As the dawn rose over the grey sea, making even the dark rocks of the Farnes like a garden where only pink roses grew, the Princess Margaret would be on the battlements looking out, always looking out, for her father and brother to return.  At sunset, when the sea was golden and the plain stretched purple away to the south, landward and seaward her eyes would still gaze.  And at night, when the silver moon made a path on the sea, the Princess would listen longingly to the lap of the waves, and strain her beautiful eyes through the darkness for the sails of the ship that should bring the two that she loved safe home again.  But when the day came when the King, her father, returned, and led through the gate the lady who was his bride, there were many who knew that it would have been well for the Princess had she still been left in her loneliness.  Gracious indeed was her welcome to her mother’s supplanter, for she loved her father, and this was the wife of his choice.

“Oh! welcome, father,” she said, and handed to him the keys of the castle of which she had kept such faithful ward, and, holding up a face as fresh and fragrant as a wild rose at the dawn of a June day, she kissed her step-mother.

“Welcome, my step-mother,” she said, “for all that’s here is yours.”

Many a gallant Northumbrian lord was there that day, and many a lord from the southern land was in the King’s noble retinue.  One of them it was who spoke what the others thought, and to the handsome Queen who had listened already overmuch to the praises her husband sang of his daughter, the Princess Margaret, the words were as acid in a wound.  “Meseemeth,” said he, “that in all the north country there is no lady so fair, nor none so good as this most beautiful Princess.”

Proudly the Queen drew herself up, and from under drooped eyelids, with the look of a hawk as it swoops for its prey, she made answer to the lord from the south.

“I am the Queen,” she said; “ye might have excepted me.”  Then, turning swift, like a texel that strikes its quarry, she said to the Princess:  “A laidley worm shalt thou be, crawling amongst the rocks; a laidley worm shalt thou stay until thy brother, Wynd, comes home again.”

So impossible seemed such a threat to the Princess that her red lips parted over her white teeth, and she laughed long and merrily.  But those who knew that the new Queen had studied long all manner of wicked spells and cruel magic were filled with dread, for greatly they feared that the fair Princess’s joyous days were done.

The Farne Islands were purple-black in a chill grey sea, and the waves that beat on the rocks beneath the castle seemed to have a more dolorous moan than common when next evening came.  The joyous Princess, jingling her big bunch of keys and smiling a welcome to her father’s guests, had gone as completely as though she lay buried beside the drowned mariners, for whom the silting sand under the waves makes a safe graveyard all along that bleak and rugged coast; but a horror—­a crawling, shapeless, loathsome thing—­writhed itself along the pathway from cliff to village, and sent the terror-striken peasants shrieking into their huts and battering at the castle gates for sanctuary.  The old ballad tells us that: