O the Castle of Heart's Delight! The winds of the sunrise know it, And the music adrift in its airy halls, To the end of the world they blow it-- Music of glad hearts keeping time To bells that ring in a crystal chime With the cadence light of an ancient rime-- Such music lives on the winds of night That blow from the Castle of Heart's Delight! O the Castle of Heart's Delight Where you and I go faring-- Heritage dear of love and toil, Guerdon of faith and daring. For all may win to the ancient gate, Though some are early and some are late, And each hath borne with his hidden Fate,-- For never a man but hath his right To enter his Castle of Heart's Delight! VI THE FAIRIES' WELL “What a beautiful place this is,” Lady Philippa said softly. She was standing with her husband near the great stone keep, looking out across a half-built wall at the hills and valleys of his wilderness domain. It was one of those mornings of early summer when the air is cool yet bright with sunshine, and the unfolding beauty of the world has something of heaven in it. Birds were singing everywhere, and the green of new leaves clothed the land in elvish loveliness. “Your England is very fair, Gualtier.” “It is good that you find it so, love,” answered the knight. He had had misgivings a-plenty in bringing his gently-bred Provencal wife to this rough country. Often he had to be absent from dawn to moonrise, riding on some perilous expedition. He and his little force of men-at-arms and yeomen were doing police work on the Welsh border, and no one ever knew just when the turbulent chiefs of those mountains would attempt a raid. Lady Philippa never complained. She ruled her household as he ruled his lands, wisely and well. She called her husband Gualtier instead of Walter, because he liked it, and sang to her lute the canzons and retronsas of her country, but she seemed to love his England as he did. She talked to the woodcutters' wives and the village women and farm people as if she had played in childhood about their doors. In fact the knight had a shrewd notion that if he had been a bachelor the taming of his half-British, half-Saxon peasantry would have been far less easy. He had not wished to dominate and overawe the people, but to win them to true loyalty. He had known exactly what he wanted when he selected the place for his castle, and a man who knows his own mind can usually find men to do his work.