PART III.

THE GUESTS.

Misery acquaints a man with strange Bedfellows.

SHAKSPEARE—_Tempest_.

DAY after day thus glided on without much variation, though not so heavily as formerly. One evening Brandomann said to her, “Your mornings must still be wearisome to you; perhaps it might give you pleasure to travel around this little island; when such shall be your wish, summon aloud your carriage, with the snow-white deer, (that which brought you hither,) and it will instantly attend your command.” The princess was impatient, till the next morning gave her an opportunity of indulging this new pleasure;—for when our pleasures are few, every little variation is hailed as a new one;—she sprung lightly from her couch, and, with beaming eyes and a throbbing heart, ascended her chariot, which, at her wish, waited at the gates of the marble palace. For some hours she was delighted to be borne swiftly by the coursers of light through flowery vales and blooming gardens; but at length grew weary of the silence and monotony which every where surrounded her, and the inability to utter or reply to an observation. The deer looked at her with their intelligent eyes, and seemed to understand her feelings. “Yes, turn then, my lovely deer,” she replied in answer to their silent interrogatory; “bear me again to my home.” She entered the marble hall. It was many days since she no longer startled at the clap of thunder which announced the approach of Brandomann, and now she heard it with pleasure. “You have been amused to-day,” said he to her as he entered. “Not much,” she replied; “although I blush to say so; I would be happy if I could, yet I cannot help feeling that solitude is melancholy.” “Alas! yes,” replied the lord of the Maelstrom; “but there are companions to whom it is preferable. If I did not fear offending by my presumption”—He was eagerly interrupted by Ildegarda, who accepted the embryo offer with delight; and her manner had such an effect upon the monster, that again the princess repented her condescension. He made ample amends for his hideous joy, however, on the following day, when attending Ildegarda on her journey, by his timid and gentle modesty. Mounted on his coal-black steed, he respectfully followed her brilliant chariot, and never, except in answer to her summons, ventured to approach her side. The princess was naturally generous, and this conduct secured her confidence. She now encouraged him to converse, called him frequently to her side, and took pleasure in calling forth and listening to his observations. On their return to the palace, a huge raven flew down from a tree upon the shoulder of Brandomann, and whispered something in his ear; the latter immediately turned to Ildegarda: “Princess,” he said, “the only friends who ever enliven this solitude by visiting me, are now on the island; will you permit them to attend you at supper?” Ildegarda consented joyfully: the thought of once more seeing human beings filled her spirit with rapture; and, hastening to her apartment, she spent the intervening time in dressing her lovely person to the utmost advantage, not only for her own sake, but also to do honour to the taste and generosity of Brandomann, who had been most lavish in his preparations for her toilet. At length she descended, and, with a palpitating heart, entered the hall. At the door she was met by Brandomann himself, who courteously led her forward to present her to his guests—they rose to receive her—but imagine the astonishment of Ildegarda!—No words can do justice to her surprise, as she surveyed the assembled party: neither knight nor lady, spirit nor fiend, greeted her entrance,—but on one side stood an enormous wild boar—on the other a beautiful white she-goat—in front stood the eight-legged steed of Odin—and the two ravens, whom she had seen on her landing on the island, had perched themselves with infinite gravity upon Brandomann’s club. The princess turned to her friend, and was about to demand an explanation, when she was prevented by the beautiful goat, who, with an air at once kind and dignified, welcomed her to the island, which she said was happy under the government of the good Brandomann, the favourite of Odin, and whom all good spirits loved: the boar made her his best bow—Sleipner assured her of his devotion—the ravens were happy in the honour of her acquaintance—and Ildegarda, after replying to each of these extraordinary visitors, recovered something of her composure, and smilingly sat down to supper with her company. She was about to apologise for the want of proper fare, when she beheld them supplied with their own particular dishes by the same unseen attendants who so assiduously waited upon her. Oats and hay, in a silver manger, were placed before Sleipner—a huge tray of nuts and acorns sallied in, and stood stationary at the tusks of the boar—a salad was the supper of the white goat—and a raw rump steak was provided for the accommodation of the ravens. The princess began to be amused with her situation and company, and listen to their conversation with considerable interest: Mumin and Hugo, the raven messengers of Odin, were talking over some of the divinities of Asgard; and Sleipner mentioned a journey which Thor the Thunderer intended shortly to take upon his back, to correct the impious inhabitants of Jutland, who, since the ascension of the murderer Feggo to his brother’s throne, had totally neglected his worship. “Is the murdered prince in Asgard?” demanded Brandomann. “He has a magnificent palace in Valasciolf,” replied the huge boar, “where he resides among the other heroes and the divine family and ministers of Odin, and with them usually spends his nights at the banquet in Valhalla; but he is not a favourite warrior there: if he was no more amiable on earth than he is in heaven, I am not surprised at his wife’s wishing to get rid of him. Hamlet is also there, and almost as unpopular as his father. Can you imagine it possible, he spends all his time with Forsete at Glitner, and has grown so wise and disputacious, that he is continually instructing Odin himself; nay, the other morning, just before the sounding for the combat, he spoke so learnedly to that blind Horror, whom we dare not name out of heaven, and who is already sufficiently inclined to mischief, that Thor, provoked, lifted up his mallet to knock out the shadow of his brains,—but Balder interfered, and his eloquence and Lofna’s smile restored peace to heaven.”

