water-troubled hair, eyes that yet haunt me, that heart-alluring
voice.

"No, no," I said faintly, and the words of Anthea came unbidden to
mind, "to sleep--oh! who would forget? You plead merely with some old
dream of me--not _all_ me, you know. Gold is but witchcraft. And as
for sorrow--spread me a magical table in this nettle-garden, I'll
leave all melancholy!"

I must indeed have been exhausted to chop logic with a water-witch. As
well argue with minnows, entreat the rustling of ivy-leaves. It was
Rosinante, wearying, I suppose, of the reflection of her own mild
countenance, that drew me back from dream and disaster. She turned
with arched neck seeking a more wholesome pasture than these deep
mosses.

Leaving her then to her own devices, and yet hearkening after the
voice of the charmer, I came out again into the garden, and perceived
before me a dark palace with one lofty tower.

It seemed strange I had not seen the tower at my first coming into
this wilderness. It stood with clustered summit and stooping
gargoyles, appealing as it were to fear, in utter silence.

Though I knew it must be day, there was scarcely more than a green
twilight around me, ever deepening, until at last I could but dimly
discern the upper windows of the palace, and all sound waned but the
roar of distant falling water.

Then it was I found that I was not alone in the garden. Two little