Bob was a man of hot temper, and not calculated for lying down quietly under a defeat. He therefore rose and challenged me to single combat. I accepted, and a regular battle ensued. After some hard hits he closed in furiously, and-dealt me a tremendous left-handed blow. I staggered, reeled, and fell insensible. The last thing I remember was a horrible crash as if the house was tumbling in about my ears. When I recovered my senses I was laid in bed in my own house, all cut, bruised, and bloody. I was soon given to understand that the basket of glass was broken, and Mr. Tenderden, being a miserly, hard-hearted man, made me stand to the loss, which was upwards of five pounds. When I was able to walk about again I determined to get rid of my ring forthwith in the manner the fairy had pointed out, seeing that it brought me nothing but ill-luck. It was a fine clear night in October when I reached the little valley in the uplands before mentioned. There was a gentle frost, and the stars were twinkling with the lustre of diamonds in a sky of deep and cloudless azure. A chill breeze whistled dreamily in the gusty passes of the hills that surrounded the vale, but I wrapped my cloak around me and standing in a sheltered nook boldly awaited the event. After about half an hour of dead silence I heard a sound as of many voices weeping and lamenting at a distance. This continued for some time until it was interrupted by another voice, seemingly close at hand. I started at the contiguity of the sound, and looked on every side, but nothing was visible. Still the strain kept rising and drawing nearer. At length the following words, sung in a melancholy though harmonious tone, became distinctly audible:— Hearken, O Mortal! to the wail Which round the wandering night-winds fling, Soft-sighing ’neath the moonbeams pale, How low! how old! its murmuring! No other voice, no other tone, Disturbs the silence deep; All, saving that prophetic moan, Are hushed in quiet sleep. The moon and each small lustrous star, That journey through the boundless sky, Seem, as their radiance from afar Falls on the still earth silently, To weep the fresh descending dew That decks with gems the world: Sweet teardrops of the glorious blue Above us wide unfurled. But, hark! again the sighing wail Upon the rising breeze doth swell. Oh! hasten from this haunted vale, Mournful as a funeral knell! For here, when gloomy midnight reigns, The fairies form their ring, And, unto wild unearthly strains, In measured cadence sing. No human eye their sports may see, No human tongue their deeds reveal; The sweetness of their melody The ear of man may never feel. But now the elfin horn resounds, No longer mayst thou stay; Near and more near the music sounds, Then, Mortal, haste away!