“And how go on the happy Scaldres?” demanded Brandomann; “what is become of the unlucky Hiarn, whose skill in singing gained him a crown?” “He is singer-in-chief in Valhalla,” replied Sleipner; “and indeed his strains well deserve this distinction. But see,” he continued; “the princess looks to you for an explanation: take your harp, Brandomann, and let it tell the story of Hiarn.” “I obey you,” replied the lord of the Maelstrom; and he caught up his harp and sung—

THE LEGEND OF HIARN.

The heart of the monarch was savage and wild, And his red hand with life-blood was gory; He spared not the matron, he spared not the child, Proud youth, nor the head that was hoary.

Then Hiarn arose—and his melody’s voice, As over the wild harp it swept, Brought relief to the land, bade its nobles rejoice, For the dark monarch listened—and wept!

And his sorrow was holy, for into his heart Those tones tender pity had flung— And Fate whisper’d, “Thy soul shall with music depart”— So he died, while the sweet harper sung.

Then Hiarn was king—for the fierce nobles came Subdued by his powers alone, They crowned his bright brow, proclaimed his great name, And lowlily knelt at his throne.

Then Hiarn was king, and—

“Alackaday!” said the boar, who did not appear to have any very great taste for music, and who was beginning besides to be weary of Brandomann’s dismal ditty; “alas! for the poor harper; it is a pity, after such a glorious opening, the close of his history should have been so dismal.” “What was it?” demanded Ildegarda; “tell me, I pray you, what was the fate of Hiarn?” “A prince of the blood,” replied the courteous boar, “the warrior Fridleff, who did not understand music, challenged the crown from Hiarn: he was too good a musician to make any thing but a contemptible soldier, so, as might have been expected, he sunk under the first blow of Fridleff. But, grieve not for him, charming princess, he is well rewarded for his short period of suffering; a throne in Asgard—a palace dome in Valasciolf—are surely higher blessings than even reigning in Denmark”—“Serimnor!” said the white goat, interrupting the conversation, and pointing with her horns to the stars, which were now rapidly gemming the heavens; “see, the lights in the palaces of Asgard are lit—the deities and heroes are on their way to Valhalla—let us not keep them waiting, but hasten to supper, lest we should offend the Highest by our presumption.” Thus saying, she departed, after a friendly good-night to the princess, and a promise to spend many evenings with her in the island. Serimnor, deeply engaged at that moment in a dispute with Brandomann about the politics of Jutland, did not remark her departure, but was reminded of it, to the no small astonishment of Ildegarda, in a very extraordinary manner; a gigantic pair of hands, the right brandishing an enormous carving knife, coolly entered the folding doors, and, seizing the throat of the luckless Serimnor, without any sort of notice or preparation, cut it from one side to the other, just as he was pronouncing the names of Harwendil and Feggo, which, from the suddenness of this manœuvre, burst through the gaping orifice in his throat, instead of by the usual channel of communication—the mouth. The terror of Ildegarda, who had begun to esteem the polite and obliging Serimnor, was greatly increased by the extraordinary coolness of Brandomann, who stood looking on as if nothing particular had happened, and only discontinued his speech when the body of the poor boar was dragged from the apartment by the murderous pair of hands. It seemed as if the whole party had been in a conspiracy to frighten the timid Ildegarda; for, on the disappearance of the boar, Sleipner started up, and, snorting till fire darted from his nostrils and eyes, sprung up into the air, and pawing, and dashing, and foaming, ascended up to the clouds through the roof of the palace, which parted to give him passage,—while the two ravens flew screaming out of the window. Brandomann had disappeared in the bustle, and, as he did not attend her on the following morning, she waited with much uneasy impatience for an explanation in the evening: this was given by the good-natured boar himself, who had marked her anxiety, and hurried first to the palace in order to relieve it. He thanked her for the interest she took in what appeared to be his suffering; “But grieve not, loveliest of maidens,” said the gallant beast, “at an event which is to me but the consummation of my glory: every night thus I die without pain, and my flesh is served up to the banquet of the gods,—while my spirit enjoys a blissful sleep, from which it awakes in the morning to animate the same form in which it was clothed the day before. The beautiful goat whom you saw, is the immortal Heidruna, whose milk is the hydromel served up to the table of Odin. She alone, last night, was punctual to her engagement, while the rest of the party, enchanted by your beauty, forgot the hour, and had some difficulty to reach Valhalla in time to avoid the reproach of Odin.” Scarcely was this explanation given, ere Heidruna herself entered, attended by the ravens and Sleipner, who apologised for their hasty departure the evening before; and a moment after, the clap of thunder announced the approach of Brandomann. The whole party now sat contentedly down to supper, infinitely pleased with themselves and each other; and perhaps it would have been difficult to find one more happy, or its members bearing more sincere good will towards each other. The next day was the first of the month, and the princess hastened to avail herself of the magic gift of Brandomann. With intense anxiety she raised the curtain, and her heart throbbed with delight to behold her father in health and spirits, well armed, and travelling, attended by a band of gallant warriors, who appeared to be anxious for his safety. Ildegarda looked at him with rapture, and new feelings of gratitude to Brandomann gave the evening which followed this happy morning, fresh charms in her eyes, and made her confinement in the desolate island, with none but the ugliest of orangutangs for a constant companion, no longer either gloomy or dreadful.

