"Good my lord, how long wilt thou be gone?" she tremblingly inquired.
"A year, though it will seem but as a day to thee, for here time counts not; this is his resting-place. In his palace there is no change; it is built on the everlasting shore."
As the youth finished speaking Beryl observed that the hall was full of weird shades, in jewelled cloaks of tears; but amongst them there was one whose garments were of shining white, gemmed with violets.
"These," said Time, "are the hours of to-day."
The shades flitted past, bending before their King. Beryl noticed that the sadness in their faces was akin to that of Time, with one exception. He of the white garments wore an expression that was smiling and happy, and the violets on his dress filled the hall with perfume.
"Good my lord, why doth this last shadow look so different from all the rest?" asked Beryl.
At a sign from Time the shadow spoke,—
"I am the death-hour of a great poet. He died happily,
having enriched the world with his song. The moon kissed his lips as he breathed his last in my arms."
"Whither are they going?" asked Beryl, as the hours floated through the hall.