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She remember'd that;

A pleasant game, she thought. She liked it more Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest.

But these

what kind of tales did men tell men,

She wonder'd by themselves?

A half-disdain

Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips;
And Walter nodded at me: • He began,

The rest would follow, each in turn; and so
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? what kind?
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms;

Seven-headed monsters only made to kill
Time by the fire in winter.'

Kill him now,

The tyrant! kill him in the summer too,'

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Said Lilia; Why not now?' the maiden aunt.

'Why not a summer as a winter's tale?

A tale for summer's as befits the time,

And something it should be to suit the place,
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath,

Grave, solemn !'

Walter warp'd his mouth at this

To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd,
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker

Hid in the ruins; till the maiden aunt

A little sense of wrong had touch'd her face

With color turn'd to me with 'As

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Heroic if you will, or what you will,

Or be yourself your hero if you will.'

you

will;

'Take Lilia, then, for heroine,' clamor'd he, • And make her some great princess, six feet high, Grand, epic, homicidal; and be you

The prince to win her!'

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'Then follow me, the Prince,'

I answer'd, each be hero in his turn!

Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream.
Heroic seems our princess as required-
But something made to suit with time and place,
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house,

A talk of college and of ladies' rights,

A feudal knight in silken masquerade,

And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments

For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all —
This were a medley! we should have him back
Who told the "Winter's Tale" to do it for us.
No matter; we will say whatever comes.
And let the ladies sing us, if they will,
From time to time, some ballad or a song
To give us breathing-space.'

So I began,

And the rest follow'd; and the women sang
Between the rougher voices of the men,
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind:
And here I give the story and the songs.

I

A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face,
Of temper amorous as the first of May,

With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl,
For on my cradle shone the Northern star.

There lived an ancient legend in our house.
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire burnt
Because he cast no shadow, had foretold,

Dying, that none of all our blood should know
The shadow from the substance, and that one
Should come to fight with shadows and to fall;
For so, my mother said, the story ran.

And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less,
An old and strange affection of the house.
Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven knows what!
On a sudden in the midst of men and day,
And while I walk'd and talk'd as heretofore,
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts,
And feel myself the shadow of a dream.
Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head cane,
And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd' catalepsy.'
My mother pitying made a thousand prayers.
My mother was as mild as any saint,
Half-canonized by all that look'd on her,
So gracious was her tact and tenderness;
But my good father thought a king a king.
He cared not for the affection of the house;
He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand
To lash offence, and with long arms and hands
Reach'd out and pick'd offenders from the mass
For judgment.

Now it chanced that I had been, While life was yet in bud and blade, betroth'd To one, a neighboring Princess. She to me Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf At eight years old; and still from time to time Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, And of her brethren, youths of puissance; And still I wore her picture by my heart, And one dark tress; and all around them both Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their queen.

But when the days drew nigh that I should wed, My father sent ambassadors with furs

And jewels, gifts, to fetch her. These brought

back

A present, a great labor of the loom;

And therewithal an answer vague as wind.
Besides, they saw the king; he took the gifts;
He said there was a compact; that was true;
But then she had a will; was he to blame?
And maiden fancies; loved to live alone
Among her women; certain, would not wed.

That morning in the presence room I stood
With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends:
The first, a gentleman of broken means—
His father's fault

but given to starts and bursts Of revel; and the last, my other heart,

And almost my half-self, for still we moved
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye.

Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, Inflamed with wrath. He started on his feet, Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and rent The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof From skirt to skirt; and at the last he sware That he would send a hundred thousand men, And bring her in a whirlwind; then he chew'd The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd his spleen,

Communing with his captains of the war.

At last I spoke: My father, let me go. It cannot be but some gross error lies In this report, this answer of a king Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable; Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame, May rue the bargain made.' And Florian said: I have a sister at the foreign court,

Who moves about the Princess; she, you know, Who wedded with a nobleman from thence.

He, dying lately, left her, as I hear,

The lady of three castles in that land;

Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean.'

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And Cyril whisper'd: Take me with you too.'

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