others in quick repetition. The Ash shuddered and groaned,
withdrew the outstretched hand, retreated backwards to the mouth
of the cave, then turned and disappeared amongst the trees. The
other walking Death looked at me once, with a careless dislike on
her beautifully moulded features; then, heedless any more to
conceal her hollow deformity, turned her frightful back and
likewise vanished amid the green obscurity without. I lay and
wept. The Maid of the Alder-tree had befooled me--nearly slain
me--in spite of all the warnings I had received from those who
knew my danger.





CHAPTER VII

"Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew sayes,
A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;
He but lye downe and bleede awhile,
And then Ile rise and fight againe."
Ballad of Sir Andrew Barton.

But I could not remain where I was any longer, though the
daylight was hateful to me, and the thought of the great,
innocent, bold sunrise unendurable. Here there was no well to
cool my face, smarting with the bitterness of my own tears. Nor
would I have washed in the well of that grotto, had it flowed
clear as the rivers of Paradise. I rose, and feebly left the
sepulchral cave. I took my way I knew not whither, but still