One morning, while surveying together the beauties of the island in a sentimental walk, Brandomann asked the princess if she had now entirely resigned herself to the lot of total seclusion in the island of the Maelstrom. “I may, and do sometimes regret the halls of my fathers,” replied the tender Ildegarda. “But when I reflect from what miseries my devotion has preserved my beloved country, and still more beloved father, I feel that I ought not to complain. Neither am I insensible of what I owe to you; and I acknowledge that, without any other motive, your generous protection of me and care of my happiness deserves the sacrifice even of these regrets: I am willing to make it, and should even rejoice in an opportunity that would allow me to convince you of my sincerity.” “You have, then, (and permit me to say I hope it,) banished from your heart the remembrance of Haldane?” said the monster. “Alas! no,” replied Ildegarda, bursting into tears of tenderness at his recollection; “that can I never do; and it is the certainty of his loss that enables me so well to support this destiny: but do not let this disturb you—the recollection of Haldane will never interrupt my gratitude to you.” “And you could resolve upon fresh sacrifices if they were demanded of you?” inquired Brandomann. “I could,” replied the princess. Brandomann paused—he looked sadly and earnestly at Ildegarda, and then, as with a violent effort, flung himself at her feet, and tremblingly demanded, “Princess, will you become my wife?” A shriek of horror, and a look of unmeasured abhorrence, was the only reply of the hapless Ildegarda; and too plainly these tokens spoke to the unfortunate Brandomann. He calmed his agitation—arose from her feet, and spoke kindly and steadily to tranquillise hers. “Do not hate me, beautiful sovereign of my destiny,” said he, “that thus I am compelled to add to your inquietudes. Yet be not alarmed needlessly; I adore you, but no force shall be put upon your inclinations: forgive me, if, impelled by a power I dare not disobey, I am sometimes obliged to give you pain by this question. But fear not—my wishes shall be sacrificed to yours—I would not receive that hand, dear as it would be, unless voluntarily presented by yourself.”

