How, also, would this weaver who slumbered so cacophonously welcome a
rival to his realms. I say I sat still, like Echo in the woods when
none is calling; like too, I grant, one who ached not a little after
jolts and jars and the phantasmal mists of this engendering air. But
none stirred, nor went, nor came. So resting my hands cautiously on a
little witch's guild of toadstools that squatted cold in shade, I
lifted myself softly and stood alert.

And in a while out of that numerous company stepped one whom by his
primrose face and mien I took to be Mounsieur Mustardseed, and I
followed after him.




VI

_Care-charming Sleep ...
... sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince!_

--JOHN FLETCHER.


Away with a blink of his queer green eye over his shoulder he
sauntered by a devious path out of the dell. Forgetful of thorn and
brier, trickery and wantonness, we clambered down after him, out of
the moonlight, into a dark, clear alley, soundless and solitary amid
these enchanted woods.