"You must indeed, but to a cold one!" he heard a voice, choked with sobs, repeat from without; and then he saw in the mirror that the door of his room was slowly, slowly opened, and the white figure entered, and gently closed it behind her. "They have opened the spring," said she in a low tone; "and now I am here, and you must die." He felt in his failing breath that this must indeed be; but covering his eyes with his hands, he cried:--"Do not in my death-hour, do not make me mad with terror. If that veil conceals hideous features, do not lift it! Take my life, but let me not see you." "Alas!" replied the pale figure, "will you not then look upon me once more? I am as fair now as when you wooed me on the island!" "Oh, if it indeed were so," sighed Huldbrand, "and that I might die by a kiss from you!" "Most willingly, my own love," said she. She threw back her veil; heavenly fair shone forth her pure countenance. Trembling with love and the awe of approaching death, the knight leant towards her. She kissed him with a holy kiss; but she relaxed not her hold, pressing him more closely in her arms, and weeping as if she would weep away her soul. Tears rushed into the knight's eyes, while a thrill both of bliss and agony shot through his heart, until he at last expired, sinking softly back from her fair arms upon the pillow of his couch a corpse. "I have wept him to death!" said she to some domestics who met her in the ante-chamber; and passing through the terrified group, she went slowly out, and disappeared in the fountain. SONG FROM 'MINSTREL LOVE' Oh welcome, Sir Bolt, to me! And a welcome, Sir Arrow, to thee! But wherefore such pride In your swift airy ride? You're but splints of the ashen tree. When once on earth lying, There's an end of your flying! Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby! But we freshly will wing you And back again swing you, And teach you to wend To your Moorish friend. Sir Bolt, you have oft been here; And Sir Arrow, you've often flown near; But still from pure haste All your courage would waste On the earth and the streamlet clear. What! over all leaping, In shame are you sleeping? Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby! Or if you smote one, 'Twas but darklingly done, As the grain that winds fling To the bird on the wing. ANATOLE FRANCE (1844-) [Illustration: ANATOLE FRANCE]