The princess took courage at this declaration of her hideous lover. She knew he was a monster of his word; and she thought if he would not receive her hand till she presented it, she should be safe from the infliction of such a husband. Assuring him, therefore, that she was far from hating him, and expressing with warmth the sentiments she really felt for her grim admirer, the poor monster was somewhat comforted, which Ildegarda was not sorry to remark; for if Brandomann was ugly when he was gay, he was ten thousand times more so when in sorrow. They returned to the palace in tolerable spirits, and in the evening Ildegarda took an opportunity of depositing her perplexities in the bosom of the respectable white goat, for whom she began to experience something of filial affection. Heidruna consoled the princess by her unqualified praises of the honour and sincerity of Brandomann, and her firm conviction that Ildegarda would never be molested by his fondness; although Heidruna thought, and could not help telling her young friend, that in the world she might have matched herself with many a greater beast than Brandomann: but, as this was entirely a matter of opinion, she rather soothed the princess than contradicted her. The good Serimnor interrupted the _tête-à-tête_, and fully seconded the opinion of Heidruna, both as to the honour and goodness of the lord monster of Moskoe. “You observe,” said he to Ildegarda, “that he has been admitted among the Scaldres, an order which generally requires perfection from its aspirants; and great must his virtues be, when the unbounded ugliness of his person could not outweigh them, nor conceal the richness and beauty of his mind. He is also, as we are, the descendant of Odin, and peculiarly favoured by the mightiest of the gods, and his son Thor, the thunderbolt: he enjoys extensive power, and many prerogatives not granted to the more beautiful children of nature, to compensate for the imprisonment of such a spirit in so hideous and detestable a frame. Were it possible to overcome your natural repugnance, you would have no reason to regret the change; but should your aversion be invincible, you will have nothing to fear, since he will continue to you the tenderest and humblest of lovers, and we shall always remain your friends.”

The princess thanked the friendly boar for his kind assurance, and they separated for the night in increased good will towards each other. In a few days after this conversation, Brandomann sought the princess in her chamber. “A storm is gathering above the whirlpool,” said he; “its effects will be terrific—our friends are collected to watch its progress—shall we follow them to the coast? If it will interest you, I will raise my magic tent upon the top of the highest rock, and, sheltered even from the slightest drops of rain, you shall see the storm in its terrors, and the fiends unseen of mortal eyes, who increase its horrors and sport in its bosom.” Ildegarda accepted the invitation, and the rein-deer swiftly bore their light and lovely burthen to the rocks, accompanied by Brandomann, whose eight-legged steed would far have outstripped the nimble coursers of the princess, but for the frequent checks of his rider. Arrived at the point of rock, they beheld the waters raging around them, (for the island was seated in the midst of the gulf,) but with less violence than Ildegarda had expected: she remarked this to her attendant. “The waters are now at their height,” replied Brandomann; “and for one quarter of an hour it will be tolerably calm, but the power of the storm will be tremendous when that short interval shall be past: many, deceived by the calm, venture out while it lasts, and encounter certain destruction at its close.” Ildegarda continued watching for the termination of the delusive calm, when her meditations were interrupted by the arrival of Heidruna, Serimnor, and the ravens: they arranged themselves round the chariot of the princess, and, protected from the storm by the magic tent of Brandomann, stood watching its progress in silent anxiety. The deceitful calm, as the lord of the island had predicted, was of no long duration. In a few minutes the brightness of Balder was entirely obscured; the wind chorus began, and swept low and sullenly over the waters, which now rose upwards, gently murmuring, as if they were the echoes of the distant song. “Listen, Ildegarda,” said Brandomann; “to you it is given to hear the secrets and wonders of the earth, in recompense for being thus shut out from its more social intercourse: listen, and you will hear the unknown song of the winds: hark! how it rises from an immeasurable distance, and yet you can distinguish their voices, and the words they utter. Now they come nearer—hush!”

THE SONG OF THE WINDS.

From the couch of the billows, The hollow bed Where ocean pillows His giant head— From secret caves, Where ancient Night Sleeps secure From staring light— From the breast Of the trembling earth, Scorning rest, We have our birth. Up, up, upward, murmuring, Up, up, upward, still go we.

From wild Hecla’s burning cells, Where the giant mother dwells, Who to Lok, in days of yore, Sin and death and horror bore— From the Geyser’s boiling springs, We soar, upborne on rushing wings, Singing louder as we go, Blow, ye wild winds, louder blow!

Up from the Dolstein still rise we, Where about us rolled the sea, And beneath, for ever whirled, The master spirit of the world— From the raging Dofrefeld, Where green Niord’s feast is held— From the land of eternal snow, Blow, ye wild winds, louder blow!

