Her step is light on an errand of love,
    Scarce doth she touch the earth,
  And in graceful kindness doth she move
    Around her father’s hearth;
  And when to bless his child he bends,
    His comfort and delight,
  The silver with her dark hair blends,
    Like a crown of holy light.

A TALE

FOUND IN THE REPOSITORIES OF THE ABBOTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES.

Swept from his saddle by a low branch, Count Robert lay stunned upon the ground.  The hunting-party swept on, the riderless steed galloping wildly among them.  No man turned back; not one loved the Count better than his sport.

There came to the spot a man in a woodman’s garb, yet of a knightly and noble aspect.  He bent over the fallen man, and bathed his temples, turning back the heavy, clustering locks.  The Count, opening his eyes, gazed on him at first without surprise; he thought himself at home, however he came there, so familiar was the face.

Then did the woodman embrace him with tears, crying, “My brother, O my brother! it is I! it is Richard!”

“Thou in England!” cried the Count.  “Art thou mad?” And he frowned gloomily.

“Fear not for me,” replied the exile, tenderly raising the Count from the ground.

A narrow path wound through the wood to a ruined hermitage.  The outlaw here prepared a bed of leaves for the Count, laid him softly thereon, and went to seek some refreshment.  His loved brother might revive, and yet smile kindly on the playmate of his youth, though under a ban.

When Richard returned, there followed him like a dog a horse of the North-country breed, shaggy, and in size not much greater than a stag-hound.  Robert viewed him with surprise, and it seemed with derision.

“Despise not him who is able to bear thee out of the wood,” said Richard.  “Thou art faint; here is wine, and of no mean vintage.”

Robert drank from the earthen bottle, and his eye grew brighter, yet looked it not the more lovingly on Richard.  He ate right gladly of the store of the landless and penniless,—­dried venison and oaten bread,—­and was refreshed, yet thanked him not.  Richard gave fragments to the neighing steed.  He ate no morsel himself, nor tasted the wine.  His heart was full to bursting.

“Tell me of home,—­of—­of our father,” he said, at last, with deep, strong sobs.

“On the morrow, on the morrow,” said Robert, disposing himself for sleep.  “Thou wilt hear soon enough.”

But Richard seized him wildly by the shoulder, and bade him tell the worst.

“Nay, then, if thou wilt know, he is dead.  I, thy younger brother, am now thy superior.”

“For that I care not.  As well thou, as I, to sit in my father’s seat.  But oh! left he no blessing for me?  Did he not at the last believe me the victim of calumny?—­Alas!  No word?  Not one dying thought of Richard?”