ye though my loved ones know what to answer, My pale face ye follow wherever it goes. My home's in the forest, my home's in the city, Wherever the terror of loneliness lies, And woe be to him who when out in the moonlight Catches the glance of my soul-piercing eyes. By day I am stone By night I have breath, And those whom I meet, know the sister of Death." "Curse you!" I shrieked, leaning from the window, and all was gone; the statue was in its niche again, the Maria Virgo Sancta. I staggered back from the window and was received almost breathless from excitement in the arms of Brother Andreas who entered the room just then.