We come, we come! the forests wave, As above their tops we rave. Blow winds, blow! the crashing tree Of our might shall the witness be; The staggering ship, and the broken mast, Heaving, rended, sinking last; And the crash of falling towers, Speak our presence, and our powers. Blow winds, blow! to heaven ascending, Clashing, crashing, crushing, rending, Wrath on earth and ocean pouring, O’er the scared world, raging, roaring.

“The storm is indeed terrific now,” said Ildegarda; “I can almost see it in the air, as it scatters the clouds before it: look how the waters rise to meet it, roaring with the fury and force of a cataract!” Amid the uproar, she thought she distinguished other noises than those of the tempest—a sound like the howls and shrieks of pain: she noticed the circumstance to Brandomann. “You are right,” he replied; “look yonder, where a desperate battle is waging, in despite of this scene of tempest. A bear has swum from his mountain territory of Hilseggen to prey upon the flocks of Suarven, one of the few islands in this gulf which is inhabited; a single gallant shepherd has attacked him, but I fear the bear has the mastery: see! the shepherd has lost his staff, and the monster grapples with him closely—he hugs him fiercely!—Is there no way by which I can save him? What, ho! shepherd!—what, ho!—loosen yourself from the grasp of your enemy and fly—stand on the very edge of the rock, and let him spring against you!—So, so—the fellow fears me no less than the bear, yet he obeys—he is crouching—his enemy runs—plunges—ah! ah!—he has lost his balance and dashes headlong into the stream—well, run, shepherd!—He stays not to sing the death-song for his foe.—Good night, friend bear, you will sup with the fish of the Maelstrom to-night!” While they looked on, they beheld the savage animal struggling for his life against the dreadful current, but in vain; borne onward, despite of his roarings, he was soon over the terrible pool, and then whirled rapidly round, till he was sucked down into the bosom of the dismal gulf, which, sages have written, penetrates the globe. Ildegarda pitied the poor bear, whose love of mutton had occasioned him so miserable a fate; but a new wonder now claimed her attention and diverted her thoughts from his sorrows: this was another island, slowly arising from the bottom of the lake, and covered with sea-weeds, becoming stationary at no great distance from Moskoe. Before Ildegarda could point it out to her companions, Serimnor advanced hastily towards Brandomann. “There is mischief abroad, dear brother,” said he; “this storm is not of Niord’s raising. Some friend beloved of Odin, and abhorred of Lok, is certainly in danger; for look who are sporting in the tempest.” He pointed to the bosom of the gulf and to the rocky shore of Otterholm. In the centre of the one, Ildegarda beheld the head of a monstrous serpent reared above the waves, and surveying with fiery eyes the distant sea; and on the other a hideous wolf, with his attention fixed in the same direction, and howling in concert with the storm. The princess shuddered, and, for the first time in her life, drew nearer to Brandomann for protection. “You have nothing to fear, dearest,” said he, “from these monsters whom you behold; they are indeed your foes and mine, for they are the children of Lok, and the enemies of Odin; but they have no power over you, and mine, by the gift of their conqueror, is greater than their own. He whom you see in the waters is the giant snake, whose folds of sin encircle the guilty earth, and who now, from its centre, is bidding defiance to some noble foe of his evil father. Fenris the wolf-dog, guard of hell, appears only when mischief is in the air, to increase, by his cries and the horror of his form, the fears and the danger of his victim. I deem some hapless vessel has approached too near this coast during the calm, and now the storm will drag it to destruction. But let us watch—Hugo and Mumin, stretch out your pinions—fly over the waters, and tell me what you descry.” The messengers of Odin obeyed—they flew over the bosom of the lake—then out towards the boundless and ungirt ocean: suddenly they returned. “A sail! a sail!” said Hugo. “A gallant ship!” cried Mumin; “the whirl has surely caught her, she comes on so rapidly.” Soon, very soon, she neared, and drove onwards, visible to all. Brandomann grasped his club: “Some bold adventurers,” said he, “doubtless, who seek to land upon this island in defiance of the will of Odin; if so, they are lost indeed, for the king of Valhalla has resigned them to the power of the infernals.” It was frightful to mark the force with which the ship drove on. “They make for the island which has just risen from the lake,” said the princess. “Death will too surely greet them there,” replied Brandomann; “for that is no land, but the snare of fiends to beguile; it is the dreadful Kraken, that monster of the deep, who, when the vessel touches him, will sink, and draw it with him”—And the vessel was near the monster, when a piercing shriek from Ildegarda arrested the thoughts of Brandomann. “It is my father!” she cried—“it is my father!—I know his banner—he seeks me on this island—have mercy, Odin!—Oh, Brandomann, if thou lovest me”—“If I love thee!—lo! now I disobey the will of Odin for thee!—judge, then, how dear thou art!” He started from her side, sprung upon Sleipner, darted from the rock, and the next instant Ildegarda beheld his giant form stemming the torrent with a power equal to its own. The wolf beheld him and ran howling away, while a single blow from his mighty club drove the grim serpent beneath the waves, to howl his disappointment in Niftheim. Ildegarda heard none of the consoling speeches addressed to her by her friends; her ear—her eye—her heart, were all with Brandomann: she shrieked aloud. “He will not reach it ere it touches the Kraken,” she cried, “and then all help will be in vain.” “Not so, dear princess,” replied Serimnor; “he acts with the power of Odin, and will save your father; and then what will not his generosity deserve?” “My life—my love!” distractedly replied the wretched Ildegarda, totally incapable of accepting any consolation, and only alive to the danger of her father. “Oh, Odin! save him!” she cried; “and thou, thou the nameless!—the mighty in strength—the blind invincible—preserve the faithful Brandomann!” At this instant the Kraken sunk—the hoof of Sleipner had touched him—and Brandomann sternly approached the vessel: a band of warriors, headed by her father, prepared to oppose him, and Ildegarda beheld their bright weapons gleaming above his head. At this sight, “Harm him not,” she exclaimed; “ye know not whom ye strike!” But the next instant shewed her the folly of her fear and the mighty power of her lover. Heedless of the flashing swords, Sleipner sprung among the warriors, whose arms were now useless in their deadened hands, and Brandomann stood upon the deck, sternly reproving their presumption, and commanding the gallant ship to return home to Denmark. The vessel obeyed—the warriors knew the eight-legged steed of Odin, and were silent; but Haquin accused aloud the murderer of his daughter, for he judged he beheld the lord of the Maelstrom. “Thy daughter lives,” replied the terrible Brandomann; “but she is mine: at her entreaty I have saved thy forfeit life—but approach no more the island forbidden by Odin to mortal foot, else will I resign thee to the fate thy presumption will incur, and which, but for thy daughter’s tears, thou wouldest ere now have tasted. Hence, Haquin, and learn submission!”

