Tho’ dark appals,
Ponder, ponder.
Sad thoughts arise,
Weary, weary;
The night-wind sighs,
Dreary, dreary;
I hear strange cries,
Eerie, eerie.”
And indeed he did hear strange cries, sometimes like the roaring of wild beasts, then shrill sounds like the piping of winds upon sandy beaches, sometimes a cry of pain, and at time as burst of wild laughter. In order to protect himself, he drew his hunting-knife from his girdle, and went in the direction from whence the noises proceeded. When he did this, he found himself descending the stairs, and thought he must now be going to the cellars where the Wicked Baron kept his gold. The noises grew louder and louder as he descended, and at last all dwindled down to one harsh voice, which was singing this song:
“The Goblin Golden