On Lysbeth went and on; it was a long, long walk, but at last she came there, and, oh! the place was sweet and vast and lonely.  For so far as her eye could reach in the light of the low moon there was nothing but glimmering water broken here and there by the reed-wreathed islands.  Hark! how the frogs croaked and the bitterns boomed among the rushes.  Look where the wild ducks swam leaving behind them broad trails of silver as their breasts broke the surface of the great mere into rippling lines.

There, on an island, not a bowshot from her, grew tufts of a daisy-like marsh bloom, white flowers such as she remembered gathering when she was a child.  A desire came upon her to pluck some of these flowers, and the water was shallow; surely she could wade to the island, or if not what did it matter?  Then she could turn to the bank again, or she might stay to sleep a while in the water; what did it matter?  She stepped from the bank—­how sweet and cool it felt to her feet!  Now it was up to her knees, now it reached her middle, and now the little wavelets beat against her breast.  But she would not go back, for there ahead of her was the island, and the white flowers were so close that she could count them, eight upon one bunch and twelve upon the next.  Another step and the water struck her in the face, one more and it closed above her head.  She rose, and a low cry broke from her lips.

Then, as in a dream, Lysbeth saw a skiff glide out from among the rushes before her.  She saw also a strange mutilated face, which she remembered dimly, bending over the edge of the boat, and a long, brown hand stretched out to clasp her, while a hoarse voice bade her keep still and fear nothing.

After this came a sound of singing in her ears and—­darkness.

When Lysbeth woke again she found herself lying upon the ground, or rather upon a soft mattress of dry reeds and aromatic grasses.  Looking round her she saw that she was in a hut, reed-roofed and plastered with thick mud.  In one corner of this hut stood a fireplace with a chimney artfully built of clay, and on the fire of turfs boiled an earthen pot.  Hanging from the roof by a string of twisted grass was a fish, fresh caught, a splendid pike, and near to it a bunch of smoked eels.  Over her also was thrown a magnificent rug of otter skins.  Noting these things, she gathered that she must be in the hovel of some fisherman.

Now by degrees the past came back to Lysbeth, and she remembered her parting with the man who called himself her husband; remembered also her moonlight flight and how she had waded out into the waters of the great mere to pluck the white flowers, and how, as they closed above her head a hand had been stretched out to save her.  Lysbeth remembered, and remembering, she sighed aloud.  The sound of her sighing seemed to attract the attention of some one who was listening outside the hut; at any rate a rough door was opened or pushed aside and a figure entered.