Page:Stories from Old English Poetry-1899.djvu/98

76 closing shades of the thick wood. Just as she emerged from its recesses into an open space which seemed to mark the limit of the forest, her horse, which had been so faithful in bearing her from her pursuers, sank down exhausted. Neither coaxing words, nor honeyed caresses, nor her severest threats could rouse him from his fatigue.

She looked around for shelter from the coming night, and found herself in a deep valley, sheltered between high hills. At a little distance the light of a curling smoke-wreath filled her with hope of a hospitable reception. Dragging toward the place her tired feet, she found a cottage, rudely made of sods and branches of trees. Timidly begging entrance here, a harsh voice bade her “come in.”

Inside the cottage sat a frightful old witch with withered face and knotted hair, mumbling strange charms, while she warmed her lean hands over a caldron which hung over her fire. When this uncanny hag beheld the lovely vision standing in her doorway, her blue eyes filled with pearly tears, her hair streaming round her shoulders, and her face pale with fear and weariness, she fancied Florimel to be one of the spirits of the air to whom she owed forced allegiance.

But with the sad accents of an earth-born maid Florimel told her sad story, and begged shelter