the Druids' altar, bearing his bride forth by sea or land, should suffer
no mischance; and for the bride herself, the morgen-gifn should fail not,
but should attest richly the perfect bliss of the nuptial hours.

The light was almost gone from the day, though the last crimson petals
had scarce dropped from the rose of sunset. Upon the sea beneath there
was not a ripple; it was a lake of molten silver, shading into a leaden
silence far away. The tide was high, and the ragged rocks of the Banc
des Violets in the south and the Corbiore in the west were all but
hidden.

Below the mound where the tuneful youth loitered was a path, leading down
through the fields and into the highway. In this path walked lingeringly
a man and a maid. Despite the peaceful, almost dormant life about them,
the great event of their lives had just occurred, that which is at once a
vast adventure and a simple testament of nature: they had been joined in
marriage privately in the parish church of St. Michael's near by. As
Shoreham's voice came down the cotil, the two looked up, then passed on
out of view.

But still the voice followed them, and the man looked down at the maid,
repeating the refrain of the song:

"Oh, give to me my gui-l'annee,
Monseigneur, je vous prie!"

The maid looked up at the man tenderly, almost devoutly.

"I have no Druid's mistletoe from the Chapel of St. George, but I will
give you--stoop down, Philip," she added softly, "I will give you the