Loads the lift with splinters dire.
Then a pause i' the deadly feud--
And a sick cowed quietude.


XXII.

Soh! A pillar misty and grey,
'T is the white-witch in the way.
Shall man deal with her and gain?
I trow not. Albeit the twain
Costly gear and gems and gold
Freely offer, she will hold
Sleep and token for the pay
She did get for greatening day.


XXIII.

'Or the night shall rest my fee
Or the day shall nought of me,'
Quoth the witch. 'An't thee beseem,
Sell thy kingdom for a dream.'


XXIV.

'Now what will be let it be!'
Quoth the queen; 'but choose the right.'
And the white-witch scorns at her,