But nothing giving cause to think
How near she strayed to danger’s brink,
Still on she went, and hand in hand
The lovers reached the yellow sand.
“Ascend this steed with me, my dear!
We needs must cross the streamlet here:
Ride boldly in; it is not deep;
The winds are hushed, the billows sleep.”
Thus spoke the water-king. The maid
Her traitor bride-groom’s wish obeyed:
And soon she saw the courser lave
Delighted in his parent wave.
“Stop! stop! my love! The waters blue
E’en now my shrinking foot bedew.”
“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart!
We now have reached the deepest part.”
“Stop! stop! my love! For now I see
The waters rise above my knee.”
“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart!
We now have reached the deepest part.”
“Stop! stop! for God’s sake, stop! For, oh!
The waters o’er my bosom flow!”—
Scarce was the word pronounced, when knight
And courser vanished from her sight.
She shrieks, but shrieks in vain; for high
The wild winds rising dull the cry;
The fiend exults; the billows dash,
And o’er their hapless victim wash.
Three times, while struggling with the stream,
The lovely maid was heard to scream;
But when the tempest’s rage was o’er,
The lovely maid was seen no more.
Warned by this tale, ye damsels fair,
To whom you give your love beware!
Believe not every handsome knight,
And dance not with the water-spright!
The youth ceased to sing. The nuns were delighted with the sweetness of his voice, and masterly manner of touching the instrument; but however acceptable this applause would have been at any other time, at present it was insipid to Theodore. His artifice had not succeeded. He paused in vain between the stanzas; no voice replied to his, and he abandoned the hope of equalling Blondel.
The convent-bell now warned the nuns that it was time to assemble in the refectory. They were obliged to quit the grate: they thanked the youth for the entertainment which his music had afforded them, and charged him to return the next day. This he promised. The nuns, to give him the greater inclination to keep his word, told him that he might always depend upon the convent for his meals, and each of them made him some little present. One gave him a box of sweetmeats; another, an agnus dei; some brought reliques of saints, waxen images, and consecrated crosses; and others presented him with pieces of those works in which the religious excel, such as embroidery, artificial flowers, lace, and needle-work. All these he was advised to sell, in order to put himself into better case; and he was assured that it would be easy to dispose of them, since the Spaniards hold the performances of the nuns in high estimation. Having received these gifts with seeming respect and gratitude, he remarked, that, having no basket, he knew not how to convey them away. Several of the nuns were hastening in search of one, when they were stopped by the return of an elderly woman, whom Theodore had not till then observed. Her mild countenance and respectable air prejudiced him immediately in her favour.
“Hah!” said the porteress, “here comes the mother St. Ursula with a basket.”
The nun approached the grate, and presented the basket to Theodore: it was of willow, lined with blue satin, and upon the four sides were painted scenes from the legend of St. Genevieve.
“Here is my gift,” said she, as she gave it into his hand: “Good youth, despise it not. Though its value seems insignificant, it has many hidden virtues.”
She accompanied these words with an expressive look. It was not lost upon Theodore. In receiving the present, he drew as near the grate as possible.
“Agnes!” she whispered in a voice scarcely intelligible.
Theodore, however, caught the sound. He concluded that some mystery was concealed in the basket, and his heart beat with impatience and joy. At this moment the domina returned. Her air was gloomy and frowning, and she looked if possible more stern than ever.
“Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private.”
The nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted.
