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 Round her wet, laughter-quaking throat—all these Breathed out the sea’s own breath of pungent brine.

“Leon, good son of Ector! what dost here? Mercy! the dolorous look! Oh, hie thee hence, And sit thee by the fagot! For I swear By mine own heart, the which thou makest ache With laughter at such sourness, never once Saw I a knight less worthy of my sea, Mother of every health, the live strong sea!”

She stopp’d; her loosen’d laughter came again, Curdling the milky air, and by his cheek Drove the thin mist with brush of chilly wings. Till, perching both bare arms upon a rock Like two bright stems to prop that salt sea-flower Her pointed face, she pucker'd up her lips To keep them still, and stood regarding him.

But Leon had no spirit to be moved—