“The kite may love the timid dove,
      The hawk be the raven’s guest;
    But none shall dare that hawk to scare
      From his dark and cloud-wreathed nest!

    “Wail on, ye fond maidens,
      Death lurks in the cloud;
    The storm and the billow
      Are weaving a shroud: 

    “There’s a wail on the wind;
      Ere its track on the main,
    A light shall be quenched,
      Ne’er to kindle again!”

“Surely I have heard that voice aforetime,” thought De Poininges.  It was too peculiar for him to mistake.  The woman had loitered in his path a few hours before.  It seemed her brain was somewhat disturbed:  a wanderer and an outcast in consequence, she had here taken shelter ofttimes for the night.  He determined to accost her; a feeling of deference prompted him, a superstitious notion, arising from an idea then prevalent, that a superior light was granted to those individuals in whom the light of reason was extinct.  He approached with caution, much to the terror and distress of his companion.

“It is crazy Isabel,” said he, “and the dark spirit is upon her!” But De Poininges was not in a mood to feel scared with this intimation.  The way was intricate, and he stumbled over a heap of dried fuel.  The noise seemed to arrest her attention for a moment; but she again commenced her song, paying little heed to this interruption.  On recovering his position, he was about to speak, when, to his great surprise, she thus accosted him:—­

“I have tarried long for thee.  Haste—­equip for the battle,—­and then,

    “’My merry men all,
      Round the greenwood tree,
    How gallant to ride
      With a gay ladye.’

“I am crazed, belike.  Good wot; but I can ride o’er the neck of a proud prior.

    “’And the moon shone clear
      In the blue heavens, where
    The stars twinkle through her veil of light:—­
      There they gave me a merry shooting star,
      And I rolled round the wain with my golden car,
      But I leapt on the lightning’s flash, beside
    The queen of this murky night!’”

“Crazed, indeed!” thought De Poininges.

“Hush,” said she:  “I’ll tell thee a secret.”  She drew a light from some concealed recess, and flashing it full in the face of the intruder, seemed to enjoy the effect wonderfully.  On a sudden her brow wrinkled, and the dark billows came over her spirit as she exclaimed—­

“But,

    “’Thou hast work to do,
    Or we may rue
      The thieving trade.’

“Go to—­I must be calm.  The spirit goeth forth, and I may not wander again.  But my poor head:  it burns here—­here!” And she put her hand tenderly on that of De Poininges, raising it to her brow, which throbbed violently.  She started back, as from some sudden recollection, gazing intently on his countenance.