Sleipner plunged into the waters, and the vessel, now removed beyond the power of the whirlpool, sailed back to Denmark, while Brandomann returned to Ildegarda, by whom he was received with a welcome far surpassing his hopes or expectations. He said nothing, however, of the important service he had just rendered her; and this delicate conduct, which did not pass unobserved by the princess, created for him an advocate in her bosom stronger than his own entreaties, or those of all his friends united, could have done. She saw how tenderly Brandomann loved her, but she saw also that he was resolved not to give her pain; and, to say the truth, she could not help being pleased by this circumstance: for her gratitude, great as it certainly was, was yet not sufficiently powerful to make so cruel a sacrifice to his happiness. By the time he had landed, the storm had passed from the face of heaven, and all was as calm upon the bosom of the waters as if the fiends of Niftheim had not been raging within it but a few moments before; the party returned to sup in the palace, and all things went on as pleasingly as usual. Days, weeks, passed away, but Ildegarda, no longer wretched in submitting to the sentence she had once thought so cruel, took little heed of time, except to notice the first day of the month, which presented to her anxious eyes the person and occupations of her father. Twice, successively, she had seen him in his tent, surrounded by heroes, amid preparations for war; he was cheerful, and appeared to be encouraging the spirits of a young man, whom Ildegarda knew to be prince Harold, and who, with a gentle, downcast look, was listening to his observations: this was confirmed to her by the accounts of Brandomann, whose cares to lighten her anxieties and anticipate her wishes sensibly affected the generous daughter of Haquin. She took increased delight in his conversation; and he, from whose presence she was at first so anxious to fly, was now frequently summoned to relieve solitude by his cheering conversation. She was herself surprised at the change; and could she have shut from her bosom the thought of her early and beautiful love, Brandomann, even in person, would not have been disgusting. As it was, he daily grew less odious, and daily grew the princess more contented with her lot; the happy society of the marble palace met nightly, and mirth, and song, and tale, gave wings to the cheerful hours.